Total pages in book: 65
Estimated words: 60965 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60965 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
I blink once, and they’re gone.
Leaving me alone, and isn’t that what I wanted?
A chill runs through my blood as I focus on just breathing and calming myself. Bottles of perfume are lined up so neatly on the shelf. Chanel Chance is the first one in the row of expensive and elegant bottles. My breathing comes in harsh pants as I stare at it. It’s nearly halfway empty. It was a Christmas gift.
I wonder if he gave his mistresses the same kind of gifts? What about the woman he had killed? The one pregnant with his child?
The last thought snaps my last bit of control. A wretched cry echoes in the bathroom, burning my throat as I whip my hand across the shelf. The tinkling, crashing and shattering of glass fills the room as I stand there heaving. I grip the edge of the bathroom door, tears blurring my vision and stare back at myself. I fucking hate who I was. Naïve and stupid. “So fucking stupid!” I scream at myself. “I hate you!” I yell out. “I hate what you did to me!”
My body sways as I harshly wipe under my eyes, turning from the mirror before I shatter it as well. The overwhelming scent of the perfumes mix in the air and I slam the door shut behind me, hating how it reeks and how the mess from my outburst, reckless and yet again stupid, will stay there until I clean it up. I’ll be the one picking up the tiny pieces of shattered glass. That’s how it works when these men storm in, destroying everything and demanding I follow their lead.
Jace’s closet is across from the bathroom. It was untouchable before when he passed. I couldn’t bear to open it and see all of his clothes. Suits he would never wear again. Shirts that held memories.
I rip the doors open chaotically, but then pause and walk in ever so slowly, flicking on the light. The U-shaped closet is lined with crisp white dress shirts and a myriad of colors on the left. Suits on the right. In the very back is his collection of soccer jerseys. He started buying them all the way back in high school. I remember the first one he ever got. I spot it as the memory comes flooding back.
I told him the red brought out his eyes.
I clench my teeth as I tear the shirt down. The fabric feels like nothing in my fisted hand.
I told him how handsome he looked in it.
A scream I don’t recognize as my own joins me when I grab the others, tearing them off the hangers and tossing them onto the floor.
He whispered that he wanted to see me in nothing but the jersey.
I kick the pile of jerseys aside and then dump the suits onto the floor, screaming as the memory washes over me.
I smiled, I wore it just for him and made love to him for the first time in that fucking jersey.
“I hate you!”
I blushed with innocence and handed everything I had right over to him. “I’ll never forgive you!”
I don’t stop until every last garment is littered on the floor. I take a shaky breath, not knowing if it’s him I hate or myself.
My gaze searches the closet for something, anything to validate my rage. I tear open shoeboxes looking for little black books. Ripping through the drawers of a small watch armoire I tear them all out, flinging the cold metal behind me.
Each is a moment I wish I could take back.
Support that I’d given him blindly. The trust. Our marriage vows that meant nothing to him.
There’s nothing that overtly makes him a bad man in this closet. No evidence that he deserved to die. There’s nothing here. Nothing but ghosts of the past and memories I haven’t suffered through in a year.
My shoulders rise and fall heavily as I move from one post to the next, focusing on taking it all down. I can’t stand to see his things hanging there.
It’s all the memories and the details he hid from me. They don’t deserve their place anymore. I can’t stand it and I want them gone.
I know deep in my gut that everything Mason told me is true. I always go with my gut, and it led me here. Crying in the middle of a trashed closet, with my prick of a dead husband's clothes scattered around me.
I’m searching for anything. Anything at all that would tell me it’s okay to hate Jace and be done with him forever. That everything Mason said is true, and therefore it’s okay to love him. That it’s okay… for him to have murdered Jace.
I use the sleeve of a suit to bury my face. The cool material makes my heated face feel even hotter. I’ve finally lost it.