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By now, I knew the sound of Brady’s notifications. The low ding that was assigned for texts had gone off several times in a row.
I nodded toward his pants. “I think your phone is about to explode.”
He set his pants beside me, where he draped them over the back of the couch, and he reached into his pocket to grab his cell. “I just want to make sure it’s not anything serious …” His voice faded before he shouted, “What the fuck?!”
Anger was immediately present in his expression, his teeth bared, as though he were about to attack.
I couldn’t imagine what he was reading.
Was it about work? Edinburgh?
Shit … could it be about me?
I grabbed his hand. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m going to fucking kill him.”
Him?
Did that mean … David?
Or someone else?
I continued to grasp the back of his hand. “Brady? What happened?” I waited, and when I got no response, I added, “Talk to me.”
His eyes slowly shifted from the screen to me. “Lily …” His head shook back and forth, the rage building in his eyes. “I don’t want to show you this.”
David.
It had to be.
And as that realization began to take hold, my heart pounded inside my chest.
A boulder wedged its way into my throat.
Every bit of pleasure I’d been feeling was instantly drained from my body.
“Please.” I sounded breathless. “Just get it over with.”
Gradually and reluctantly, he tilted the screen so we could look at it at the same time.
Unknown
A few more to add to your collection, you motherfucker.
There were four photographs attached to the text from Unknown. The first was of a bed that looked vaguely familiar, a pair of boy shorts and a T-shirt on top.
Boy shorts and a T-shirt that were mine.
A sickness was rising in my stomach as I flipped to the second picture. This one showed the interior of my suitcase, where my two packing pods had been unzipped; a pink lace bra and matching thong poked out of one, and my Dalton polo, which was part of my uniform, had been pulled out of the other.
My heart began to throb as the third photo showed my cosmetic case as it sat on the counter of the bathroom. My perfume had been taken out and was resting in the palm of a hand, fingers wrapped around it, nails that were rugged and chewed.
A hand I knew all too well.
“That was my hotel room in Charleston.” My throat was so tight; I could barely speak. “I recognize the bed and the bathroom.” I tried to swallow and couldn’t. “He got in. Oh God.” My hand went over my mouth. “He’d come into that room while I was out … and I didn’t know.”
The fourth photo made my eyes fill, tears streaming down my face as I continued to stare at it. It was a photo of the inside flap of a wallet—David’s wallet—where a picture had been secured. The shot was of David and me, on his couch, during the beginning of our relationship. His arm was around my shoulders, his lips were on my cheek, and there was a huge smile on my face.
