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Dragging a hand over my face and still breathing hard, my anger gives way to the same desperate need that’s been eating at me since she left.
I need to find her.
I dial her sister’s number for the third time today. Kierra answers on the second ring, her voice wary, no longer hiding her annoyance. “I told you this morning, Vance. I haven’t heard from her.”
She’s lying.
Sophia hasn’t gone three days without messaging or calling Kierra since we got married. Not once. They can go weeks without seeing each other, but Sophia always checks in. A stupid meme. A quick update. Even a ridiculous emoji to quietly say, “I’m thinking about you.”
Three days of silence isn’t normal. Not for Sophia, not when it comes to Kierra.
“I just need to know where she is.” My voice comes out rough, the words slurred slightly around the edges. “Please, Kierra. I know she’s talked to you. She’d want you to know she was safe. I don’t care whether she’s begged you not to tell me. I need to know where she is so I can explain.”
“Vance—”
“Fine.” I cut her off, my grip tightening around the phone until the case creaks. “You tell her. Tell her I’m sorry. Tell her it’s not what she thinks. You tell her I love her, and I’m going to keep looking until I find her.”
Silence stretches between us, heavy with everything neither of us is saying.
“You really fucked each other up, didn’t you?” Kierra says finally.
“She’s my wife,” I say, as if that explains everything. As if those three words could contain the magnitude of what I’ve lost.
There’s a pause on the other end before Kierra speaks again. “That doesn’t mean you get to decide what she needs.”
“She doesn’t know what she needs right now.” My jaw clenches. “I do.”
“And what do you think she needs?”
My answer comes without hesitation. “To come home.”
I hang up and stand there in the silence of our bedroom. When the phone buzzes in my hand, for a fleeting second, I think it might be Sophia.
MELANIE
I’m sorry
“Sorry?” I grouse to myself. “You poisoned my fucking marriage with lies, drove away the woman I love, and you’re fucking sorry?”
Needing a physical outlet for my rage that doesn’t involve putting this manipulative bitch in a shallow grave, I swing, my fist connecting with the mirror beside our closet. The frame falls off the wall and crashes to the floor in an explosion of silver shards and splintered wood.
Unclenching my tight fist, I look down to find my knuckles shredded. Blood wells from the cuts, dripping down my fingers in fat, heavy droplets. My breathing still hot with anger, I stare at my feet, watching the crimson rain over the broken glass.
I stumble away from the wreckage, leaving bloody footprints on the floor, as I make my way to the bathroom. After flipping on the light, I run the faucet and plunge my hand under the cold water. Blood swirls down the drain as I pick shards of glass from my flesh, dropping them into the sink. After I’ve gotten what I can see, I tightly wrap my hand in a towel. My blood blooms across the fabric as I dig through the linen closet for gauze to properly dress the wound.
Finding it, I toss the towel toward the trash can. My coordination soiled by alcohol, rage, and exhaustion, I hit the rim, causing the can to tip over. The contents spill across the bathroom tile, and I grumble curses of annoyance. Crouching down, I gather the scattered contents one piece at a time. I pick up a sleek piece of white plastic and toss it back in without a second thought.
Realizing what it was, my hand shoots back into the can. I turn it over in my hand, my bloody fingerprints smearing across the white plastic. I stare at the bloodstained window of the test, and my breath catches at the sight of two blue lines.
She’s pregnant.
The realization hits me like a bullet to the chest.
She left, carrying our child.
She was going to disappear, taking my son or daughter with her.
Was she planning to fucking tell me?
