Devil You Know(29)

Officer Jenkins shakes his hand also, and gives us both a curt nod before disappearing through the door to the offices. Malice places a hand on my lower back, and steers me out the front of the building. I relish the feel of the sun on my face, the warmth so foreign, as though feeling it as a ‘single’ woman makes it all the better.

“I need to come back to sign the report,” I tell him on the way to the pick-up.

He nods. “I heard that. I’ll drive you in.”

“Once it’s all finalized, then I can proceed with the divorce.”

“Sooner, rather than later I hope,” he growls.

I watch him walk to the far side of the vehicle, and open his door. He drops into the driver’s seat, and I swallow back the apprehension that he might take me up on my next offer.

“Thank you again for everything you’ve done,” I say getting in beside him. “But I don’t want to put you out.”

“You’re—”

I hold up a hand to stop him. “We haven’t talked much, and I don’t know what you do for a job. But I do know that every job has limited time off, and I can’t have you using it all on me. I appreciate what you’ve done, really, but if you have a life to get back to, don’t let me get in the way.”

He picks at a spot on his jeans. “I’ll let you know when I’ve had enough.”

I nod, and bite back the tears that threaten to spill over. I should be happy that he’s okay with helping me a while longer, but his words slashed an open wound inside of me. Yet again, I feel like a burden, a project—somebody’s hobby.

We return to the house in silence, and in a strange way the awkward atmosphere feels a little homely. To laugh, and act carefree when I’m barely a day out from leaving my controlling husband would be odd. At least in our tense state I can feel a little comfort in knowing how to react.

Malice stops the pick-up in front of the locked gates, and hops out to open them. I sit stationary, and watch the way he moves with confidence as he unlatches the lock, and pushes the steel gate wide. Has he ever needed to face adversity? A singular thing that questioned who he was? The way he acts, and his guarded conversations would lead me to assume he has, but a person who walks with that much swagger has to be pretty darn comfortable in their own skin.

I can’t fathom how that must feel: having no doubts as to who you are.

He drops into the seat, and drives the pick-up through before getting out to shut the gate. I can’t turn and watch him without being obvious, so I take in the large oaks that line the driveway instead. Their trunks twist, and gnarl. Every stress mark is a sign of something they’ve had to endure: a storm, a sawn limb, or disease.

If I could see my soul, would it look the same?

I stay focused on the colors of the bark while we make our way to the house. Malice puts the pick-up in park, but doesn’t get out.

“I can’t have you silent all the time.”

I draw a breath, and look at him. The emotion in his stare alone has tears pricking at the backs of my eyes.

“Then what do you want from me?”

“Who you are. Show me who you can be.”

A bird darts from a tree to the house. I watch as it bobs around on the guttering, and then flies off. So at ease with its freedom. “I can’t switch back to the old Jane overnight. I need time to work it out for myself.”

“I know.” He sighs. “Make sure you try. Okay?”

His door slams, and I’m left with the ringing in my ears.

I thought I was trying.





MAYBE IF she returns to the way she was before that prick, it’ll be enough. Maybe then I won’t want her as badly as I do now.

But if that’s the case, what kind of predator does that make me if all I crave is a broken woman to protect and nurture? Does that make me as bad as he is for making her that way?

Fuck this.

What am I doing? She’d be okay on her own. There’s no real reason for me to stay.

The front door shuts, and her footsteps traipse up the hall. I can’t blame her; I wouldn’t want to be around me either. The age of the house gives away her location, and with every creak of the floor I visualize what she’s doing.

I need to hold her again, so badly it physically hurts. My arms literally have pins and needles. What would she do if I did? Watching her shut off the more I push her to the outside hurts, but the asshole I me can’t stop doing it. It’s what I’ve always done. It’s just how I am. I want more than anything to reignite that connection we had at the hospital, but if I start, I don’t know if I can stop.

“Malice?”

I jump. When the hell did she come back down the hall? “Yeah?”