Page 4 of This Life of Mine

Reese exhales. “Jesus, man. That’s fucked. He deserved it—but still.”

“Two-fifty bonus,” I replied. “Not letting that slip. You saw his video. He earned every second.”

“Yeah,” Reese says. “I’ll clean up the footage and send the care package. The father will be satisfied.”

“Good,” I say. “Where am I heading next?”

“Texas,” he says with a Southern drawl.

I groan. “Which part?”

“Redwillow,” he chuckles.

“Where the fuck is Redwillow?” I’ve never heard of it.

“Small town near Fort Worth.”

“And the job?” This had better be good.

“The file’s been sent. Call me after you read it.” He snickers.

The amusement in his tone raises a flag.

“What does that mean?” This better not be another shit one.

“Oh,” he says lightly. “You’ll see.”

I hang up, grab my gear, and leave the warehouse as the fire begins to rise to the rafters.

Once I’m clear down the road, I pull the rental over and open the file on my phone. The first image loads, and my breath catches.

“Fuck me,” I mutter.

Chapter one

Lina

My dreams of him are never exact memories. They’re something far worse.

Fragments of the past stitched together by fear. Moments that did happen, tangled with moments that could have happened. The details are never quite right, but the feelings always are.

I’m back in our old house—the one with the giant fireplace and dark, beige-colored walls that always felt like they were closing in. Cole is sitting on the couch watching me. I’m folding laundry, feverish and exhausted, and he’s picking apart everything I do.

Why are you still sick? You could at least take a shower. Are you going to be like this all-fucking day?

It’s the tone. The sneer. The way I believe I’ve done something wrong simply by existing.

Cole gets up and walks over to me. “I’m talking to you. Quit fucking ignoring me.”

“I’m tired, Cole. I don’t feel well. I need to rest.” I press a hand to my forehead, wincing at the heat radiating from my skin.

He’s been drinking, and his anger is much worse when he’s drunk.

“Quit being a fucking baby. Jesus. Get up and do something, and you’ll stop feeling sick. I’m fucking hungry,” he says, taking another sip of his beer.

The old version of me would have dragged myself into the kitchen. I would have ignored the fever, ignored the exhaustion, and convinced myself that keeping him happy was somehow my responsibility. Still, over time, something inside me started to change.

“Order something. Or go pick something up. I’m not cooking tonight. I feel like crap, Cole. I need rest,” I tell him.