to look me in the eye, and I hate the way it makes me feel. I’m dirty and a liar for keeping my truths from him even though what went on between us wasn’t about relationships and laying the groundwork for a future. Neither one of us wanted that.
“I have a few questions.”
My good eye snaps up, looking in the direction of the unfamiliar voice to find a handsome man with soft blue eyes and unruly sandy brown hair. I mistake him for some sort of counselor until I look down and see the badge and gun strapped to his belt.
The machine beside the bed betrays my anxiety when the beeping increases, but there’s nothing I can do about it.
“Simone Murphy,” the man says as he stands at the end of the hospital bed, “I’m Detective Colton Matthews with the Farmington Police Department.”
I blink up at him, willing the tears to dry up and disappear, but they only seem to increase with his presence in the room.
“Can you tell me what happened ton—”
“Can’t you see her?” Jinx snaps, his hands wrapping around the bed rail to my left. “I’m sure this can wait until the morning.”
“Give her a couple hours to rest,” Rocker adds, closing the distance between us.
He doesn’t reach for my hand or offer any other form of conciliatory movement, but it’s clear they’ve picked a side. My nose burns with emotion at realizing I may not be completely alone in this.
“Discussing it now while it’s fresh in her memory is best,” the detective explains.
“Discussing it without an attorney present isn’t in anyone’s best interest,” Rocker counters.
“It’s fine.” Rocker jolts when I press my fingertips to the top of his hand, but at least he didn’t jerk away. That’s something, right? “I’ll answer your questions.”
“Can you guys give us a little privacy?” Detective Matthews sweeps his eyes between the two men standing at my bedside, but I can see from the look on his face that he doesn’t really expect them to budge.
Rocker looks down at me, and he must be able to tell I don’t want to be alone because he doesn’t budge an inch.
“Okay. Simone, you were married to Jeremy Murphy?”
Were.
That answers the unspoken question I’ve been struggling with since I ran out of my apartment. I don’t know how I feel about it. I want to cry harder. I want to ask for proof even knowing I can see my husband’s lifeless body when I close my eyes isn’t enough to accept that years of pain and abuse are finally over.
“Y-yes,” I manage. “I married him the day I turned eighteen.”
My parents saw the wolf in him despite the sheep’s clothing I couldn’t see past, and no matter how much I begged them to sign off on letting him marry me when I was sixteen, they refused. We had to wait, and I’ve always wondered if we’d never gotten married if I would still have the respectful man he was before then.
Jeremy wasn’t always bad. He wasn’t always abusive. In the beginning, he showered me with gifts and attention, showing me every chance he got that he loved me despite our five-year age difference. He took me to both my junior and senior prom and got along with my friends. I was so in love, I couldn’t see anyone but him.
In retrospect, I only saw what he was willing to show me.
He worked a lot, making sure he had enough to take care of me, he’d say. I didn’t know until much later that it only meant he had other women and many of his jobs were illegal.
He had tattoos and was willing to protect me from anyone. This translated into toxic jealousy and would cause fights on the streets for men who dared to look in my direction.
Six months after I married him at the courthouse, one fight with a guy who accidentally bumped into me at the gas station turned into my fault. That was the first night he hit me, and before we fell asleep, I was convinced it was my fault for not watching where I was going. He couldn’t fault the man for smiling at me when his hands were on my shoulders to steady me. Any man would smile if they got to touch me, Jeremy explained. I was the slut who let it happen. I had to be more careful or I wouldn’t be able to leave the house.