Page 158 of The Exit Strategy

His signature smirk slips into place. “For clients. And, apparently, for you.”

I laugh. One short, ugly barked sound. Then I fold the piece of cloth in my lap, press my head back to the window, and close my eyes.

We don’t speak again until Hudson walks me to my apartment.

“You want me to come up?”

I shake my head. My mind is too full of warring statements for me to be coherent.

“Are you sure?”

Violent, sad, confused, angry, heartbroken emotions all vie for a chance to escape my lips. Instead, I nod.

“I’m so pissed off at Cole that I can’t stay at his place tonight, but I’ll be at the hotel in town. I’ll be there until you tell me to leave. If you need anything—anything, Juniper, I don’t care if it’s tampons, a lawyer, or a getaway car—I’ll be in this driveway within ten minutes. Do you hear me?”

My conflicted mind settles on the getaway car. The image of stuffy Huddy driving a getaway car is apparently the motivation I need to use my voice. “I hear you.”

“Okay.”

He hesitates. Then, against every instinct Hudson has ever had about physical contact, he reaches out and hugs me once, quick and hard, and lets go before I can react.

Hudson walks back to his car without looking back. Then he waits in the driveway with his headlights flooding the darkness until I’m inside my apartment with the door locked behind me.

His lights cut through my apartment, and then he’s gone.

What the hell do I do now?

I stand in the darkness for a long time. It feels right, allowing the darkness to swallow me. But eventually, I peel off the dress and leave it in a pool on the floor.

It’s a three-hundred-dollar piece of fabric, but I can’t bring myself to care. I need a shower. I need to clear my mind. I need a plan of action.

The water scalds my skin, and I scrub every inch of my body with soap that smells like lavender. I stand under the spray until the water runs cold, but I don’t react. I’ve already used too many emotions with the tears I shed on the way home.

I go through the motions. I get dressed in Nolan’s Boston College sweatshirt I stole when I was in high school and a pair of leggings. I pull my hair back into a damp bun on topof my head, all while Juniper, Junie, Viper, and Spite-Berry merge into someone strong enough to handle this shit.

Then I walk into the living room with my laptop in hand.

Even with the lights off, the diamond on my hand still winks at me.

I don’t remove it.

It feels intentional. Like I’ve had so many decisions made without my consent that this is one minor thing I can control. It’s a specific decision, and I stare at it hard because I need to make sure I’m making this choice for myself. Not because I’ve forgiven him. Not because I’m his fiancée. Not because Natalie thinks she’s won. But because Ihave not decided yetwhat my future will look like.

And I always decide.

Which means it’s time to build my case.

I log every detail Cole’s ever told me about the veterans’ memorial. I create spreadsheets and timelines. I scroll architecture press and google Natalie’s name.

Forensic accounting was my focus in school. I’ll be one of the best eventually, and this is where I thrive—where my need for spite and facts converge on one specific goal.

Except this doesn’t feel like spite. This feels like…retribution for all the pain that she caused.

Spite would be for me, but this is for Cole because he never should have carried the weight of my pain.

I cross-reference Meridian’s portfolio with Natalie’s name and everything that overlaps from the last six years.

I build a paper trail out of scraps of conversations the way another woman builds a sweater out of yarn. I spend three hours building a case, which proves easier than I would’ve imagined when I dig back through my old vlog—something I only thought to do because of fucking Natalie—and find the proof I need.