Page 61 of The Grief We Hold

“Babe. It was stress. The business got away from me, and I needed to try and fix things. I wasn’t thinking straight.”

“Is that why there was a pair of women’s panties in your suitcase when you came home from your last business trip? Because business problems I might have been able to find some understanding for. But affairs? I’m done. So, please, just message me the name of your lawyer and I’ll send your papers.”

“Rave. No. Come on, babe. It’s not what you think. I know things have been rough. But let’s just get through this. We can sort this out face-to-face. Just, please, go to the house and get what I asked, and then come here and?—”

“You’re gone one way or another. The detective made it clear that the fraud you committed was so big, you’re going to prison for a long time. Or the men who came to the house are going to find you and you’re going away forever. Either way, I can’t be around that.”

“Babe. I’m not going to prison. I’ll make enough money to fix this mess with what’s in the safe. I’ll make things right.”

My backbone stiffens. I pull my shoulders back even though he can’t see me. I’ve done it. I’ve left him. I no longer need to be nice to him, to keep the peace.

“You’ve proven that you can’t take care of your family. You disregarded our safety and looked out for yourself. Not me, not your son. You put Fen at risk, and what kind of a mother would I be if I let you do that again?”

“Raven. Please. There’s no one else I can ask. I need what’s in the safe.”

And there it is. He doesn’t really want his family around him. He wants what we can do for him. What I can do for him. And then he’ll discard me all over again.

“I can’t. I’m sorry. I’m already too far away. Goodbye.”

I hang up the phone but stare at it as it rings once, twice, then a third time.

My hands shake, and I place my palms down hard on the cool, flat surface of the washing machine. Divorce wasn’t something I ever intended to happen to me. And it’s a reminder why even thinking about Wraith is a chronically bad lapse of judgement.

I’m still collecting myself when the messages start.

Voicemail notifications pile up.

I refuse to listen to any of them, given they are likely begging and pleading that turns into demanding, stopping short of threatening.

But all I feel is relief. There’s a saying: when someone shows you who they are, believe them.

I’m finally going to believe Marco.

I send a message to my lawyer asking how we proceed with legal filing against a man whose address is unknown.

But then two tears escape, and I swipe them away quickly. I’ve cried enough for this man.

“You okay there, ma’am?”

A sheriff in uniform is standing in the doorway. He has a slender build. Attractive with tanned skin, sandy hair, and kind blue eyes. His age is impossible to assess. Somewhere between thirty and forty would be my guess.

“Oh, yes. Sorry.” I don’t know why I feel the need to apologize.

“You must be Raven from the diner.”

“That’s me,” I say as he steps inside and offers me his hand.

“Sheriff Tanner Radcliffe. You sure I can’t offer any assistance?”

I mentally debate whether I should tell him that I know the location of a wanted man. But the truth is, what I know wouldn’t be helpful. New York is huge, Marco could be anywhere.

“I’m fine. Just a difficult conversation with a family member.”

Tanner nods but pulls a card out of his pocket. “These are my details if you change your mind.”

I read his name and then tuck it into my phone case. “Thank you.”

It takes two hours to get the laundry done, and then I’m dashing to the apartment to meet Fen.

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