Chapter 13

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

ASHLEY

Mom offers to cancel her Sunday brunch with her friends, and spend the day with me. It's clear she can see that what Zain told me at the cemetery has shaken me, no matter how much I try to hide it. But I convince her to go. I need time to process what she's told me, and I'd rather do it without her here. I don't want to fight with her, and I can't trust my emotions to stop me from saying something I don't mean.

Does it affect my life that she had an affair with my dad while he was still married? No, of course not. It doesn't change who I am, or how my parents raised me, or the fact I had a very happy childhood with two loving parents.

It does answer some questions though. Answers I didn't realize I needed until she started talking. Things like …

It explains why I don't remember Jason ever celebrating his birthdays with us. Even when it fell on a weekend he was supposed to be visiting. If that happened, he didn't come over. I remember it making me sad, because I really wanted to see him open gifts from my mom and dad, and have cake, and just be there with him.

It explains why Mom was never involved with the school PTA, but Jason's mom was. Although we were seven years apart, there's only one school in the town and it goes from kindergarten right up to senior year. Mom didn't get involved in any school events, or anything that wasn't specific to whatever grade I was in. Knowing what I do now, I'm sure it was to avoid bumping into Marissa.

It explains why, once Jason turned eighteen, if I wanted to see him, I had to go to the house he shared with Zain and Louisa. They all moved in together when they decided to stay local and go to the community college instead of somewhere else. Jason once told me that because Zain had a trust fund, he didn't need to go to college if he didn't want to. But he'd decided he was going to wait until he was sure about what he wanted to do with his life before going away to college, so he took random courses at the community one instead.

I go up to my bedroom, and spend some time taking down all the old posters, and emptying out the dresser and closet of clothes I haven't worn in eight years or more. By the time I'm done, I have a decent-sized pile on the bed. I'm pretty sure there's a goodwill store in town, so I bag them up and put them in the trunk of my car.

As I'm walking back to the house, a dark sedan pulls up and a suited man climbs out.

"Ms. Trumont?"

I stop on the steps to the front door.

"Can I help you?" I don't confirm or deny who I am.

A faint smile crosses his face, and he holds out one hand. "My name is Lionel Rogers. I work for Peter Longeaton, of Longeaton, Cassidy, and Fraser. I've been asked to deliver this." He draws a white envelope out of his jacket pocket. "You are Ms. Ashley Trumont, correct?"

"What is it?"

"I'm afraid I don't know the contents. I'm just supposed to wait while you open it, so I can take your reply back."

"My reply?" I reach out for the envelope, and turn it over, rubbing the paper between my thumb and finger.

It feels thick, expensive . My name is written on the front in black ink, in an elegant, cursive style rarely seen these days. There's no hint as to what it contains. I can't even see through the envelope.

"Is this going to cost me money? Are you serving me papers for something?"

His smile is more obvious this time. "I'm not a process server, and unless you're getting divorced, broke a tenancy agreement, or battling a child custody or support battle, I think you're safe."

I don't feel safe as I stare down at it. I feel like I'm holding a snake that's about to strike and kill me, but I push down the anxiety trying to take over, slide a finger beneath the seal and tear it open.

The paper inside is just as expensive-feeling as the envelope, and I unfold the letter. The words are written in the same confident strokes. I have to read it twice for the content to sink in. When it does, I screw the sheet up into a ball and throw it at the man in front of me.

He fumbles, but catches it.

"That's my answer." I turn to go inside.

"Ms. Trumont, wait. I need a verbal answer. "

"Tell him that I would rather dine with the devil himself than sit down and talk to him over dinner."

"So your answer is no?"

"No. Hell no. Fuck no, and I'd rather die no." I walk inside and slam the door.

I'm shaking. I don't know if it's from shock, fear, or anger. Maybe all three.

How dare he?

How fucking dare he?

My vision blurs, and I throw out a hand to balance myself against the wall and wait for the lightheadedness to pass.

I'm still shaking, my breath sounds uneven, my heart is pounding against my ribs, while butterflies take a ride on the world's craziest roller coaster in my stomach.

He isn't serious.

He can't be serious.

But I know he can, and he is. He warned me at the cemetery that he was going to turn my life into a living hell. And this is the start.

This is his warning.

So what will he say when he receives the news that I've turned down his invitation to dinner?

My gaze skitters across the walls until I focus on the stairs.

I have to leave. Get away from here. I was an idiot for coming home when I knew … knew he would come here. I thought I'd have a few days before he arrived. I should have known better.

I should have listened to my gut. It warned me that I needed to run. To hide. To find the deepest, darkest hole, and stay in it .

I dash up the stairs, and find my case so I can throw clothes into it.

I'll leave Mom a note. She'll understand. It'll be fine.

Dragging it down the stairs, I pull on my jacket, check my car keys are in the pocket, and open the door, just as someone pounds on it from the outside.

"Hello again, Ashley."