Page 45 of His

“Fine. Maybe you’re right but wouldn’t it have been worth a shot to ask? Carlos had plenty of money, so it’s not like your lifestyle would have been affected dramatically.”

“He did have money until you sent him into bankruptcy,” she snaps, showing a hint of the woman I knew before our lives got flipped upside down.

“Okay—but this doesn’t explain your sudden fixation with our daughter. Why did you write her name on the shower wall?”

“I don’t remember doing that.”

I groan in frustration. “You’re not telling me something about Chloe. I know it. . . . I get the vibe you’re not telling me a lot of things. Valerie, it’s time. Talk. Start with why you staged your kidnapping but then emailed me weeks later for me to come save you.”

Say it. Admit that part of your plan was to have me killed. Say it.

“Valerie—”

“Carlos couldn’t handle me.”

“What do you mean?”

“He didn’t realize how bad my depression—my schizophrenia—was. It was apparent within days of us being together. I was a lot more than he could deal with.”

I don’t doubt that.

She begins twisting the comforter between her fingers and looks down, sadness—or is it regret?—washing over her face.

She continues, “At least with you, I had proper medical care.

“You’re welcome,” I deadpan.

She snorts. “Anyway. I told Carlos that I wanted to go back home and he allowed me to email you a location for you to come get me—the hangar. I swear I didn’t know Carlos and Prishna were working together at that point.”

“So you didn’t conspire with Carlos to kill me that day?”

“No.”

She’s lying. I feel it in my bones. I want to press the issue, make her confess, but at the end of the day what difference does it make? What’s done is done.

Resigned, I tuck the comforter around her and stand. “Try to go to sleep.”

“Astor?” She calls after me as I cross the room.

“Yes?”

“Tell the maid to wash these sheets tomorrow. They stink.”

“Fine.” I turn away.

“Also . . . tell Brittney to come back in here. I like her. A lot.”

Thirty

Astor

The next morning, I’m sitting on the front stoop waiting for the doctor to arrive. I don’t want the doorbell to wake Sabine or Valerie.

I have a headache, and I never get headaches.

I’m rubbing my temples when I get the feeling someone is watching me. I look over my shoulder, and sure enough, Brittney is standing behind the front windows, staring at the driveway. But she’s not looking at me.

I turn fully toward her, the movement earning her attention.

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