The Perfect House. Блейк Пирс
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imposing in a T-shirt and sweatpants. Business attire was his armor.
“Before you say anything,” he began, “please let me try to explain.”
Eliza, who had spent much of the day turning over how this could have happened, was happy let her anguish take a temporary back seat and allow him to squirm as he tried to justify himself.
“Be my guest,” she said.
“First. I’m sorry. No matter what else I say, I want you to know that I apologize. I should never have let it happen. It was a moment of weakness. She’s known me for years and she knew my vulnerabilities, what would pique my interest. I should have known better but I fell for it.”
“What are you saying?” Eliza asked, dumbfounded as much as hurt. “That Penny was some seductress who manipulated you into having an affair with her? We both know that you’re a weak man, Gray, but are you kidding me?”
“No,” he said, choosing not to respond to the “weak” comment. “I take full responsibility for my actions. I had the three whiskey sours. I ogled her legs in the dress with the slit up the side. But she knows what makes me tick. I guess it’s all those heart-to-hearts you two have had over the years. She knew to brush her fingertip along my forearm. She knew to talk, almost purr in my left ear. She likely knew you hadn’t done any of those things in a long time. And she knew you wouldn’t be walking into that cocktail party because you were back home, knocked out on the sleeping pills you take most nights.”
That hung in the air for several seconds as Eliza tried to compose herself. When she was sure she wouldn’t yell, she replied in a shockingly quiet voice.
“Are you blaming me for this? Because it sounds like you’re saying you couldn’t keep it in your pants because I have trouble sleeping at night.”
“No, I didn’t mean it like that,” he sniveled, backing down at the venom in her words. “It’s just that you always have trouble sleeping at night. And you never seem all that interested in staying up with me.”
“Just to be clear, Grayson—you say you’re not blaming me. But then you immediately transition into saying I’m too knocked out on Valium and don’t give you enough big boy attention, so you had to have sex with my best friend.”
“What kind of best friend is she to do that anyway?” Gray tossed out desperately.
“Don’t change the subject,” she spat, forcing herself to keep her voice steady, partly to avoid waking the kids but mostly because doing so was the only thing keeping her from losing it. “She’s already on my list. It’s your turn now. You couldn’t have come to me and said, ‘Hey honey, I’d really love to spend a romantic evening with you tonight’ or ‘Sweetie, I feel disconnected from you lately. Can we get closer this evening?’ Those weren’t options?”
“I didn’t want to wake you up to bother you with questions like that,” he replied, his voice meek but his words cutting.
“So you’ve decided sarcasm is the way to go here?” she demanded.
“Look,” he said, wriggling around for any way out, “it’s over with Penny. She told me that this afternoon and I agreed. I don’t know how we move past this but I want to, if only for the kids.”
“If only for the kids?’ she repeated, stunned at how many ways he could fail at once. “Just get out. I’m giving you five minutes to pack a bag and be in your car. Book a hotel until further notice.”
“You’re kicking me out of my own house?” he asked, disbelieving. “The house I paid for?”
“Not only am I kicking you out,” she hissed, “if you’re not pulling out of the driveway in five minutes, I’m calling the cops.”
“To tell them what?”
“Try me,” she seethed.
Gray stared at her. Undeterred, she walked over to the phone and picked it up. It was only when he heard the dial tone that he snapped into action. Within three minutes, he was scampering out the door like a dog with its tail between its legs, his duffel bag stuffed with dress shirts and jackets. A shoe fell out as he rushed toward the door. He didn’t notice and Eliza didn’t say anything.
It was only when she heard the car peel out that she put the phone back in its dock. She looked down at her left hand and saw that her palm was bleeding where she’d been digging her nails into it. Only now did she feel the sting.
CHAPTER FOUR
Despite being out of practice, Jessie navigated the traffic from downtown L.A. to Norwalk without too much trouble. Along the way, as a way to push her impending destination out of her mind, she decided to call her folks.
Her adoptive parents, Bruce and Janine Hunt, lived in Las Cruces, New Mexico. He was retired FBI and she was a retired teacher. Jessie had spent a few days with them on her way to Quantico and had hoped to do the same on the way back as well. But there wasn’t enough time between the end of the program and her start back at work so she’d had to forgo the second visit. She hoped to return again soon, especially since her mom was battling cancer.
It didn’t seem fair. Janine had been fighting it on and off for over a decade now and that was on top of the other tragedy they’d faced years ago. Just before they took Jessie in when she was six, they had lost their toddler son, also to cancer. They were eager to fill the void in their hearts, even if it meant adopting the daughter of a serial killer, one who had murdered her mother and left her for dead. Because Bruce was in the FBI, the fit seemed logical to the U.S. Marshals who had put Jessie in Witness Protection. On paper, it all made sense.
She forced that out of her head as she dialed their number.
“Hi, Pa,” she said. “How’s it going?”
“Okay,” he answered. “Ma’s napping. Do you want to call back later?”
“No. We can talk. I’ll speak to her tonight or something. What’s happening there?”
Four months ago, she would have been reluctant to speak to him without her mom there too. Bruce Hunt was a hard man to get close to and Jessie wasn’t a ball of cuddliness either. Her memories of her youth with him were a mix of joy and frustration. There were ski trips, camping and hiking in the mountains, and family vacations to Mexico, only sixty miles away.
But there were also screaming matches, especially when she was a teenager. Bruce was a man who appreciated discipline. Jessie, with years of pent-up resentment over losing her mother, her name, and her home all at once, tended to act out. During her years at USC and after, they probably spoke less than two dozen times total. Visits back and forth were rare.
But recently, the return of Ma’s cancer had forced them to speak without a middleman. And the ice had somehow broken. He’d even come out to L.A. to help her recuperate after her abdominal injury when Kyle attacked her last fall.
“Things are quiet here,” he said, answering her question. “Ma had another chemo session yesterday, which is why she’s recuperating now. If she feels well enough, we may go out for dinner later.”
“With the whole cop crew?” she asked jokingly. A few months ago, her folks had moved from their home to a senior living facility populated primarily by retirees from the Las Cruces PD, Sheriff’s Department, and FBI.
“Nah, just the two of us. I’m thinking a candlelit dinner. But somewhere where we can put a bucket beside the table in case she has to puke.”
“You really are a romantic, Pa.”
“I try. How are things with you? I’m assuming you passed the FBI training.”
“Why do you assume that?”
“Because you knew I’d ask you about it and you wouldn’t have called if you had to deliver bad news.”
Jessie had to hand it to him. For an old dog, he was still pretty sharp.
“I passed,” she assured him. “I’m back in L.A. now. I start work again tomorrow and I’m…out running