front of Greg.
Behind her, she heard Greg mutter, “Stupid bitch,” under his breath. Louder, he said, “You’re still crazy. I’m glad we broke up.”
Anger gathered in her belly like a fireball. Greg didn’t have an empathetic bone in his entire perfect body. He thought about only himself.
She whirled to face him. “You’re such an ass.”
His face reddened, and he stepped closer. “Don’t talk to me like that.”
“Or what?”
He glared but didn’t respond.
Six years ago, Greg had been able to intimidate her. Not physically—she’d never been afraid of him. His intimidation had been psychological. He’d tormented her with guilt. She’d been an emotional and physical mess back then. She was neither of those things now. She straightened and lifted her chin. She and Greg were the same height. She couldn’t believe she’d once worn only flats to protect his fragile ego. She’d been stupid to marry him simply because their short relationship had resulted in a surprise pregnancy. But buried deep under her grief was the joy that had blasted through her when she’d read the home test. She’d felt like a whole different person. At first, it seemed he’d changed too.
But he hadn’t, not really.
She took one step closer and stabbed a finger toward his face. “Stay away from me, Greg. I’m not grieving the loss of my child this time around.”
“Don’t you mean our child, the one you killed with your carelessness?” Greg’s words sliced right through her.
She knew she hadn’t been at fault, but guilt speared her in the heart anyway. She’d been five months along in a very healthy pregnancy. The doctor had told her she could continue with exercise she was comfortable with until the last trimester. She’d been rowing since high school, but Greg had wanted her to stop. The fact that she was faster than him had always made him insecure. She’d been out on the river when the miscarriage started. She would carry that moment—and the nightmare that followed—for the rest of her life, like a scar on her soul.
Later, they’d learned the baby had had a heart abnormality, that he had died before she ever set out on the water that day, and even if he’d been born, he couldn’t have survived. But right after his death, she hadn’t known that. She’d blamed herself.
And Greg had blamed her too.
Instead of supporting her at the lowest moment of her life, he’d made everything worse.
But she would not argue about her son’s cause of death with Greg. She didn’t owe him anything.
“Leave me alone.” Cady turned her back to him and pushed her cart toward the front register. She would not let him run her out of the store. She would not take his shit this time around.
“Sure,” Greg called to her back. “Run away. That’s what you do best.”
The fingers of one hand curled around the handle of the shopping cart. With the other, she shot him the bird over her shoulder.
Russell appeared at the head of the aisle. He glanced between Cady and Greg and back to Cady. “Is everything OK?”
Cady forced a small smile. The muscles of her face were frozen. They felt like they might shatter. “Fine. Sorry about the mess.”
Russell lifted one hand. “Don’t worry about it.” He frowned back at Greg, who was still standing in the same place, his face locked in an angry scowl.
Cady checked out and pushed her cart to the van. Across the parking lot, she saw Greg get into a small dark-gray SUV and drive out of the lot. Cursing at him, she heaved the heavy bags into the cargo area. The physical labor dispelled some of her anger.
Then she climbed behind the wheel and burst into tears.
CHAPTER NINE
Tuesday afternoon, Matt stood on the front step of the Thorpe condo. He leaned away from Owen and the waft of alcohol. The whiskey fumes coming off the man’s body were overwhelming, as if he’d been marinated in booze. If someone lit a match within six feet of him, he was going up like a TIKI torch.
“What?” Owen swayed on his feet.
“We have news about your wife’s death,” Bree said.
Owen stared, glassy-eyed. “OK.” With a whatever wave of his hand, he turned and staggered down the hallway. He clearly hadn’t showered recently.
Matt and Bree followed him back to the kitchen. On top of the BO, the faint smell of vomit hit Matt hard. Someone—presumably Owen—had been sick somewhere. A nearly empty bottle of whiskey sat on the counter. A second bottle stood at the ready.