Page 82 of Trashy Affair Duet

But she meant it. I saw it splashed all over her face before she closed that door.

I leave her complex on a rush of happiness and adrenaline, and it isn’t until I’m passing by Pike Place that my erection settles the hell down. Even closed for the day and empty of people, the market will always remind me of her. I think about that bouquet on her nightstand and how I want to bring her a new one to replace it.

Except maybe I’ll give her tulips next time. Maybe I’ll give her flowers every week for the rest of her life.

I can’t do that until I face my wife.

I’m almost home before I remember to turn my phone back on, and I can only imagine all the missed calls and texts I have from Monica. Despite everything, I feel like shit for dropping off the face of the earth for over twenty-four hours. We might not be close anymore, or even talking to each other most days, but I know she’s worried. Even with the deterioration of our marriage, she always insists on knowing when I’ll be home.

I’ve got several missed calls from her and even more texts, all of them demanding to know where I am. There are other missed calls and voicemail messages too, but they’re likely related to work. For once in my life, I’m leaving work alone until the following morning. It’s not going anywhere. Monica, on the other hand, is waiting to lay into me.

Turning onto my street, I lift my gaze from her frantic messages, all of which stopped today for some reason, and that’s when I notice the emergency vehicles outside my building.

Spanning the distance seems to take several long minutes, but in reality, it’s only seconds. People are pushing me back, keeping me from entering through the revolving doors.

Throwing questions in my face. Trying to get my attention.

I barely hear anything beyond the thrashing of my heart echoing in my ears. See anything beyond the panicked haze blurring my vision.

“What happened?” I’m finally able to focus on a face. “My wife’s up there.”

“Which floor, sir?”

“Penthouse.”

He goes still, and the dread in my gut hardens to stone. Maybe I knew it all along and didn’t want to face it. Monica hasn’t been acting like herself for months, and that’s especially true these past few weeks. I open my mouth to speak, but the words catch in my throat. Swallowing hard, I squeeze them past the fear and guilt winding around my neck.

“My wife is Monica Montgomery. Is she okay?”

Those words seem to be my ticket inside. The cop herds me into the lobby and grabs the attention of a man in a suit. There are suits and uniforms everywhere.

“Detective Riley. I found the husband.”

He faces me, and I don’t like the harsh chill in his blue eyes. He looks at me as if he’s judging me. “Are you Cash Montgomery?”

I nod. “Is my wife okay?” There’s no mistaking the tremor in my voice. Sweat drips down my temples as I wait for him to reply, the seconds ticking by in dreadful beats.

“Mr. Montgomery, your wife is missing.”

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