Page 3 of Her Wicked Husband (The Huxleys #2)

Bryce . My heart clenches with pain, but I force a smile. He never came by after I was adopted, so the playtime must have been with Finley. Sherry gets confused sometimes, especially when she’s going through an emotional upheaval.

When I met Bryce at Harvard ten years ago, during our sophomore year, he was amazing—made me feel seen—but then overnight he began to hate me, and with good reason.

If you clarify—

What? That I was being blackmailed? Then I have to tell him what I was being blackmailed with.

And deal with all the consequent ugliness.

There’s no evidence, and he would never believe me.

He judged me back then, but when I finally offered to explain before leaving for Wisconsin, he texted that I was dead to him. He wouldn’t be any different now.

My breathing starts to hitch. I close my eyes and inhale deeply. Don’t think about that chapter of your life. It’s over .

“Huh. Look at the two of you. Strolling along like you got nothing to worry about.”

I open my eyes and look at a couple of men in front of us.

They’re in black suits with white dress shirts, sans ties.

The top two buttons are undone, and an exaggerated swagger lends them a disreputable air.

The one on the left has a small scar at the corner of his thin mouth.

Younger than the one on the right, he takes a step forward.

“How fucked up is it that you two are living such a carefree life while refusing to make good on the loan?”

The loan? I rake my eyes over them. They don’t look anything like bankers or financial advisors. The Obermans are old money, and they don’t deal with people like this.

Before I can speak, he continues, “We hadda inconvenience ourselves to come here to collect.” A huge gold ring glints on his index finger as he pokes my forehead with unexpected force.

I stagger back, frowning. “You must be mistaken. The family has a bank it deals with.”

“I must be mistaken,” he mocks in a falsetto, looking at his friend. “You sayin’ you don’t owe us? Lemme tell you somethin’, honey. When one of you owes us, alla you owe us.”

I glance at Sherry, but she looks just as confused as I am, and slightly anxious. Zachary was too straitlaced to deal with people like this. Which leaves—

“We are a good, respectable family,” Sherry says. Her diction is more pronounced, her spine straighter, a sign that she’s becoming upset. “This behavior is simply unacceptable.”

The men look at each other, chortling. “Our behavior .” Scar Mouth moves toward Sherry. “Pay up, bitch.”

I slip between them, standing before her like a shield. His meaty paw smacks my shoulder with enough force to bruise. I wince, grateful he didn’t touch Sherry, who’s in her sixties and too delicate for this kind of physical confrontation. Anger flares in his beady eyes.

“You gettin’ in my way?” He shoves me to my right, hard.

I gasp as I lose my balance and fall into the lake.

Along with the splash comes an agitated shout from one of the men.

Despite L.A.’s warm weather, the water is frigid, chilling me instantly.

I sink, gravity sucking me into the murky depths.

Little bubbles brush past me, and my survival instinct jolts through me, adrenaline pumping through my veins.

Zachary made sure I could swim, and it’s coming in handy as I kick myself up toward the surface.

A large object splashes into the water. Auburn hair waves like kelp…

Sherry!

Panic roars in my head, drowning out the pounding of my heart. She never learned to swim. She avoided the water entirely ever since Finley died. Did the assholes push her in, too? Damn it, that’s practically murder!

I propel myself toward her. She flails, bubbles rising. My hands brush against her arms, but she shoves at me, jerking her hands and shaking her head faster. She opens her mouth as though trying to speak, although nothing comes out under the water.

What is she trying to do? Doesn’t she know she’s making things harder for me?

I give her a stern look—well, as stern as I can manage given the situation. I’m not leaving without you.

I grab her and frog-kick us up, even though she thrashes against me. My task is a thousand times more difficult with her flailing. Is being in the water triggering her?

When she’s overstimulated, she has episodes. I don’t want to imagine what she’ll do once we’re out of the water.

Finally, we break the surface. My arms and legs feel like jelly by the time I drag us to shore.

I gasp, desperately sucking air into my starved lungs.

Sherry supports herself on both hands, coughing and sputtering water.

I look around quickly. The men aren’t around anymore.

Did they freak out and run after Sherry fell into the water?

She might’ve jumped into the lake before they could react.

I’m not sure how she’d react when faced with the possibility that her daughter might drown—again.

“Mom.” My voice is hoarse. “Mom” feels so strange and unnatural on my tongue. I’ve avoided calling her that as much as possible because it enrages Aaron. “Mom! Are you okay?”

She coughs some more, then shakes her head slowly.

Her clothes stick to her body, and stringy hair plasters her skull.

She turns her head toward me, her face bloodless, her lips trembling.

She studies me, as though to make sure I’m breathing.

Then she shoves herself off the ground and launches herself at me.

“You stupid, stupid child!” she screams, hitting me. Her fists are so soft, they feel like soaked cotton balls. Her muddy japamala beads smack my chest. “What’s wrong with you? You never, never try to protect me! You protect yourself! How am I going to go on if anything happens to you?”

Tears stand in her eyes, which are unsteady with heartrending fear, relief and fury.

She continues to scream and hit me. My falling into the water must’ve been horrifying, recreating the nightmare she wants to forget at all costs.

Seeing Sherry suffer because of me makes my heart heavy with an uncomfortable cocktail of emotions I can’t pinpoint.

“Mom, it’s okay,” I say, pulling her into my arms. She resists, like she knows I’m just playing along. “Shh… I’m fine. We’re fine. Please, settle down. Please.”

“Why did you risk yourself like that?” she sobs, pressing her fist over her heart. “ Why? ”

“It’s for good karma,” I say, knowing this will comfort her. I don’t understand Buddhism, not the way Sherry does, but talking about good karma can soothe her.

“Finley,” she whispers, her gaze vacant.

“Finley.” Her thumb brushes over the japamala beads, and her eyes light up with a fervent zeal.

“Namo Amituofo, Namo Amituofo, Namo Amituofo…” she chants with the fanaticism of a mother who wishes her dead child well in the afterlife.

She looks around, reciting under her breath.

“Mom, what are you looking for?” I ask.

Instead of answering me, she continues to repeat, “Namo Amituofo.” Her eyes skitter right past me.

Suddenly, she crawls toward the water. “Mom!” I say, putting my arms around her.

She shoves at me with almost superhuman strength, still reciting the two words. She stares at the now-calm water, then stretches her hand out, the japamala hanging from her thin wrist. Although her mouth says, “Namo Amituofo,” her eyes scream for Finley.

The water laps at her muddy knees. I cling to her, desperate to keep her on the shore.

“Finley,” she sobs. “Finley.” She passes out.