Lie, Lie Again - Stacy Wise Page 0,45

hand for a ring. It was there, all right, bright and shiny. Had his wife allowed him to leave with their son looking like a street urchin? Maybe they had fought, and he had grabbed the small boy and left, barely missing a well-aimed frying pan that was careering across the room toward him.

On the other hand, it could be that she was a businesswoman who was finalizing an important project for Monday, and she was relieved to have her husband take their son out for some Sunday fun.

The man stared at his phone screen, scrolling now and then to read more of whatever was so enthralling. And that sweet little boy held a white plastic fork with a determined grip, and after two tries, he stabbed a piece of watermelon. Her hands quivered with the desire to clap. He put the food in his mouth and chewed. Sylvia wanted to shake the man. Are you seeing this? Do you even know what’s going on right in front of you, you big idiot? Your son—your own flesh and blood—just succeeded. And you missed it because you’re too goddamn busy. As if her wrath had drifted across the room and snatched him by the neck, the man turned, meeting Sylvia’s eyes. “Your son is adorable,” she said loudly, pointing.

The man nodded. “Thanks. He’s a great kid.” He set the phone on the table and spoke to the child. Surprise, surprise. Well, at least she had done some good today. Maybe that would make up for hurling the jar of jam to the floor, though it had felt undeniably satisfying to break something. Great, in fact. Maybe she was on to an idea here. She could open a newfangled type of recreation center where members would gear up with helmets and padding. As part of the membership, they’d be given a giant bucket of rocks, the kind that crack and break, that they could chuck at a concrete wall. She closed her eyes and imagined the place. Companies could have retreats and trainings there. Maybe even holiday parties. It would become all the rage. She laughed at her pun, unintended as it was.

A server arrived at her table with a warm blueberry muffin, the butter and jam on the side, exactly as she’d ordered it, along with a vanilla latte. A heart was swirled into the foam. How sweet. Must not have been made by the girl who took her order, or there would have been a slash down the middle. Sylvia picked up her knife and drew a zigzag down the center of the heart.

Cutting the muffin into two halves, she spread a healthy dollop of butter on each side, allowing it to melt into the bread. Then she added a thick layer of strawberry jam and took a bite. She closed her eyes again, this time to savor the deliciousness. Warm blueberry muffins would definitely be served at her rec center. God, she was on a roll! She could call it the Wreck Center—a place for the emotionally wrecked. She could already see the waiting list. It would be pages long.

As she sipped her latte, she contemplated how she would spend the rest of her day. A trip to the mall was in order. She needed a special gift for a special little guy. Hunter. How could Hugh say his own son was a Pomeranian? He’d even laughed about it. And then he’d said Lily was the crazy one. A sick individual, indeed. He wouldn’t like what Sylvia had planned. But really, he should’ve known that playing with someone’s emotions like that was dangerous. But alas, it was a risk he’d chosen to take. He’d started this game, but she would finish it.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Riki tucked herself into Chris’s warm body and listened to the rain drum the ground outside. The gentle beat soothed her mind.

She sighed contentedly and ran a hand along his forearm. From his steady breathing, she knew he was still sleeping. How she wished her body would allow her to sleep in. But now her brain was booting up, and seconds later, it was humming at full speed as her to-do list started taking shape. She slipped out from under Chris’s arm and tiptoed across the room to the bathroom. After washing her face and brushing her teeth, she wound her hair up in a messy bun and padded to the kitchen to make coffee. It was ten—early for a Sunday morning—but not too early to text