Page 67 of Trapped and Tackled

And that’s my cue.

Sighing, I decide to lay it all out.

“I had fun today, Leni.”

“Me too,” she says. But something about my tone must clue her in that I’m gearing up for a serious conversation. She straightens on the bed, resting her back against the pillows.

“I saw your phone last night,” I admit. “I read the messages from Craig.”

“I…” She stops, frowning. “You read my?—”

“I got worried it was your parents. Or Marlowe. You had just cried out in your sleep from a nightmare,” I explain. “I didn’t want to wake you, so I thought I’d just make sure Marlowe was okay. It was a text from your sister and then, Keller. I was about to put your phone down when all the messages from Craig started coming through. One right after another.”

Her brow furrows, her lips part. But it’s not betrayal that streaks across her face. Betrayal, or anger, I was prepared for.

Instead, it’s shame. And that twists me up pretty damn good.

“He was probably drunk,” she confesses quietly.

“How often does he message you?” I keep my voice low.

“Too often,” she replies. “But I haven’t answered any of them. Not a single one.”

I nod, holding her gaze with mine. “What happened in New York, Len? Why’d you really come home?”

Tears well up in Leni’s eyes and she closes them. One tear falls and slides slowly down her cheek as she gathers her thoughts.

I thought she’d put up a fight. Yell at me, push me away.

Instead, she looks devastated. Fucking gutted and I hate that for her.

I reach out tentatively to brush away her tear. Before I drop my hand, she grasps it and holds on tightly.

“I had to leave,” her voice cracks.

“I’m glad you did.” I move closer to her. “You can tell me anything, babe. I’m not going to judge you. I’m on your team. I just want to keep you safe, and Len, those messages aren’t nothing. Not if you had to leave.”

“I know,” she admits.

“Did he put his hands on you?” There’s an edge to my voice I can’t conceal, and I don’t fucking care. I don’t want to scare Leni but at the same time, the thoughts I’m conjuring are torturous. I need to know the truth. I need to know what I’m up against.

“Yes,” she whispers.

“Did you ever press charges?”

She shakes her head, more tears tracking her cheeks.

“He ever…” Fuck, I don’t even know how to say it. “Take more than you were offering?”

She stares at me for a beat, her eyes widening in horror. “No, no, never.” She shakes her head vehemently and a tiny flicker of relief infiltrates my chest.

Small fucking miracles.

“He would just get angry sometimes. Throw a bottle of scotch. Smack or pinch me. Only once it was really bad.”

“It’s never an only, Leni,” I whisper.

“I know,” she admits miserably.

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