Page 10 of Somewhere Without You

Nine

Now

I wanted to scream, but instead, I drove home in silence, my grip so tight on the steering wheel my knuckles turned bone white.

Katherinewaslying. Shehadto be.Ifshewasn’t,thenmy entire lifehadbeen a lie.

Jacksonwasn’thome when I pulled into the driveway, andhonestly, I wouldn’t have cared if hehadbeen. No slap to the facecouldhurt worse than the betrayal Ifeltrightthen.

I sattherein the car, engine idling, staring at the gaudy white columns of the front porch.

Useless and expensive. Each onehadraisedthe value of the house by thousands, yet I would’ve traded it all in a heartbeat to be back inthattiny, two-bedroom rental on Wildwood Loop.

I’dgive anything for the janky AC, or the waterthatsometimes turned orange, orevento fight over the bathroom one more time.

The bathroom.

I blinked, shaking off the grainy images of my mother’s lifeless body floating in the tub.

Pulling into the garage, Iwatchedthe door close with a soft thud behind me.ButI didn’t turn off the car.

Stillwearing my seatbelt, I leaned back and closed my eyes. How long until darkness took me?Wasthatwhat ithadbeen like for my mother? Minutes, seconds, before she ended it all?Andwhat about us?Wereweevena second thought?

I wondered what Jackson would do when he found me—my body cold and unmoving, like a shattered statue in the driver’s seat.

Would he call out my name, desperate for some sign of life, or would hejustwalk away?

Maybehe wouldn’t care at all.Maybehe’dbe relieved,evengrateful,thatI’dfinallystopped making everything so complicated.

I imagined him standingthere, looking at me—stone still and lifeless, whilefeelingnothing at all.

Butit wouldn’t matter.Becausebythen, I would be beyond caring.

“. . . Mrs. Bishop?”

Rita’s voice broke through the hum of the idling engine. I opened my eyes toseeher standing near the side entry, her russet eyes flicking from me to the closed garage door,thenback again.

“Is everything okay?”she asked.

I nodded, shutting off the ignition.

Hesitation pulled at Rita’s face, but itfeltmore like pity than concern. She stepped aside,silentlywaiting for me to follow.

We’ddone this before.

A rush of cool air hit me as I stepped inside, and Ritaquietlyclosed the door behind us.“Isthereanything else I can do for you, Mrs. Bishop?”she asked cautiously.

I shook my head, waving her off. I needed to be alone.

Sinking into a nearby chair, I buried my face in my hands. I thought of those nights when Katherine would stay up late, begging for Dad to come home. He never did of course, butmaybethe rest of her wishcouldstill come true.

Iwasmy mother’s daughter, after all.

Jackson returned two hours later, but hewasn’talone. Laughter echoed up the stairs as Rita and her niece rushed down the hallway. I froze on the landing, a tight knot forming in my stomach. Jackson’s voicewasunmistakable, but the other. . . it sounded familiar, yet I couldn’t place it.

“Emily!”Jackson called, spotting me leaning over the banister. He motioned toward the man standing beside him, still with his back to me.“I’dlike you to meet my wife, Emily.”

I made my way down the stairs, a tentative smile on my lips, but itquicklyvanished when I reached the bottom.

Max grinned at me, his perfect smileevenmore dazzling in the daylight.

Jackson placed his hand on the small of my back. “Max, this is my wife, Emily. Emily, this is Max Meyers, owner and founder of Meyers and Associates.”

I expected him to act like thiswasour first meeting.Butinstead, Max’s hand extended toward me, “It’snicetoseeyou again.”

My blood ran cold.

Iquicklypulled my hand back.“It’snicetoseeyou too. Welcome to our home.”

“You twoknoweach other?”Jackson’s gaze locked on mine.

I opened my mouth to explain, but Max cut me off.“We metbrieflyat Don’s party the other night. I’m afraid I found myself without goodcompany, and your wifewaskind enough to engage me.”

“Andwereyou?”Jackson’s voicewasflat, buttherewasan undeniable edge to it.

“WasI what?”I asked.

Jackson tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing just enough. “Goodcompany?”

I glanced at Max, whoseemedunbothered, still smiling like everythingwasperfectlynormal.“Nothing more than friendly conversation,”he said with a wink.“At least, I thought so.”

I chewed on my lip, trying to gauge the situation. Jackson’s facewascomposed, but his eyes held the gathering darkness of a storm.

“You mentioned a bottle of Pappy’s earlier. . .”Max interjectedsmoothly.“I’dlove a glass.”

Jackson’s mood shifted as he slapped Max on the back.“Of course!”he boomed,suddenlyall smiles.“Upstairs in my office. Come on, lets toast to a fruitful partnership.”

I stepped aside, noticing the pointedlookMax threw over his shoulder before Jackson steered him out of sight.

An hour later, I found myself tucked into a wicker chair, the warmth of the sun resting on my face as it filtered through the windows of the sunroom.

I’d hoped to slip into the background, to disappear while Jackson and Max worked out their deal.

The laughter I’d heard earlier suggested the negotiations were going well.

I’d gotten lost in the pages of a book. That was, until a shadow fell across the pages. I looked up. Max stood in the doorway, his outline sharp against the light.

“What are you reading?” he asked, voice low and careful, as though not wanting to startle me.

“ The Tenth Circle, ” I replied, marking my place with a finger. “By Jodi Picoult.”

Max stepped inside, hands tucked into the pockets of his jeans. “Heavy stuff,” he said. “She’s the one who writes about the hard things, right? Loss, trauma, stuff people don’t like to talk about.”

I nodded slowly, surprised he knew that.

“Where’s Jackson?” I asked, acutely aware we were alone.

“Took a call,” he said, glancing toward the hallway. “Said it might take a while.” He paused, his gaze drifting back to me. “You okay?”

I blinked. “Of course. Why?”

He hesitated. “The bruise,” he said carefully, tipping his chin toward the faint shadow still lingering below my eye. “Saw it the other night, too. I didn’t want to assume, but. . . I’ve seen things like that before.”

I stiffened, the instinct to deflect rising fast. “It was an accident.”

Max didn’t push. He just studied me, his expression blank. “Doesn’t really matter how it happened,” he said. “But if something’s wrong, you don’t have to pretend it’s not.”

I looked away, throat tightening.

He knelt beside my chair—not close enough to crowd me, just enough to meet my eye level. “Look, I know I’m not your friend, but I’m not blind. You’ve been on edge since I walked in. And the way you keep looking over your shoulder. . . that’s not nothing.”

I exhaled shakily. “You don’t understand—”

“I might not,” he interrupted gently, “but I know what fear looks like. And I don’t want to stand by if something’s happening and say nothing.”

Silence stretched between us, heavy but not hostile.

“If you ever need someone—someone who doesn’t owe him anything, I’m around,” Max added. “No pressure. Just. . . think about it.”

I nodded faintly, unsure what else to say.

Max stood, giving me a small nod before backing toward the door. He paused just before leaving. “By the way. . . I’ve read all her books.” He managed a faint grin. “But if you tell anyone, I’ll deny it.”

I almost smiled. Almost.

Then he was gone, the door clicking softly shut behind him. I sat in the sunroom, the book still open in my lap, my pulse unsteady.

It had been so long since someone looked at me and actually saw me. Not as a wife, or an accessory to a deal—but as a person.

And maybe that shouldn’t have meant so much.

But it did.