Page 154 of Black Light: Cured

Blood drains from my face as my heart painfully thumps in my chest. “Why would you think that?”

“Last we heard he got a job offer in Dallas. There’s no way he’d go and not take you with him.

He’s obsessed with you! If you’re here, does that mean he didn’t the job? Or did he get the job? Spill!

If you’re going to leave us, we need time to plan a going away party.” She cranes her neck around to

look for Aiden, and I just crumple to the floor.

So much for being strong and in control. Klara drops to her knees and wraps her arms around me,

rocking me back and forth as she asks me what’s wrong.

“H-he left me,” I blubber, my heart splitting once more. “He left a fucking note.”

“He did what?” Klara’s screech stings my ears, but it doesn’t matter. It’s just one more pain to

add to the cacophony swirling through me.

Soon however, footsteps thunder up beside us, and I don’t even have to look to know that Master

Spencer is there, probably ready to do battle with whoever made his wife cry out like that. Through

my wracking sobs, I listen as she relays to him what’s going on, and I can almost feel the anger rolling

off him in waves.

“That son of a bitch,” he growls, slamming his fist into the counter. “I should have kicked him out

the first time he hurt you.”

“Right?” Klara chimes in, her voice laced with venom.

It’s all too much. Right now, I just want to forget everything and not have to rehash it.

“Please,” I croak out. “Please tell me his whiskey is still here.”

Klara looks down at me, an evil smile curling her lips. “As a matter of fact, it is. Come with me.

If he’s gone, then anything left behind is fair game.”

Between her and Master Spencer, they manage to get me off the floor and help me over to the bar

where I promptly collapse on one of the seats. It’s the first place I ever saw him. Again, heartfelt sobs

erupt from my throat, but no tears fall. It seems as if I’ve truly cried every drop.

As I sit there, Klara announces to everyone what happened to me, stirring them up. Her words are

impassioned, vitriolic, far angrier than how I feel, but that could just be because she’s so protective

of me. I can appreciate it, but the more she talks, the more sorrow lances through my heart. By the

time class is supposed to start, it’s long forgotten. Instead, they all rally around me, either murmuring

their condolences or railing at the man for treating me this way.

The noise is overwhelming. I just want to be back in my bed with the covers over my head. But