come to a pivotal moment. Whatever happened next will determine if Julian and I make it, or crash and burn.
I chew my cheek as I touch his back. “Julian?”
This time he flinches.
He has something white balled up in his right hand. As my mind clears, I remember him holding it as he grabbed my hand when I first came in the bedroom.
Did he hold it the whole time we were together?
“Julian?” I call to him again.
This time he stands, the moonlight highlighting his naked body. “I’m sorry.”
I don’t think my mouth can get any drier. “For what?”
“That shouldn’t have happened.”
“I wanted it to.”
He bows his head. “Still, it was wrong.”
A knife to the heart would’ve hurt less. “What’s happening to us, Julian?” Even through my blurred vision, I can see the pain etched on his face. His hand flexes around the white cloth, then he releases it, letting it fall to the floor.
“I’ll sleep in the guest room.”
I watch him as he stumbles out of the room and slams the door. Minutes turn into hours before I gather the strength to pick up the cloth he’d been holding. Smoothing it out on the bed, I turn on the lamp on the nightstand. As the room illuminates, a cry gurgles from my throat, and I back away from it.
Shining against the light of the lamp is a tiny white onesie with the words Daddy’s Little Girl written in pink cursive glitter across the front.
Huddled against the headboard, I cry for everything we’ve lost.
Thirty-Six
Julian
I’m no better than her father.
The thought rolls through my head all night and half the morning. I had no right to touch her. We were both lost, and when she came to me, I’d wanted things to go back to the way they used to be.
One touch was all it took. My intention had been to soothe both of us. Then fear for Iris took over, and somehow, it all manifested into using her.
That isn’t who we are.
Phoebe and I have always been passionate people. When we come together, it’s explosive. But last night took it over the edge.
I wouldn’t treat my girlfriend like a piece of ass. Why the hell would I allow myself to treat my wife like one?
That damn onesie messed with my head.
I needed to be alone, and Phoebe kept at me like always. Only this time, my fear for my daughter took over, and I became the monster Phoebe’s run from her whole life.
Rolling out of the guest room bed, I tear the sheet off and wrap it around me. I left our bedroom so fast last night I didn’t even bother to get dressed.
Pressing my ear against the door, I listen for voices. Recognizing Phoebe’s distinctive drawl coming from downstairs, I fling open the door and head for the shower, a plan forming in my head.
I’ll never be a monster in Phoebe’s nightmares again.
By the time I wander downstairs, freshly showered, the house is full again.
Don’t these people have homes?
I open my mouth for a smartass comment, when I catch Phoebe’s face. She’s sitting at the dining room table/FBI headquarters, face streaked with tears. The way everyone is huddled around her, I know it can’t be about last night.
“What happened?” I step forward.
Hough moves in front of me, blocking my view. “Why don’t you come with me for a minute?”
I shove his chest. “What happened?” I continue toward Phoebe, and people scatter. Finally, I get a look at what she’s holding in her hand. It looks to be to be a yellow scarf. “What’s that?” I demand.
Like a gnat that won’t go away, Hough appears in front of me again.
“If you’ll shut up, I’ll tell you.” He places the heel of his palm against my shoulder and moves me away from the table. When we’re out of earshot, he lowers his voice. “A delivery arrived about an hour ago.”
“What kind of delivery?”
“A regular mail delivery with no return address.” He holds up a hand as I opened my mouth. “Yes, we've already dusted it, and no, there aren’t any fingerprints. It was just a note and the scarf.”
“Was there a note?”
Nodding, he hands me a pair of latex gloves and a typed note on printed paper. As I scan it, my heartbeat pounds in my throat, and sirens wail in my ears.