Page 103 of The Life She Had

It’s late now.Almost three, if the clock by Tom’s bed is to be believed. The not-so-believable part is that I’m in Tom’s bed, with him beside me, one naked leg entwined with mine, one hand on my stomach as he sleeps.

The logical part of my brain screams that this is a terrible idea. The worst in a string of bad ideas. The timing could not be worse, and I cannot afford to be distracted like this.

And yet...

I’m not distracted. No more than I need to be, for sanity’s sake. The timing may be bad, but Tom himself is the best idea I’ve had in a very long time.

This feels right. It feels so damn right that tears prickle.

Great, I can’t sob with grief, but apparently, I can weep tears of sentimentality.

I feel emotion. A lot of emotion, and my body doesn’t quite know what to do with that. I’m not going to analyze. Not analyze what I’m feeling with Tom, not analyze whether this is a good idea or a terrible one. There are a whole lot of other things I need to use my mental hand-wringing on, because if this all goes to hell, I won’t need to worry about Tom, not unless he’s okay with conjugal visits.

My gut twists hard enough for me to wince.

The police will try to match my gun with the bullet that killed Liam. When the match is positive—which I’m now sure it is—they’ll check to confirm that the gun is indeed legally registered to me. It will come back to a Celeste Whitfield. Of course, that shared first name could be a coincidence. I will need to admit who I am.

Yes, that’s my gun. Yes, that’s my name. I think it’s time to explain a few things...

How long do I have? Not long enough.

Do I have time to get the diary? To talk to Dr. Hoover? Or should I just come clean? Save my own ass, and if Celeste slips the noose and runs, well, at least I won’t end up charged with murder.

I’m thinking this when I catch the slam of a car door. Then another. That gets my attention. Fort Exile is a rural community, and those slams are so close by that unless they’re on the road, they’re coming from Tom’s drive.

I lay my hand on his hip and give it a soft shake. One dark eye opens.

“Hey,” I whisper. “Someone’s here. Emergency repair.”

He groans and buries his face in my shoulder. “Every goddamn week. If it’s not a knock at the door, it’s a call on my cell. I don’t run a twenty-four-hour service, folks.”

The muffled sound of a distant knock, and Tom groans again.

“Ignore it?” I suggest.

“I would love to ignore it. But then I’ll spend the rest of the night worrying that it isn’t some drunk asshole who drove in the ditch but a neighbor hit by a drunk asshole.” He swings his legs over the side and pulls on his boxers. “If it’s the latter—or anything legitimately urgent—I might be a while.”

I kiss his cheek. “You go play mechanic-in-shining-armor, and I’ll make coffee.”

“You don’t need to—”

I plant the next kiss on his lips. “I know, just like you don’t need to help someone at three in the morning. It’s the ‘don’t have to’ part that makes it feel good.”

His lips quirk. “Okay, but hold off for a few minutes, because there’s a very good chance I’ll be back in five minutes, grumbling about the state of the opioid crisis in Florida.”

“I will grumble along with you.”

He pulls on his jeans. The knock below turns to a pounding.

Tom’s lips tighten. “Scratch that. I will almost certainly be back in five minutes.”

He grabs his shirt and strides off. I listen to his bare feet padding down the stairs. Then, at the bottom, they stop. What sounds like a whispered curse, and then his feet pound up the stairs as I scramble out of bed.

“Lights,” he says, breathing hard. “I saw flashing lights. It’s the cops.”

I blink.

“I didn’t do anything,” he says quickly. “I’m clean. I don’t so much as tweak a tax return these days.”

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