Page 94 of The Silent Note

“Where am I going?” Zane asks.

“Just drive.”

My phone buzzes while the car takes off.

A text from mom.

Plane tickets.

Mom: You don’t have to leave with me, but you can still leave.

She might as well have shot an arrow through my heart.

Tears blur the words.

I look up and Zane’s watching me in the rearview mirror. The car veers off the road, spitting rocks. We’re still too close to Redwood when he parks. The engine idles quietly.

“Why’d you stop driving?” I croak. It’s hard to talk. The lump in my throat is back, bigger this time.

“Tell me what’s wrong,” he says quietly.

Sloane is in the backseat with me.“Tell him. Stop acting like you’re so strong and put together. Stop trying to be perfect. Nobody’s perfect.”

I’m not trying to be perfect. I’m trying to be independent. To live without owing anyone anything. Because all my life, all I’ve known is debt and poverty.

The worst thing in the world isn’t begging. It’s the shame that comes before you lower your head to ask for a handout.

“He’s your husband. Tell him what’s going on.”

That’s right.

Zaneismy husband.

And I do need him for something right now. It’s something he wants too. Something mutually beneficial.

“Come to the backseat,” I tell him.

His eyes narrow. Suspicion.

I laugh hoarsely. “Scared?”

Zane appraises me for a long moment. The longer he stares, the more I start to second-guess myself. The tension stretches, wrapping around my lungs and tying itself into a knot.

If he doesn’t come to the backseat, should I climb up there with him?

Finally, he moves.

The front door opens. Shuts.

Then the back door opens. He stands, backlit by the sunlight, a deep, dark scowl on his face. His gaze in the sunshine is otherworldly, made more so by the stormy hue of his irises. Blue, but no hints of gold. No green. Colors sucked out. Leaving nothing but black, like thick clouds and flashes of lightning gathering over a churning sea.

He’s not coming in.

Can’t he tell I’m desperate?

I hate him for his hesitation.

No, that’s not true. I hate myself. I just have to redirect that hate so I can keep living with my own filthy stains.

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