Page 51 of Wicked Games

She makes French toast and bacon, and she stands behind the island sipping coffee while I sit across from her like I do at her house. We can’t put off talking to the cops, but after we’re done eating and the dishes are washed, I ask if she’ll let me read the trashed blog post before we call LaSalle.

Blowing out a sigh, she says, “Yeah,” and I know she’s thinking about what I told her last night. Nothing I find out about Hattie’s involvement will make me stop wanting her, and I keep my hand on the nape of her neck as we walk to her house.

Her laptop’s on the kitchen table and she presses the spacebar to wake it up and quickly enters a password. The backend of Hattie’s website is still open, and she clicks on Drafts.

“I had to restore it. The trash is emptied every six months and I didn’t want to lose it. I’m sure the police will consider it evidence.”

She starts a pot of coffee as I read Hattie’s post describing her morning at the park. It matches what Marcy told me about Hattie sitting next to her, and in the writing and second person point of view, it’s almost like I was there that day, going through the motions.

The French toast churns in my stomach.

For her to know that was going to happen and didn’t stop it fills me with rage. What kind of woman was she? Did she have regrets after that happened? Did she know where they brought him and where he stayed for those two days while we waited for the ransom call? Was she there with him? Told him things were going to be okay? Made sure he had something to eat? That he felt safe enough to sleep?

Tears fill my eyes. My little boy is dead and she could have stopped it.

I read to the end and have the same question as Avery. How did she know to be there?

Avery walks over to me, slowly, thinking the worst, but I snake my arm around her waist and press my face between her breasts. She rakes her fingers through my hair and holds me while I sort out the fury and pain. I promised her I wouldn’t put this on her, and I won’t. None of this is her fault.

“Is there a way I can keep this?” I ask, wiping my eyes.

“Yeah, but there’s something else you should read first, then I’ll copy and paste everything into a Word document and email it all to you.”

“What?”

She leans over and clicks into the Drafts folder again. “An interview Hattie did with Brooke. It’s where I got the idea she left you because of Violet. Do you want a cup of coffee?”

“Please. Thanks.”

I start reading an interview Brooke gave Hattie a month before Theo was kidnapped. The anger and resentment seep through the screen, and I sit back, ashamed and confused. She didn’t ask me to work on the community center with her because she didn’t think I’d take the time off. She didn’t want more kids with me, though whenever we talked about it, she always seemed happy with the idea. She defended her time with Vale because I did the same with Violet, and it didn’t matter if most of the time I’d spent with Violet was before she and I even married.

Avery sets a steaming mug by my elbow.

“No wonder you thought Violet was the reason Brooke left,” I murmur.

“She was pretty obvious about it. Maybe more than she meant to be,” she says, resting her hand on my shoulder. “When I read it, I tried to figure out why Hattie didn’t publish it and I thought maybe Brooke regretted being so truthful and asked her to hold it back.”

“She didn’t trust me.”

“No, she didn’t, and she used her jealousy as an excuse to have an affair.”

“Christ.” I meet her gaze. “I never slept with her.”

“I’m assuming you mean Violet, and I know, but even you said you worked too much and Brooke asked you to stop. When you didn’t, she got defensive. Darren told me he was working too, but he was sleeping with his teaching assistant. It’s not like it doesn’t happen.”

“Yeah, I get it. You and I are going to make it, and I won’t work so hard.”

A smile plays with her mouth. “Then what? We’re going to sit and look at each other? Brooke struggled to find herself and her passions, and that had nothing to do with you. She was floundering, and I don’t know what you could have done. Her name was on your bank accounts. She had all the choices in the world, but she chose to fall into another man’s bed. That’s not your fault.”

“It’s nice you’re not pinning our divorce entirely on me, but if she was struggling, I should have been there, and I wasn’t. I loved her, but I didn’t know her, and that is my fault. She found a man who listened and encouraged her. That should have been for me to do.” I pause. “What would you do if your name was on my bank accounts?”

Her lips pop open and blood drains from her face. This woman who’s happy to scribble her dreams into notebooks and write for magazines. Who’s happy to show herself to her readers, baring her secrets, hoping to help. What would she do? She wouldn’t do anything because she’s already happy, and she was happy before she met me. I mean, not happy because she was going through her own divorce and mourning her sister, but she had found ways to be content that didn’t have anything to do with men or money. I should have helped Brooke find that too, and I didn’t. I may not be responsible for Brooke cheating on me, but it's my fault she wanted to.

“I don’t know. I guess I could move out of my little apartment.”

I chuckle. “I guess you could, but I bet you wouldn’t. I bet you chose a pretty little space for yourself, and once you got used to being unmarried, you’d grow to like that little space very much.”

“What are you saying?” she asks, and I suppose it does sound like once we get back to Ashfield I’m going to cut her loose.