I shouldn’t be there. The detective had wanted to question Tobey privately, but he’d insisted I be present. Now, his hand tight on mine, I only wanted to run. I didn’t want to hear the details of Tobey’s affairs. I didn’t care. Maybe another wife would. Maybe another wife would feel hurt and betrayed. But that all seemed a little hypocritical when all I wanted to do was burst from this seat, sprint through the station, and out into the night. I wanted to find Chase, jump into his arms and escape. I didn’t want to see the guilt in Tobey’s eyes, hear the pain in his voice.
“Relationships is a fairly strong word, for some of the women.” Tobey swallowed, his hand tightening on mine. “For the first girls, yes. Rachel … I was in love with her. And April and I had a thing … for a while. Mostly sexual.” He turned to me, and I pulled my hand away, his eyes dropping to it before he returned to my face. “Ty, I stopped. Julie was nothing and after Tiffany, I swear to God, I stopped everything. I never even slept with Tiffany. I took her to lunch twice—nothing else. That man was crazy. I saw that after Tiffany.”
“Do you realize, had you shared this information with me earlier, years ago, how we could have saved their lives? Maybe caught the son-of-a-bitch?” Thorpe interrupted us, the hard edge of his voice caused Tobey’s face to stiffen.
Thorpe was right. What kind of asshole sat on that information? What kind of asshole sat next to me, in countless strategy sessions about the team, and allowed us to all think that the killings had to do with the Series? I half listened to Tobey’s sputter of defense, something weak and spineless. I wondered, absently, if he had broken a law. I wondered if they’d ever asked him if he’d known all of the victims. I didn’t think they ever asked me. Then again, when they had sat in our home, when we had pored over the case files, they would have probably assumed we would have mentioned it. Who wouldn’t have offered that from the start? Tobey.
My phone call, in that stairwell with Dan, went to my dad. His phone hadn’t rung, the call sent straight to voicemail, his eyes catching the indicator when it flashed on his screen. The voicemail was almost a minute long, Dan’s and my conversation clear, the acoustics of the concrete stairwell helpful in their search. That message played on repeat between countless parties. That voicemail saved my life. It also aired our secrets to every listener.
“I should have told you.” I didn’t know if Tobey was talking to me or the detective, but he was right. He should have told me that he wasn’t happy. He should have told me, when I was pregnant with Logan, that he was in love with Rachel. He should have told Detective Thorpe that the killing wasn’t about the World Fucking Series, or Chase Stern, at all. He should have told him that the girls all had one very clear connection to each other: him. I thought of Tiffany Wharton’s face, the blood staining her cream sweater, the unnatural bend of her elbows. Two meals with my husband had cost her her life. Damn him for not controlling himself. Damn him for keeping his affairs a secret … for what? To preserve our empty fucking shell of a marriage?
“I don’t mean to interrupt the questioning,” I said carefully, meeting Detective Thorpe’s eyes respectfully before turning to my husband. “But I have something I need to say to Tobey.”
Just six months ago, I thought I knew everything about this man. The glint in his stare when a spark of anger burned. The way he loved his steak, started on the grill and finished in the oven. The sound that hissed through his teeth when I took him in my mouth. Obviously, I was wrong. There were many signs I missed, or ignored. Secrets that he held close to his heart, lives he lived away from my side. But I still recognized the look in his eyes when he looked into my face. One long moment of connection, one that lasted for an eternity. One where our relationship died in that tormented pause. “I’m leaving.”
The sigh tumbled out of him, loud and heavy, his shoulders sagging, as he lowered his head, that thick head of hair, wild and unkempt in the midnight hour, to my shoulder. And there, my husband, his hands fisting against my jeans, for the first time since I’d known him, silently cried.
I felt the shudder, the tremble of his shoulders, his grip on me more desperate, one long, wet inhale against my neck, his mouth close to the start of my bandage. The weight of him almost hurt, his hands heavy and hard against my thighs, his knees bumping against my own, and he hiccupped once, before turning his head, his cheek against my shoulder, and spoke.
“Please don’t,” he whispered.
Despite myself, I bent into him, wrapping my arms around him, hugging him as best I could, and closed my eyes, a few of my own tears leaking out. “I have to,” I said quietly.
I had always thought it would be hard, and I was right.
113
“Are you sure?” Tobey sat against the table, his hands in the pockets of his suit pants, us finally alone in the room. Detective Thorpe had excused himself, giving us a moment of privacy after telling me that I was free to go.
I met his eyes, the sadness in them pulling at every seam of my heart. “I am. You weren’t the only one unhappy. There’s…” I swallowed. “Someone else.”
He stopped breathing, his face tightening, an edge coming to his sorrow. “How long?”