Page 3 of Just My Ex

Great.

And to be clear, I don’t resent Henry’s job, per se. His work is important. He guards a European ambassador and her family. He regularly chooses duty over self.

It was just hard in our marriage to feel so separated and isolated from almost every aspect of his life.

I slice through the “cake” with gusto, an eye closed and my body twisted away for protection—thisisRaymond. The cut reveals a greyish brown substance.

“It’s … meatloaf?” I gag at the stench. It’s not only meatloaf … it’s old meatloaf, as proved by the liquidy green ooze weeping out from under the frosting.

I grab two garbage bags, throw it inside, and tie the double bag closed. Then I spray Lysol into the air.

“Don’t throw it away, whatever you do,” Mom says. “The police will need to see it.”

“Police? I’m not calling the police.” I start heading out to the back patio door to throw it away.

“Quinn, threatening letters, getting toilet papered, and your car getting egged is serious.” My mom pulls out her phone. “I’m going to call that nut job and tell him to stop.”

“No, Mom. I can handle this. I don’t need him angry at you, too.” I set the bag near the back door and step towards her. “Besides, I can’t prove it was him.”

“Itwashim. These things didn’t start happening until after the will reading, right?” She gives me a look, like,I didn’t raise you to be stupid.

She’s right. These past six months reek of Raymond, literally and figuratively. They’re just exactly the kinds of things a man like Raymond would do, a man who’d been gypped—his word, not mine—out of a million dollars.

“You should leave town for a while, just until Raymond calms down.”

“Mom, I have a job. I can’t.” There are only three weeks left in the semester at UC Irvine, and as an academic advisor, I have to be here.

“What about Navie?” she asks. “We have to keep her safe.”

My tongue feels pasted to the top of my mouth. “I know.”

“Raymond broke into your home and left a moldy meatloaf intended for a three-year-old. Who even does that? Quinn.” She sinks into the farmhouse-style kitchen chair Henry and I bought when we were newlyweds and rests her elbows on the table. “This is getting serious. We have to do something.”

Fear, swift and cold, grips my stomach. “Would Raymond actually do something dangerous?”

“Did you know he has a criminal record?” My mom challenges. “Your dad was the only sane one in his family.”

“I used to prefer to call them ‘delightfully quirky.’” I think of the toxic food left in my fridge. What if Navie had found it before me and tried to eat some? “Now, not so much.”

“Your father tried.” She raises her hands in the air and then lets them drop, a frown on her face.

She’s right. My dad was the voice of reason in his family. And when he died five years ago from a burst appendix, I began to understand why Dad kept his family at arm’s length. The things I thought were funny as a kid? I started seeing as pathologically unhealthy. And then Grandpa died six months ago.

Heart attack. A much more sensible death than a burst appendix, which, even now, still feels impossible. Like, my dad couldn’t have possibly died that way.

“If I were to leave for a while, where would I go?” But I know what she’s going to say, so I brush my fingers through my hair and wait. Dreading it.

“They’ve helped you before, Quinn. The Tates have money and power and—”

“And my ex.”

“Isn’t he in Europe somewhere? The Tates love Navie. And you. They’d want to help.”

She’s right. “The last time was a knee-jerk reaction.” I’m attempting to protest. I don’t want to go running to the Tates every time I have a problem. But Raymond is targeting my daughter now.

My daughter.

I panicked after the will reading six months ago that named me the sole beneficiary of my grandfather’s estate. The way the family reacted to the news—with disbelief and loathing—was surprising. And I was still deeply mourning my grandfather.

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