Of course, he did. Travis was a virtual well of understanding, yet she couldn’t provide him so much as a drop in return. And, for the first time, she realized just how high a wall she’d built around her heart. It was a wall so high she couldn’t see the difference between a jerk and a man worthy of her appreciation.
She felt her hand clasp tightly to his thigh, prompting him to glance down to her touch. Realizing what she had done, she snatched it away and tucked it around her waist.
“I don’t know what to say. Can you tell me about it?”
He spoke of the incident as if he were simply a detective talking about a case. “It was a robbery. My wife was trained in self-defense. She fought back and was shot.”
A heavy lump formed in her throat. She knew the feeling of losing someone so close. Though Carrie had taken her own life, given their circumstances, and the entries in her diary, she’d always felt that, in reality, someone had murdered her. Rachel knew the anger, the sense of helplessness, the deep regret one feels when they lose someone. She also knew there were really no words of comfort anyone could provide to make it all go away.
“How long were you married?”
“Just over a year.”
“When did it happen?”
“It’s been a couple years now.”
Travis answered her questions without so much as flinching or moving his eyes from the road. She saw no signs of sadness or anger, just cold, distant words.
Rachel knew exactly what that meant. She knew about pain so severe, the only way to move on was to distance yourself completely. To act as though it was just a dream, a part of life that never really existed. But, just like Travis, she knew underneath that rigid exterior, the pain was still there, ripe and ready to emerge when you least expected it.
She wondered how many times Travis had risen in the morning, bright, happy, looking for his wife, before the memory crashed back and reality sank in. She wondered how many times he’d seen someone who reminded him of her, how often he’d had that fleeting thought that his wife wasn’t gone, and he’d just found her. Until the stranger turned and he’d discovered it hadn’t been his wife after all.
She knew it. She knew all those feelings. And even though Carrie had been dead for more than a decade, they still returned on occasion as a reminder that there were some things people never truly get over.
She clasped her hand tightly around her waist, and somewhere in the distance of her thoughts, she heard herself ask, “Are you still angry with her?”
The mortified look on his face told her she’d just stepped in a place she shouldn’t have gone. His cold, level expression peeled away, unveiling raw pain and unbridled shock.
“Why would I be angry with my wife?”
“I’m sorry. I don’t know why I said that.”
With a sudden jerk, he veered to the curb and slammed on the brakes. If the seatbelt hadn’t been latched, she would have gone flying headfirst into the dash.
His face had turned red with rage. His fingers had whitened in a tight grasp on the steering wheel.
“I don’t know why you said that either. My wife didn’t kill herself.” His words were coming out in ragged breaths. “I’m angry with the slime who killed her. My wife was an innocent victim.”
In a quick snap, he unfastened his seat belt and bolted from the car, leaving Rachel alone, wishing she could take the words back, and uncertain as to what she should do now that she’d said them.
Travis needed air. He needed a brisk walk. He needed to get away from Rachel. And stuck in the middle of nowhere, his only option was to walk a straight path down the street.
How she did it, he had no idea. He’d come to terms with his wife’s death. He was able to talk about her, able to talk about the incident, able to move on. At least, that’s what he’d thought before Rachel made that statement.
In one simple phrase, one casual, innocent question, she’d managed to coil her way into the darkest corner of his heart and pull out the one spade he’d never been able to face.
Because really, if he dared to delve deep, he had to admit, he was truly angry with his wife.
Jess should have known better. She shouldn’t have tried to fight men with guns. She was a cop’s wife, for Christ’s sake, and a side of him always felt that twinge of ire that she could have prevented her own death. But it was a feeling so painful, so troublesome to his wellbeing, he could never bring himself to face it.
Until Rachel reached in and yanked it out.
He walked faster, turning a corner to get her out of sight.
Damn her.
Damn everything about her.
He didn’t need this. He didn’t need her problems or her flippant, side-winding emotions. The ones that sucked him to her like a magnet then shot him apart like a grenade. He didn’t need her taunting his desire with those thin, lacy bras and hip curving sweaters, then shattering him with those off-handed comments and icy cold responses.
Rachel Foster was insane. Why hadn’t he seen it before? And why, even now, did the thought of walking away from her leave his gut sick with regret?