Page 92 of Then You Happened
And then he wasn’t.
“I’m sorry.” It’s all I can say. All I can think to say because I hate the fucker. Call me an asshole, call me judgmental, but the more I learn about him, the more I’m glad I didn’t get the chance to know him.
Anyone who puts that look of love edged with regret, devotion laced with deception, in to someone else’s eyes isn’t worth my time.
“He wrote me a letter,” she says, her voice scratchy and uncertain.
“So I see.” I glance back at it, wishing I could shred it and add it to the pile of ruined photos in the bags. “And you took a photo of it.”
“I only take pictures of things that move me.”
I nod and hate that his words moved her. Fuck it. Let’s face it, I hate everything about him that has to do with her from her last name to the photo of the hands on the reins that I sure as shit know are his, to her bed, which I want to lay her down in but that I know he shared with her.
“He left you a letter,” I say.
“I took a picture of it because I was afraid the police were going to take it from me.”
Her comment surprises me, but I take a few steps to my left and lean my hips against the workstation and wait for her to explain.
I’ve already connected the dots and pieced together what happened.
“How’d he die?”
“Car accident.” She waits a beat, looking down at her fingers twisting together before looking back at me. “They said he was distracted with texting and hit a tree.”
“Do you think it was an accident, Tate?” I ask what she’s afraid to say.
“I don’t know.” Her voice is barely a whisper when she speaks.
“That looks like a suicide note to me.”
The woman in front of me nods ever so slightly, her shoulders shuddering with her next breath.
And what the fuck do I say to that? How do I soothe her when I’m fucking torn over it myself?
A man so desperate to avoid facing his dire financial situation that he ended his life. I wonder how bad it has to be to get to that.
“Did the sheriff see this?”
“Fletcher didn’t have any bags with him in the truck. If he was leaving—if that was a Dear John letter—then he would have had bags with him.” She hiccups over the words and ignores my question.
“I don’t understand,” I say as I move toward her and hunch down so I can look her in the eyes. Why does it matter so much how he died? Why is she so upset by it other than the obvious?
“It isn’t your fault.” My hands are on her shoulders and move up to frame her face, my thumbs wiping away the tears that fall. “Regardless of what happened, it is not your fault.” I could be speaking to myself but choose not to hear the words. “He’s the one who did this. He’s the one who left you to clean up this mess.”
“I just . . . it all happened so fast. I didn’t show Rusty. I didn’t tell him about it. They ruled it an accident. They—”
“Why are you beating yourself up?”
Her lip quivers beneath my fingers. “Because the insurance company sent me money.”
“For the car? For what?” I ask, trying to comprehend.
“His life insurance. I sent them his death certificate and they sent it to me.” Another hiccup. “What was I supposed to do? I didn’t even know he’d taken a policy out the year before.”
I don’t mean for the laugh to fall from my lips, but it does. “This is what you’re upset about? You accepted life insurance money after he died and you’re worried because the medical examiner listed his cause of death as one thing when you think it might be something else?”
Her eyes, pooling with tears, widen, and she nods.
