Page 94 of Mangled Memory
The woman turns the tablet back to my wife and asks her to sign for the withdrawal. She does and places the envelope in her purse, draining the dregs of her coffee before tossing the cup in the garbage. Ms. Wallace leads the way out and extends a hand to Ayla and then to me before we leave the bank.
I open her car door, waiting for her to move the bag of sweet treats out of the way and get settled, before rounding the trunk and starting the car.
She’s got a chunk of muffin halfway to her mouth when I pull out of the lot. “Why are you stress eating?”
“What am I supposed to do with twenty thousand dollars?”
“Anything you want.”
“What I want is my freedom back.”
“Anything but that.”
My words might as well be a nuclear bomb.
My wife—whose feisty spirit mirrors her fiery hair—doesn’t get it. Everything I do, absolutely everything, is for her. To protect her. To show my adoration. To give her the life she deserves.
Controlling her is like trying to stop a hurricane from churning. The impossibility is laughable. She is wild and free, smart and cunning, and quick to remind everyone she’s her own woman.
I love that about her. And will protect it at all costs, even if I have to fight her to protect her from herself… or the threats that somehow keep looming.
Ayla
My temper swarms like a kicked hive of bees vibrating inside me. I want to explode. I want to scream and yell, claw and hit. I want to run away just because I fucking can. Hell, I have a purse full of cash and the obvious authority to get more if I need it. Icouldrun away.
If I didn’t think Christian would find me. And if I weren’t so predictable as to go to my brothers’ homes or Halley’s.
It’s not like me. I’m generally a react first, simmer and consider later person. Instead, I need to think. Straight emotional explosion won’t help me now.
I need a strategy.
What about me—about my life—makes people think they can control me? My father. My husband. My mother has expectations, too, even if they aren’t as explicit as the domineering men in my life. My brothers dote and care. I love that they do, even if it is overbearing and, at times, smothering.
I am not weak. I need their love. I need their support. I do not need their protection…
Except maybe from whomever was on the ridge that day.
My words are tentative. “You said you don’t think this was an accident.” I point to my temple.
He nods. “I said I don’t think you tripped and fell.”
I take a swig of his cold coffee as he makes a turn facing the Front Range. “How often did I go to the ridge at Beaver Brook?”
“Since I’ve known you? A dozen times, maybe more. It’s a quick drive, the hikes are fairly easy, and it never takes you long to find what you’re looking for.”
“So I go there enough that I know my way around?”
He nods.
“And can I assume other people know that?”
He nods again. “You mention it enough on your socials and have it tagged at the gallery. Besides, you’ve never been one to horde that information. You make no bones about the fact that anyone willing could get the same shot. Not that that’s accurate.”
“Of course, it is.”
“Princess, it’s not. I’ve been with you plenty and never see what you do. Why the questions?”
“Did you dig into anything regarding my ‘not fall’?”
