Page 52

51

CHARLOTTE

The only thing hotter than a man wearing a backwards ball cap is a man carrying a car seat one-handed with a baby sleeping soundly inside.

I slowly trail Noah up our driveway, and he sets Gabriella down to unlock the door, given his other arm is in a sling. We make our way inside, the overpowering smell of bleach assaulting my senses.

Our eyes meet.

“Want to stay somewhere else tonight?” Noah suggests.

I shake my head. “This is our home. We can’t let what happened here take that from us.”

He smiles softly. “Scars and all?”

I nod. “Scars and all.”

We can think about moving some other time. Right now I need to lie down, rest, and snuggle my little Ella. I’m sore as hell, my boobs are throbbing, and walking is a bitch, but I did it. She burst out of me, and I survived.

Noah won’t admit it, but he’s exhausted too. After all, he’s the one who was shot. By me. His wife. Never gonna live that down. But he refused to leave my side except for a few scans and stitches.

Our friends were in the waiting room, but we haven’t announced anything publicly yet. If my mother had shown up, I’m not sure what I’d have done. I’m still not sure how to deal with her. She clearly helped Noah’s father get out, but whether or not that’s illegal is to be determined. For now we’re going to keep our distance.

In our room, I give Gabriella a quick feed and place her in the bassinet next to the bed. In the closet I grab comfier clothes and spot the dress I wore to break into the Benson estate on the floor. I pick it up to toss in the hamper, and the little flash drive I stole clicks against the floor.

In all the craziness, I completely forgot about it.

I bend down, wincing, and pick it up. After changing and putting on that god-awful postpartum underwear, I grab the baby monitor and wobble to the living room.

“Can you get a laptop?” I ask Noah.

“Shouldn’t you be resting?” he asks, using his one good hand to wash a dish at the sink.

“Shouldn’t you?” I counter, with a cocked brow.

“Touché.”

“I found a flash drive with the files,” I tell him, sinking onto the couch.

“Can’t checking it wait?”

“Given the amount of info my mother had on you, I’m sure she’s heard about your father’s death and Gabriella’s birth by now. I want to know every detail before she tries to contact me.”

“What’s on it?”

“I have no clue. But it was in a locked drawer, so it seemed important.”

“Do you want to look?” Noah asks timidly.

I spin the little thumb drive between my fingers. “It would probably be more dangerous not to,” I point out. Knowing her affinity for blackmail, it could quite literally be on anyone.

We pull out Noah’s laptop and a USB to USB-C converter and plug it in. He gestures for me to go ahead, and I suppose since it’s my mother’s collection of chaos, I should do the honors.

Only one file is on the device. A video that’s password protected, but after a few tries—she’s so damn predictable—I’ve cracked it.

An uneasy feeling settles in my stomach.

Clicking the video, it opens wide on the computer screen, and I turn up the sound. There’s a full view of the study at my parents’ house.

Grandma sits in her chair, working as usual, a glass of wine to her right.

A door creaks open, and her attention turns towards it.

“Georgia?” Grandma says. “What are you doing here?”

“I need the money.”

“And I’m not giving it to you.”

“If I don’t secure a donation from the Benson name you always drone has so much weight, how is that going to look?” my mother asks.

“That’s not my problem.”

“Don’t you realize how good it will be for you when I’m in office?” Mom presses.

“The fact you think you can win president, let alone governor, is embarrassing.”

“I’m so sick of you underestimating me,” Mom says, tone sharp.

“I’m not. I don’t place bets on dead horses.”

“Transfer the fucking money.”

“No,” Grandma says.

“Don’t make me do this.” Mom’s tone is indecipherable as she reaches into her handbag.

I gasp.

She points a gun at my grandma. At her own mother.

“Make the transfer,” Mom shouts.

“What are you going to do?” Grandma laughs. “Shoot me?”

“If I have to.”

Mom rounds the desk, clicks around on the computer, and aims the gun at Grandma’s head.

“Make. The. Transfer.”

“Over. My. Dead. Body,” Grandma seethes, and Mom pulls the gun back, then whacks her in the head with it. She slumps to the floor, no longer visible due to the camera angle.

Mom returns to the computer, and a satisfied smile spreads across her face. After a few minutes, she looks to the floor, bends down, and curses.

“Shit.” She stands, setting the gun on the table, and drags her hands through her hair. “Fuck!” she shouts.

“What just happened?” Noah asks, voice at a whisper.

“I think we witnessed my grandmother’s murder,” I say as the footage keeps rolling. “But I don’t understand why my mother would keep this. It only incriminates her .”

“Maybe she?—”

“What’s wrong?” my dad shrieks, running in the room, and he stalls in place upon seeing Grandma’s body. “What did you do?”

“What had to be done,” Mom grits out.

“Don’t you think this has gone far enough?” Dad exclaims, running to the body and assumedly checking for a pulse. “She’s not breathing.”

“Help me clean it up.”

We watch silently as Dad helps rearrange Grandma’s body on the floor. Wipes off the blood on the edge of the desk. Makes it look like an accident. And I realize why my mother kept this video. Why my parents’ marriage has been strained since my grandma died. Why Dad can barely stand to be in the same room as her. Why he’s never home.

She’s blackmailing her own husband.

Well, screw that.

Once upon a time, I made the mistake of holding on to a video. I won’t be doing that again.

* * *

“I didn’t want to help her cover it up, I swear,” Dad promises, eyes full of pain.

“I believe you,” I say because hell, I saw the video. He pleaded with her to call an ambulance, but she refused. “We need to bring this to the police.”

“I know.” Dad nods. “It’s time.” He shifts in his seat at Noah’s and my kitchen table. Noah is beside me, a protective arm resting on my leg.

“Did you know she had this video?” I ask.

“I didn’t at first. Not until I requested a divorce a few months after the incident.”

My lips part in surprise. “You wanted a divorce?”

“My wife murdered her own mother in cold blood,” he deadpans. “Yeah, I wanted a divorce.”

“But she was worried about the optics?” I pressed.

“God forbid the real world interrupt her political aspirations,” Dad scoffs.

My brows pull together, sadness consuming me. “If you knew she was dangerous, how could you leave her alone with us? Especially the kids.”

“I’m not proud of that.” He shakes his head. “But I hoped her violent streak started and ended with her mother. She’d always hated her.”

“But you weren’t worried about me?” I ask, chest aching. My whole life he was my protector—the one I could count on. I didn’t realize he was knowingly leaving me in danger.

Dad reaches across the table and places his hand on mine. “I always worry about you. But I know you can take care of yourself.” His eyes flick to Noah. “Although, it seems that won’t be necessary anymore.”

Noah’s grip on my thigh tightens. It’s nice Dad thought I could handle myself, but it doesn’t take away the sting of him choosing apathy over protection.

“So how is this going to work?” I ask.

“Well,” Dad says, “you are staying out of this completely.”

“What?” I scoff, annoyance filling me. “But I found the?—”

“There is absolutely no reason for you to be dragged into the depositions and hundreds of hours of legal prep this case is going to take. Besides…” Dad’s eyes fall to the nursery door behind me. “You’re new parents. Noah’s going to be busy with physical therapy for his arm. This is the last kind of stress you need.”

Guilt fills me again at the reminder of the injury I caused. And when my mind travels to Gabriella, I know I would do anything to protect her.

“Dad,” I say, tilting my head, “I can handle plenty.” And while I think I can trust him, I’m still not fully comfortable handing this over to him.

“I’m your father,” he says, tone firm but soft. “Let me take care of this. It’s too dangerous for your mom to know you’re the one gunning after her.”

Noah’s protective husband senses must be tingling because before I can argue, he says, “That’s fine. Under one condition.” This is the first time Noah’s spoken since we began, and my father eyes him curiously. “We choose the lawyer.”

“Isn’t Tony more used to family court law?” I ask Noah, although it is the best way for us to be uninvolved but still aware of everything.

“He worked as a high-profile defense lawyer for years before that,” Noah states. “And besides, this definitely sounds like family law.”

“Fine by me,” I say, returning my attention to my father. “We’ll stay out of the way. But you have to use Noah’s stepdad for your lawyer.”

“Deal,” Dad says immediately. Relief trembles under the surface. If we play this right, my mother will go away for a long, long time and Dad should be able to plead forced coercion.

* * *

“Are you okay?” Noah asks as we’re snuggled up on the couch hours after Dad left. Gabriella is in my arms, sleeping peacefully, and Noah’s uninjured arm is around me as I lean against his chest.

“I will be,” I tell him, eyes finding his. “Are you?”

“I’m fine,” he says, swallowing hard.

“Have you heard from Coach Bexley?” I ask hesitantly. I’d like to say I’m shocked Noah left a professional game to save me, but after all he’s done for us… I know he didn’t hesitate for a single moment.

Noah nods. “I talked to him when we were in the hospital.”

“Really?” I ask, a rock in my stomach. “What did he say?”

“I explained everything. Porter helped too…” He sighs, and my anxiety heightens. “They’re going to help me in my recovery, and if I’m cleared to play, I’m back on the team on a probationary basis.”

“Oh my god,” I squeal, and my eyes widen, darting to Gabriella, who just fell asleep. She squirms. I brush a finger over her soft brown hair, and she dozes right back off. Sweet little thing. “That’s great,” I murmur.

“Yeah.” He shifts in place, jaw clenching.

“What’s wrong?”

“I was thinking maybe I should just take this as a sign to stay home with you and Ella,” he says, reaching out and lightly rubbing her head. The tenderness in his eyes is so strong I can feel it to my core. Absolutely not.

“Noah.” His gaze returns to mine. “There is no way in hell I’m allowing you to do that.”

“It’s my choice,” he says, but I can see the flicker of indecision.

“No.” I shake my head. “You’ve worked so hard your entire life. You were made for that job. I appreciate you’re willing to give it up for me, for us.” He runs his fingers along my arms, my sense of security overwhelming. “But I wouldn’t be a good wife if I allowed you to.”

“You’re a great wife,” he says, with a teasing smile.

“Thank you,” I say, returning the gesture. “And this great wife is telling you there’s no way in hell you’re quitting.”

“What if?—”

“No,” I say firmly. “I forbid it.”

He chuckles. “So bossy.”

“Damn right.” I grin up at him. “My husband is an NFL quarterback, and it’s going to stay that way.”

“The doctor said recovery’s going to be hard,” Noah says, masking the concern in his eyes.

“And I’ll be here for you every step of the way,” I assure him, placing a hand on his cheek.

He presses a soft kiss to my lips, and my eyes flutter shut. My arms are filled with love, my heart filled by him.

Basil. Cedarwood. Home .