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Authors: Denise Moncrief
Tags: Suspense, Contemporary
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your wife. It’s not her fault you cheated on me with her—no matter how much your guilty conscience wants to shift the blame. Accept the life you’ve chosen. Make it up to me by being good to her.”
His groan implied I had imposed a life sentence. He sputtered something incoherent, then said, “You don’t know what you’re asking—”
“I don’t want a pound of flesh. I want you, for once in your sorry life, to do what’s right.”
In pronouncing his punishment, I had defined my own course. If I couldn’t be Rhonda, I’d be Jennifer. I would go back to Anson and Virginia Beach and make Jennifer’s life right.
I grabbed the handrail, hoisted myself from the bottom step, and then turned to the man I once loved with all my heart. “I just have one more question.” I paused to catch my breath. “Why?”
He turned his head away from me. “I had plenty of reasons at the time. But now when I look back, all my reasoning seems stupid. There’s no excuse for what I did to you. And you’re right. I wake up in the morning and wonder how I made such a mess of things. But there’s one thing you have to believe. Losing you was hard. Much harder than I thought it would be. Hard for me…and hard for the girls.”
Why can’t he look me in the eye?
Resentment bubbled to the surface of my pride. “So hard you married Kristen before my memory had time to fade?”
“It’s not like that. I broke it off when…”
“What’s the matter? Can’t you say it? You broke it off when I died, didn’t you?”
He nodded. “But then we met again—”
“I don’t want to hear any more.” I rushed across the concrete slab at the bottom of the stairwell, busted through the heavy steel security door and into the sunlight, leaving him to deal with his shaky life.
Chapter Ten
“Sudha,” I shouted as I passed through the back entrance of the Cristobal house and entered the living area. My voice bounced around the room. The darkened first floor gave the impression of desertion, the detritus of everyday living absent.
“Sudha!” I hollered up the front stairs.
Silence answered me. I trudged upstairs to the second floor. No lights illuminated the balcony. I flipped the switch and stared down the long hallway that ran the length of the second floor. Nothing disturbed the quiet. Stale air invaded my sinuses. If Sudha was in the house, she was avoiding me.
Absolute quiet surrounded me, not even broken by the hum of the air conditioner. I descended the back stairs.
“Sudha!” I called once more, impatience resonating in my voice as I shoved the kitchen door open. It banged against the wall and swung closed behind me. Something shifted and emerged from the shadows. I jumped at Anson’s sudden appearance.
He didn’t look good—stubble darkened his usually clean-shaven face. His shirttail hung loose from the back of his crumpled pants. In the short time I’d known him, I’d never seen him that way. Never a hair out of place. Shoes always shined. Slacks always pressed.
“She’s not here.” His voice lacked inflection.
“Where is she? I need to talk to her.” Unanswered questions bounced around my cranium like rubber balls deflecting against each other.
“I let her go.”
“You canned her!” Relief flooded me.
“You don’t have to be so crass.” His comment was part admonishment, part amusement.
“I didn’t mean it that way,” I assured him, lowering my volume and softening my belligerent stance. “Why did you let her go?”
“That’s what you wanted.”
I cocked my head, one side of my flippy hairdo bouncing around my left ear.
What’s wrong with him? What happened while I was away to cause the man to wallow in this nasty, cantankerous funk?
His scowl petrified me. My interrogation stalled on my tongue.
“Price Whitaker called after you left his office.”
My stomach flipped. “He did?”
“You shouldn’t take barbiturates with your heart medication.” A distinct note of accusation
His groan implied I had imposed a life sentence. He sputtered something incoherent, then said, “You don’t know what you’re asking—”
“I don’t want a pound of flesh. I want you, for once in your sorry life, to do what’s right.”
In pronouncing his punishment, I had defined my own course. If I couldn’t be Rhonda, I’d be Jennifer. I would go back to Anson and Virginia Beach and make Jennifer’s life right.
I grabbed the handrail, hoisted myself from the bottom step, and then turned to the man I once loved with all my heart. “I just have one more question.” I paused to catch my breath. “Why?”
He turned his head away from me. “I had plenty of reasons at the time. But now when I look back, all my reasoning seems stupid. There’s no excuse for what I did to you. And you’re right. I wake up in the morning and wonder how I made such a mess of things. But there’s one thing you have to believe. Losing you was hard. Much harder than I thought it would be. Hard for me…and hard for the girls.”
Why can’t he look me in the eye?
Resentment bubbled to the surface of my pride. “So hard you married Kristen before my memory had time to fade?”
“It’s not like that. I broke it off when…”
“What’s the matter? Can’t you say it? You broke it off when I died, didn’t you?”
He nodded. “But then we met again—”
“I don’t want to hear any more.” I rushed across the concrete slab at the bottom of the stairwell, busted through the heavy steel security door and into the sunlight, leaving him to deal with his shaky life.
Chapter Ten
“Sudha,” I shouted as I passed through the back entrance of the Cristobal house and entered the living area. My voice bounced around the room. The darkened first floor gave the impression of desertion, the detritus of everyday living absent.
“Sudha!” I hollered up the front stairs.
Silence answered me. I trudged upstairs to the second floor. No lights illuminated the balcony. I flipped the switch and stared down the long hallway that ran the length of the second floor. Nothing disturbed the quiet. Stale air invaded my sinuses. If Sudha was in the house, she was avoiding me.
Absolute quiet surrounded me, not even broken by the hum of the air conditioner. I descended the back stairs.
“Sudha!” I called once more, impatience resonating in my voice as I shoved the kitchen door open. It banged against the wall and swung closed behind me. Something shifted and emerged from the shadows. I jumped at Anson’s sudden appearance.
He didn’t look good—stubble darkened his usually clean-shaven face. His shirttail hung loose from the back of his crumpled pants. In the short time I’d known him, I’d never seen him that way. Never a hair out of place. Shoes always shined. Slacks always pressed.
“She’s not here.” His voice lacked inflection.
“Where is she? I need to talk to her.” Unanswered questions bounced around my cranium like rubber balls deflecting against each other.
“I let her go.”
“You canned her!” Relief flooded me.
“You don’t have to be so crass.” His comment was part admonishment, part amusement.
“I didn’t mean it that way,” I assured him, lowering my volume and softening my belligerent stance. “Why did you let her go?”
“That’s what you wanted.”
I cocked my head, one side of my flippy hairdo bouncing around my left ear.
What’s wrong with him? What happened while I was away to cause the man to wallow in this nasty, cantankerous funk?
His scowl petrified me. My interrogation stalled on my tongue.
“Price Whitaker called after you left his office.”
My stomach flipped. “He did?”
“You shouldn’t take barbiturates with your heart medication.” A distinct note of accusation
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