Page 15 of Trail of Betrayal
She gives me a long, searching look, then says, “Call me if you ever want to burn it all down.”
I smile, real this time. “You’ll be the first.”
She leaves, and I’m alone under the halo of the streetlight, the city moving on like nothing ever happened.
But something did.
I walk until the air feels different, until the wine, perfume, and cold sweat of the evening have been scoured off by the wind. I don’t check my phone; I don’t look back.
At the corner, I stop. The world is empty. I think about stains and how some of them never really come out.
I’m okay with that.
I cross the street and keep walking, even when Lawrence messages me saying, “I’m headed to your place. See you in fifteen.”
In fact, with a smirk, I pull up Isabella’s number and start typing.
Chapter 7
My apartment feels like a forensic set. Seventy feet of cold, floor-to-ceiling glass lines the living room. The air carries a trace of ozone, like the moment right after lightning strikes. Furniture sits in shades of ash—charcoal leather couch, slate-gray armchair—pressed into austere angles. I leave the dimmer at its lowest setting so that, at nine p.m., the room feels less like home and more like an observation deck orbiting a dead planet.
Lawrence stands in the entryway, shoulders hunched under the harsh overhead lamp. He looks smaller here, as if the wide expanse of emptiness around him is already stealing his height. The cologne he wore at dinner has given way to the raw, sour sweat along his collar. His Adam’s apple bobs, and his palms flex against his thighs, leaving faint white creases on his pants.
“Veronica,” he rasps, voice rough as gravel, “about dinner.”
I’m already at the island, fingers brushing cool stainless steel as I grab the whiskey bottle. The glass makes a hollow thunk when I set it down. I pour two measures, neat, amber liquid swirling with lazy resistance before I slide one glass across thecounter. It strikes the granite with a deliberate clink that echoes between us.
“Dinner was only the beginning,” I say, voice low enough that I feel the vibration in my chest. “Here, we lay it all out.”
He lifts the glass, his hand shaking. He brings it to his lips, misses, and smacks his front tooth. Tremoring, he sets it back down without taking a sip.
“Look,” he starts, his exhalation quivering, “if you want to talk about it—”
“I don’t want to talk,” I cut in, setting my glass down so deliberately it almost hurts my palm. I tap the rim with my thumbnail. “I want to listen. Tell me about that weekend in March.”
“The one where you and her both claimed to be ‘out of town, separately.’ But your GPS pinged the same boutique hotel. Room 418. Start there.”
His face drains of blood until he’s a man carved from pale stone. “Jesus. You—are you spying on me?”
A slow smile curves my lips. “You taught me well.”
He tries to straighten, dignity crumpling like tissue under his gaze. “That’s fucked up, Veronica.”
I arch an eyebrow. “Is it?” My fingertips ghost over the cool quartz countertop. He flinches, and I savor the way control flickers through his widened eyes.
Beads of sweat roll down his temple, leaving damp trails on his collarbone. This time, he drains half his whiskey in one swallow; the glass smacks against the granite as he drops it. “We didn’t mean for it to happen. It just did.”
“Of course,” I echo, making air quotes so precise they cleave the air. “It always just happens.” He recoils, as though I’ve throttled him with invisible wire.
The carefully constructed man I knew collapses. He slides off the couch, knees hitting the polished concrete with a mutedcrack. The floor is cold beneath his jeans, a shock to his body that makes him gasp. He looks up at me—eyes wide, lips parted, pure raw terror.
“P-Please, Veronica, please don’t leave me. I’ll do anything. I’ll quit my job. I’ll never speak to her again. I’ll go to therapy. I’ll—” His words tumble out, choked, rehearsed. “I love you. I never stopped loving you. Just tell me what you want.”
He reaches, not for my hand but for the hem of my dress. His fingertips clutch the fabric like a drowning man grabbing driftwood.
I look down at him, this ruined man, his jaw slack, shoulders shaking in confession. My pulse is steady; my heart, cool. I let him grovel.
While he talks, I reach for my phone on the counter. The light catches on the screen, the glow pale against the dark marble. His voice is background noise now—pleas blurring into one long exhale of guilt. I unlock my phone, thumb hovering over her name.
