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“Like hell you are—”
But he was already pushing his way inside, her socked feet sliding easily across the hardwood floor.
Without waiting for whatever explanation he had for barging into her home, Lexie sprinted up the hallway, phone in hand. She’d almost made it to her bedroom—where she intended to lock herself in and call for help—when his hard hands grabbed her from behind and threw her into the wall. Lexie yelped, struggling against his body which pressed into her with force.
“Kyle,” she pleaded. “Please. Let me go.”
“Stop it! I’m not going to hurt you.”
“You are hurting me.”
“Because you’re acting crazy.” He loosened his grip and stepped back, allowing her enough room to turn around and face him. They were both breathing hard.
She looked him over, lips pinched together in anger. “Just a few beers, huh?”
“Don’t start,” he scowled.
Kyle had one of those imperfectly perfect faces, which Lexie had found charming in the beginning. Hazel eyes, blond hair, a crooked smile that turned her knees to mush when wielded right. He was a small build, skinny to the eye, but sinewed muscles from hours spent in the gym roped his frame top to bottom. Gorgeous and loving, he was everything she had ever wanted in a husband, and she’d been so happy to call him hers. But that was a long time ago.
“Kyle, you can’t do this.”
“Do what? We’re just talking.”
Yeah, to a brick wall, was her immediate thought, but she didn’t say it, not when he was like this. Volatile. Unpredictable. Completely ignorant to the wrongness of his actions.
Keep him calm.
She repeated the mantra in her head, just as she’d done so many times before.
Lexie crossed her arms. “Fine. Talk. Then leave.”
Only silence followed. Now that she’d granted him the opportunity, he seemed reluctant to let the words out.
Against her better judgment—and every ounce of self-preservation she possessed—it piqued her curiosity enough for her to frown and soften her tone. “What is it?”
“I, uh . . .” He moved away, rubbing an agitated hand through his hair as he paced around in front of her.
“Is this really something to do with Isabelle?” she asked. “Or did you just say that to—”
“I slept with her.”
She searched his face, looking for any sign that he was lying, working some angle like he always did, but no. He looked torn up. Terrified, even. Had Annie been right?
“What do you mean you slept with her? When?”
He stopped pacing. His arms dropped to his sides. “The night she died I-I was there—at her house.”
Lexie’s stomach lurched, beer and crackers threatening to come up. “What are you telling me right now?”
“Wow—hey.” He came at her again, too close. “No. Come on. I didn’t do it. I just—I don’t even know what happened. I was drunk—I barely remember any of it. She was pissed off at her boyfriend or something, I think. She came onto me. But I—I left after. I left, and she was fine.”
Lexie’s brain wasn’t processing what she was hearing. Between the alcohol and waning adrenaline, she felt fuzzy. Slow.
“Wait,” she said, holding up a hand. “Do the police know you were there?”
“Fuck, no. And it’s gonna stay that way.”
“What are you talking about? Kyle, you have to tell them.”
