hospital, a stack of credit card statements in my lap. I’ve pored over each and every one, expecting to find damning evidence. Some kind of trail. Irrefutable proof of his affair.
Nothing but cash advances.
Not even so much as a bouquet of roses.
A thousand dollars here, five thousand there.
Each card has hit its max, like he cycled through one after another, pulling money here and transferring it there.
And none of it makes sense.
Brooks Abbott has money. His family has money. He paid for our house in cash. His cars too. His essays on financial management and retirement planning have been published in Forbes and the Wall Street Journal.
I check my phone and find four missed calls from Brenda Abbott. I’m sure Delilah tried her best, but Brenda probably saw right through her. I’ll call her later tonight, after the charity gala, and apologize for running out.
I’ll come clean, hope she believes me, and put an end to this charade.
But first . . . Brooks.
My lungs fill with stale hospital air as I charge down the hallway toward the recovery unit, a stack of statements clenched in my fist. Stopping at the nurse’s station to sign in, I jot my name on a free space and scribble the date.
And then I stop.
Because it’s not my name filling the last spot under Brooks’s room number.
The name Afton Mayfield is signed clear as day, and today’s date is alongside it. I swear it wasn’t there before, so I check. Sure enough, my name from earlier is above hers.
Afton was here the morning Brooks woke up. She stopped by the following day for updates, which Brenda handled, and left again.
But she was never allowed in his room.
Brenda wouldn’t have it.
She wanted Brooks to be damn near “as good as new” before he made his media debut. She didn’t want photographs of him lying in bed, and she didn’t want any quotes that might make people mistake his short-term memory loss for permanent brain damage.
“Excuse me.” I capture the attention of the woman behind the desk.
She glances up, shoving her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “Yes?”
“Do you know who’s visiting Brooks Abbott right now? His mother didn’t want the media in his room without special permission.”
The woman scrunches her face and shakes her head. “Media? She didn’t say she was here with the media.”
She stands, but I place my hand out to stop her. “It’s okay. I’ll handle it.”
There’s a dry lump in my throat and a weight on my chest as I stride toward his room. The door is half-open, but his curtain is pulled far enough that he can’t see to the doorway.
Two voices. His and hers. Slightly louder than a whisper.
I crane my neck and prepare for shameless eavesdropping.
The sound of Afton softly sobbing catches my ear, and I have to look. Peeking in, I see her sitting on the edge of his bed, where I once sat, holding his hands in hers. She’s dressed down, leggings and a puffy parka with a fur-trimmed hood. Her shiny blonde locks are swept into a neat bun on the crown of her head.
She’s definitely not on the job.
“I was so worried, baby.” She lifts his hands to her cheek, pressing them against her face. “I thought we were going to lose you.”
Um, we?
“I’m sorry,” he says. “Didn’t mean to give you a scare.”
“To think the baby might grow up without ever knowing you.” Her shoulders heave as she sobs, and she dabs the corners of her eyes with a tissue she steals off his bedside table. “It was so hard to stay away, knowing I couldn’t see you, hearing everything secondhand. It killed me.”
“I know, I know,” he comforts her with the soft, cashmere voice of a loving partner. In four years together, he’s never spoken to me like that, not even when Grandma Rosewood died and I was inconsolable for weeks. “Everything’s going to work out, okay? Just be patient.”
“She’s wearing her ring.” Afton speaks with a sick cough in her tone, like it disgusts her. “I saw it when I interviewed her. Does she think you’re still getting married?”
My blood boils before turning into ice water. I’m two seconds from storming in, guns drawn, and calling them out.
But I’m frozen. My feet won’t move. I’m paralyzed as the truth settles into my core. I wanted validation, but I didn’t know it would feel like this.
“For now, the wedding’s back on,” Brooks says.
Like hell it is.
“I have a few matters I need