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Already terrified he might say something I won’t be able to refute.
“Look, you know I love Nora, and I honestly always thought you would end up back together, but… Not like this. Not as some sort of response to a traumatic situation.”
Ah. I get it now. What he’s getting at. And I’m not angry. I’m terrified.
“You think she only married me because she felt bad I killed a guy for her?” I say dully. It’s the worst kind of funny how close he is to the truth.
“No!” Anderson says quickly. “I mean maybe,” he adds when I glare at him. “The thought may have crossed my mind. But only because things happened so fast and she was so against marriage last time you proposed…Geez. I’m not helping.” He lets out a noise of frustration. “I’ve probably got things all wrong. I shouldn't have said anything. I just care about you. I don’t want to see you get hurt. Let’s go back to focusing on the good news: you’re not a murderer! Yay.” He does a feeble little fist pump to the air, but his words fall on deaf ears.
I was floating.
But I just crashed back down to the ground.
Anderson is wrong about a few things.
It’s not me that should be celebrating no longer being a murderer—it’s Nora.
And she didn’t marry me because she felt bad that I killed a guy for her. She married me to protect herself from going to prison.
But Anderson is right about something too.
Nora never really wanted to marry me.
And now that she’s not a murderer, she has no reason to be my wife.
Chapter 25
Nora
EVEN THOUGH I CAN’T hear anything they’re saying I still keep my eyes trained on Anderson and Jack as they talk. Jack isn’t facing me so I can’t try to read his expression, but I watch as his shoulders rise then fall then as his whole body seems to cave in on itself. Anxiety claws at my insides; what on earth could Anderson be saying to him that I can’t hear? I always thought Anderson liked me, then again, I wasn’t a murderer the last time Jack and I were together. If he’s figured out what I did, it wouldn’t be hard to guess that he’d be upset with me.
Maybe he’s over there trying to convince Jack to annul our marriage and move on with his life.
The very thought makes me feel hollow, like I’m the tinman and the wicked witch has gone off with my heart .
Only it’s not the wicked witch—it’s Jack that’s got my heart.
And he’s not wicked at all. He’s so, so good.
“Why so glum?” Stafford asks, nudging me gently with his elbow. “And does it perhaps have to do with whatever made my wife answer my phone call like this—” He pauses, then rushes out in a high-pitched voice clearly intended to be Lucy, “Hi, babe, sorry, can’t talk to you right now without feeling like I’m lying to you, so gotta go—bye! Click.” He mimes hanging up a phone, then stares bemusedly at me. “High voice added for effect,” he adds after a beat. “Lucy isn’t actually that squeaky.”
“Hey, at least your wife picked up. Emily didn’t even answer my call,” Montgomery exclaims in mock indignation. “She sent me a text saying she loved me too much to talk to me right now. A text!” He shakes his head in exaggerated disbelief.
I can’t even muster a smile at their antics and Stafford’s usually affable manner shifts to one of utmost concern.
“Alright, Nora, tell us what’s going on. You’re married to our best friend, so whatever problems you have, they’re our problems now too,” he declares.
“Definitely.” Montgomery, typically the most reserved of the group, nods his head vigorously. Tears spark my eyes. Which is just so typical. I’m starting to feel like Ludacris when he claims all he does is win, except my version of the song goes, “All I do is cry, cry, cry no matter what.”
“I—” I start, but I’m interrupted by the sudden reappearance of Anderson and Jack, both looking subdued.
“Good talk?” Stafford says sardonically.
“Yeah, uh, I can catch you two up later,” Anderson says with a glance Jack’s way.
“Eh, why wait?” Jack cuts in, his voice oddly acerbic. “Might as well tell them the good news now.” He looks around the group, lingering on me for a second before shaking his head hard and moving on. “Turns out I’m not a murderer,” he declares. A horrified squeak ekes out of my body. Surely he’s not going to out me so unceremoniously, with no warning or preamble whatsoever. Or at the very least a disclaimer that this murder was atypical behavior for me.
Actually, I hope that goes without saying.
