Page 45 of Love What's Left
“He kissed her.”
“When?”
His rapid-fire questions feel like an interrogation. I point at the house, just visible through the greenery and scowl. “Now.”
“Kissed her where?” he insists.
“Kitchen.”
“Good God, woman. Where on her face or body did he place his mouth?”
I point at my temple. “He has a baby. Looks just like him.”
“At least you walked away. Once, I nearly punched him in the face for putting his arm around her shoulders,” he says pleasantly.
I double-blink.
He smileswith his mouth closed. “My brother is affectionate. He doesn’t mean anything by it. Probably kissed the baby too.”
He pulls out his phone, scrolls, then holds it out to me, showing me a photo of the woman holding the baby. “Is this her?”
I nod. “She’s beautiful,” I say mournfully.
“She’s even more beautiful on the inside. She’s the kindest woman you’ll ever meet. Genuinely. She’s patient and incredibly intelligent. People misjudge her sometimes because she’s different. Not everyone knows what to think when they meet someone who isn’t like them.”
Is everyone in love with this fucking paragon? The thought reeks of jealousy, but I don’t even try to be a bigger person. Giving my husband back to her is as big as it gets.
He flips through ten more photos, all of them of the woman or the baby or both, then he angles the phone away, hiding the screen. “I love this one, but you can’t look at it. She’s got bedhead, and she says I’m the only person allowed to see her like that.”
I’m an idiot.
I indicate the ring on his left hand. “She’s your wife.”
He smiles and puts his phone away. “Yes. Ian is my son. He does share a genetic likeness with me and my brother. It’s true.”
Now that he mentions it, I see the family resemblance.
“My brother,” he says, “is the human equivalent of a golden retriever. He’s friendly to everyone who deserves it, but loyal to you to a fault.”
“A fault,” I repeat slowly.
“You’re making choices that hurt both of you, and he supports you in all of them because that’s what he does. He’d lie down in front of you and let you light him on fire if you caught a chill.”
I shake my head, hating the thought.
“It’strue. I’d do the same thing for my wife. The difference is Franki would never ask it of me.”
“This is a guilt trip,” I mutter.
“Do you feel guilty? I’d prefer you take your meds, stop avoiding the doctor, and cooperate with this investigation. That would be much more useful than guilt or lying to yourself that Gabriel would be better off without you.”
“I don’t know anything else.” My mind buzzes with the words and the start of a stabbing headache.
“The holes in our security need to be plugged. If we don’t figure out how Markov got to you, we can’t be sure someone won’t target the children the same way.”
“Children?” The idea of kids, like the baby inside, in danger shoots an electric hum of protective anxiety through my system.
“You’re an auntie several times over. Didn’t you notice the photos everywhere? You saw my son, Ian, inside. My sister, Bronwyn, has three. Ophelia is ten. Rory is seven. Sam is three. Your friend Clarissa is pregnant with her first. If I were you, I’d never forgive myself if something happened to one of the children while I was busy playing a little game ofI Don’t Know Anything Else.”
