My Husband Dragged Me to Jail for His Mistress

The words hang in the air like smoke after a gunshot.

*Driver said he barely had to swerve.*

*The whole point was to make it look clean.*

My father didn't stumble into traffic. He didn't misjudge the street. Someone aimed a truck at him like a weapon, and Giselle Rose paid for it.

The ground disappears beneath me. My legs move before my brain catches up. I'm running—stumbling—across the churned mud toward her. My right arm hangs useless at my side. My left reaches out like it can grab the truth and strangle it.

"You killed him!" The words rip out of my throat. "You murdered my father!"

Giselle's eyes go wide. She takes a step back, her cream coat swirling around her knees. But she's not fast enough.

I'm three feet away when hands lock around me from behind.

Drew.

His arm crosses my chest like an iron bar. He hauls me backward and my shoulder explodes. White light floods my vision. I scream—a sound I don't recognize, animal and raw.

"Stop," Drew's voice is cold in my ear. "Elina, stop."

I thrash against him. My good arm claws at his sleeve. "She killed him! She just said—she hired someone to kill my father!"

"She's hysterical," Giselle says. Her voice shakes just right. Tears well in her eyes. "Drew, please—she's been like this for days. I don't know what to do."

One of the workers laughs. It's low and ugly, like watching someone fall is the best entertainment he's had all week. "Crazy bitch doesn't know when to quit."

Another one spits into the dirt near my feet. "Pathetic."

Drew's grip tightens. I can't breathe. My shoulder is grinding bone against bone. I try to turn my head, try to make him look at the grave—at the overturned headstone, the scattered flowers, the evidence of what Giselle has done.

"Drew, look—" My voice breaks. "Look at what she's doing—"

"I'm looking at you," he says. Flat. Final. "Attacking someone at a cemetery. Is this what you've become?"

I stop struggling. Not because I want to. Because my body has nothing left.

Joshua's voice cuts through the noise, sharp and close. "Let her go."

I didn't hear him approach. But he's here now, standing a few feet away, his hands loose at his sides but his entire body coiled tight. His eyes are locked on Drew.

"This isn't your business," Drew says without looking at him.

"Let her go," Joshua repeats. His voice doesn't rise. It doesn't need to.

Drew's arm shifts slightly—not releasing me, but adjusting his grip. Like he's deciding whether Joshua is a threat worth addressing.

Giselle steps forward, one hand pressed to her chest. "Drew, I'm scared. She tried to hurt me. She's not stable."

The worker with the shovel grins. "Maybe she needs a psych eval. Lock her up somewhere safe."

Another one chuckles. "Yeah. For her own good."

I close my eyes. The mud is cold under my knees. My father's name is carved into the stone two feet from my face, and I can't even reach it.

Drew's hand moves.

I don't see it coming. I just feel the impact—his open palm across my face, full force, no hesitation.

My head snaps to the side. My vision whites out. There's a ringing in my ears that drowns out everything else. I taste copper. My cheek is on fire.

I'm on the ground. I don't remember falling. My knees are in the mud. My good hand is braced against the overturned headstone, fingers spread across my father's name.

Kenneth Patterson.

Beloved father.

I hear Joshua shout something. I hear movement—fast, violent. But it's far away. Underwater.

I press my forehead against the cold stone and breathe.

One.

Two.

Three.

Giselle is saying something. Her voice is soft and wounded, the voice of someone who's been victimized. Drew is responding. I can't make out the words. I don't try.

I lift my head slowly. My neck feels like it's made of glass. I look up at Drew.

He's standing over me, breathing hard, his hand still raised slightly like he's forgotten to lower it. His face is flushed. His eyes are hard.

I don't cry. I don't beg. I don't explain.

I just look at him.

And something in me—something that's been bending for three years, bending and bending and never quite breaking—finally snaps clean.

I don't feel it break. I just feel the absence. The space where hope used to be. The silence where love used to live.

I lower my gaze. I press my thumb into my left wrist. I count.

One. Two. Three.

I'm done.

I don't say it out loud. I don't need to.

I just know.

I'm done.