Chapter Twenty-Three

CONNOR WALKED HOME stunned, angry and deeply hurt. He was so defeated he wasn’t even aware of his surroundings, let alone able to appreciate them. The sky may as well have been black, the birdsong muted, the wind stilled, the scenery a blur, abstract.

He trembled, breathing quickly and was on the verge of tears.

As he trod uphill on Dexter Avenue, almost home, he pitied himself. Despite traffic on the road and dog walkers and runners on the sidewalk, he spoke aloud to himself. His voice was soft, words mumbled, but still.

“Why is all of this happening to me? All of a sudden! I moved along blindly for so many years, taking for granted my joys, my successes, my loves. They were there and I didn’t expect change. Stupid! Everything, good and bad, everything changes. In November, I lose the man I thought I’d spend the rest of my life with. I meet a nice guy, or so I thought, and I now don’t know what to trust or believe. And my daughter, bless her heart, seems to think I need looking after because god forbid I make a decision for myself.”

His emotions were a churning sea, moving from rage, to pity, to disbelief, to abject despair.

On the one hand, he couldn’t blame Miranda for what she’d done. Much as he hated to admit it, he’d been hesitant about Trey right from the beginning too. But he was so hungry, so desperate to get back at Steve for what he’d done to him by leaving, that he’d ignored the sea of red flags waving at him. He’d quashed them with denial, with disbelief, with lust, and the looks of a fine, but questionable, man in bed beside him.

He felt violated by Miranda. And yet, that violation was tempered by her rationale for what she’d done. After all, and he knew this deep in his heart, she only wanted what was best for him. She wanted only to protect him, to see him happy.

Tables turned, he would have done the same thing.

They’d need to talk more, but he was simply so overwhelmed on their walk he had to get away. He needed the comfort of his sanctuary, the safety of his home, his shelter, his shell.

He walked slowly up the broad front walk to the glass double doors of his condo building. He used his key to admit himself, then skipped the elevator and took the stairs up to the fourth, and top floor.

Even before he opened his own front door, his skin prickled. Something seemed off, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

He opened the door and his premonition came true.

The first thing that struck him was, oddly, the very air in the unit. It seemed disturbed somehow. Despite being alone, at least as far as he could tell, there was a sense of disruption.

And then he looked to the dining room table.

It was turned over, on its side. The chairs were also flipped over.

He immediately recalled the red folder Miranda had brought and how they’d left it sitting on the table.

It was gone.

His gaze moved around the condo. It was an open floor plan, so it was easy to see nothing else was amiss. But there was no sign of the red folder—or the papers, and the proof, it had contained.

“Trey,” he whispered. “He’s been here.”

Connor hurried to the bedroom, heart pounding. He knew what he’d find and both dreaded and hoped his belief would prove true.

The bedroom, at first glance, appeared as it always did. The bed was neatly made and the throw pillows in place. Sunlight streamed in through the picture window. A large boat made its way across the surface of Lake Union.

But when he got farther into the room and turned toward the hallway that led into the en suite bathroom, he gasped. The closet doors that housed Trey’s belongings stood open.

The closet was empty. All that remained were a few dry-cleaner-issued hangers. Drawers were pulled open and empty save for dust and scraps of paper.

Trey was gone.

Connor’s knees went weak. He backed until he hit the bed and then plopped down on it, gasping for air.

What did it all mean?

Oh, why are you asking yourself this? It’s obvious what it means. Trey, or Bruno, or whoever the hell he is, has been caught out, his lies exposed, the sham of his existence laid bare. Like a cockroach exposed to light, he’s skittered off, searching for darkness.

Or, he could be hurt by the lack of trust in what he assumed was his new family.

Connor ran a shaking hand through his hair. He knew, in his gut, his heart, that it was the first of these scenarios that was true. He’d left because he’d been exposed. It was that simple.

It wasn’t as though he’d been hurt and stepped out for a walk to clear his head and to try to make sense of things.

He was gone.

Connor got up on unsteady legs, returning to the closet, just to be sure. The sad thing was, what he was doing was simply more denial, pure and simple. It didn’t take a lingering glance or intense searching to realize Trey had cleared his stuff out. Looking in the closet again merely confirmed what he’d seen.

Wow.

What a house of cards, so easily toppled.

He returned to the bed and pulled his phone from his pocket. He tried Trey’s mobile number. The call went directly to voice mail. He hung up. He wouldn’t have known what to say anyway. Absurdly, he felt embarrassed, as though it were actually he, Connor, who’d been caught out.

No. No. No. You’re the victim here.

This was a reminder he’d find himself repeating over and over again in the coming days and hours. He flung down the phone on the bed and then lay down beside it.

Confusion reigned.

He wasn’t sure what to do, how he should react, or even what he should be feeling. All sorts of options coursed through him—rage, bewilderment, betrayal, paranoia, self-blame, and even a hint of disappointed sadness. This was, after all, the man he’d just married.

And now it was over.

Who was the failure here?

None of this seemed real. He almost expected to hear the door open and Trey to return. Somehow, everything had to be a huge joke. Or, more likely, a misunderstanding.

He rolled over on his side and stared out the window for a long time, refusing to think, pushing away his feelings. The world in his view continued apace. The houseboats, he was sure, were full of happy people in their romantic homes. Businesses and homes across the water, in the Eastlake neighborhood, went on about their lives without a care—what to have for dinner? What movie should we see this weekend? Can I skip the gym today? Even the stalwart Cascade Mountains in the distance appeared serene and at peace, their craggy gray tops capped with snow.

He pulled the phone over and tried Miranda.

She picked up on the first ring. “We left the folder out. He didn’t come home yet, did he?” These were her words in lieu of a simple hello.

He didn’t know what to say.

“Daddy? Daddy? Are you there? Is everything okay?”

He didn’t know how to answer. Didn’t even know, really, what he wanted from her.

“Hello?” She sounded as shaky as he felt.

He hung up the phone and pressed the button on its side to shut it down completely. And then he curled more deeply into a fetal position. For the first time in years, he stuck his thumb in his mouth.