Page 62 of His

“Yeah. Lots going on with work, but nothing I can’t handle. You handle this, I’ve got that.”

“Thanks, brother.”

The two embrace in a surprisingly emotional display of affection.

Cillian nods at me, then gathers his duffel from the kitchen table.

As he opens the front door, Astor calls out after him.

“Cillian?”

“Yeah?”

“Where’s Leo?”

Cillian frowns. “Actually, come to think of it, I haven’t seen him. I’ll send him a text and make sure he connects with you before he leaves in the morning.”

Forty

Sabine

Astor won’t sleep. Instead, he paces the room waiting on Jackie’s next update. It appears that neither Jackie nor Brittney is sleeping either. Everyone is too wound up. I gave Brittney blankets and pillows to sleep on the couch in the living room, if she wanted to.

The house is suffocating. And Astor is at the center of all the tension. As I lay in bed, trying to go to sleep, I try to imagine what he’s going through.

For the last three months, Astor has cared for his wife, ensuring she had access to top-of-the-line 24-hour medical care, 24-hour security, and anything else she needed. In the last few days, he has learned that his child, whom he believed was murdered, wasn’t his to begin with. That his wife deceived him for financial gain. In the last few hours, he has learned that the wife he is now planning to divorce—as soon as possible—is in poorer health than any of us realized and will likely need much more attention and care going forward.

The whiplash of it all would be jarring for anyone, especially a man who needs control to feel stable. And right now, nothing is in Astor’s control.

A loud boom of thunder shakes the windows.

Startled, I propel myself off the pillow and sit up. I’d fallen asleep. I look at the clock, then outside. Though it’s already 9 a.m., it looks like midnight outside.

A flash of lightning illuminates the room just as Astor steps inside, holding two cups of coffee. He closes the door using the heel of his boot. The rain lets loose, coming down in sheets, slashing against the windows. It’s as if Astor brought the storm with him.

“Morning,” he says, a small smile forming as he looks at me. I don’t smile back. Astor is as pale as the sheets I’m lying on. His eyes are bloodshot and puffy. He does not look good.

“Thank you,” I take the coffee from his hand. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Liar.”

“Yes.” He sinks on the edge of the bed with a long exhale.

Thunder pops, lightning crashes.

“There are warnings and watches all over,” he says. “Supposed to be multiple rounds of severe storms.” My stomach dips at the sound of his voice. I’ve never heard him so weak. “I just got off the phone with Squire. He agrees that it’s likely cardiovascular disease, and that she might have had a stroke, or maybe even more than one, over the recent months.”

“Would that explain the odd behavior?”

He nods.

I look down, unsure what to say. I’m sorry? Despite this news, is the divorce still on? Or are you going to continue to control her medical care and pay for everything? Are you going to continue to live with her?

What about us?

“She’s lucid,” he says, shaking me from my thoughts. “We’ve been talking on and off all morning.”

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