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“I guess he didn’t like playing by the rules, either.”
“Did he get flack for befriending you like that?”
“Controlling the cigarette supply meant he got some immunity, but I wasn’t beneficial for him, I can tell you that. But that’s who Jasper was—I could count on him. Back then, at least.”
As we approach the house, I slow down, desperate to draw out this moment for as long as possible.
Laila fusses with her hair, then sighs and looks at me. “Arsen, why are you telling me all this?”
I hear Marie’s voice in the back of my head. I can practically feel her nudging me forward.
“Because I’ve never told anyone else,” I explain softly. “Because you’re my wife.”
19
ARSEN
Progress.
That’s what I tell myself as I drag myself away from Laila’s door.
This is progress.
I want to go inside with her, strip away all the bullshit that has built up between us, and lose myself in her for a few hours. Days. Weeks, if not more.
But considering I’m currently celebrating the fact she didn’t kick my ass to the curb when I placed my hand on the small of her back and led her into the house, the marathon makeup sex will likely need a raincheck.
I could go work out some of my extra energy on my own, but the idea of getting myself off without Laila around seems like three steps backward, so I decide to let off some steam in a different way.
Which is how I end up outside a shady-looking motel just off the highway. I stalk down the peeling beige walls to Room 24. All ittook was one stern look at the strung-out man manning the front desk before he coughed up Charles’ room number.
I could have gotten a key from him, too. But I like the idea of a grand entrance.
The door splits nearly in half when I drive the heel of my boot into it. The chain lock shatters away from the wall, leaving Charles framed in the shredded wood, his pale lips hanging open in wordless horror.
“Arsen…?”
I kick in the rest of the door so I can step into the dank room. “We really should stop meeting like this.”
He trembles as he backs into the furthest corner of the room, which isn’t saying much. This place is a shoebox.
“I didn’t go near her!” Charles blubbers. “Not since the funeral. Not since?—”
“Since you wanted to pay your respects.” I nod. “And what do you call stealing the house that Marie left to her daughter before her body is even cold in the ground? Is that respectful?”
His neck stiffens. “That’s my house now.”
“The house was Marie’s, to do with as she pleased. She wanted her only child to have it. I would have thought you’d want the same thing, being the loving father that you are.”
“She doesn’t need the damn house!” he exclaims, his voice rising. “She has money, a nice home. She hasyou!”
“And you have debts. You owe more than that house could ever begin to cover.”
He drops his gaze to the floor. Nice to know the man still has a modicum of shame somewhere in that shriveled heart of his. “It’s a start.”
“It’s a waste of time. You have no case.”
“My lawyer doesn’t think so,” he insists.
