Page 22 of Ravaged With You

“What?”

“Jo, I don’t think you should—”

I press two fingers over his lips and shake my head. “No. No way are you playing macho protector guy. I mean, yeah, protect me all you want—I am completely fine with that—but you don’t get to dole out the information. He was my husband. I was attacked, too, and for better or worse, I’m your partner in the distillery now.” Technically, I always have been since I got my third of the business when I used my savings to help finance the place. But I never participated and only voted if Mel and Red disagreed, which they never did. Now, though, it’s just me and Red.

“I mean it,” I say. “Whatever it is, I can take it. Don’t coddle me.”

He runs his fingers through his thick, wavy hair, making it stand up a bit, augmenting the illusion of flames.

“Fine.” He swallows as he types in the passcode, then hands me Mel’s phone. “But you asked. Go to the last video.”

I pause, holding the phone. “You have his passcode?”

The knowledge is like a little twinge to my heart. When we were first married, Mel and I used the same code for computers and phones. Then he changed his, a fact I discovered when I wanted to look back for some photos we’d taken on a trip to Catalina Island. He emailed me the pictures, but stalled on the passcode. Eventually, I stopped worrying about it. By that time, passcodes were the least of our problems.

“I didn’t. They gave it to me. Whoever they are.”

I shiver, once again thinking about the affair I’d assumed had been going on. Maybe I was right. Maybe he’d been seduced by some bitch who was using him for some reason.

None of which matters at the moment. The phone has re-locked, so I type in the code Red gives me, then watch, feeling sicker and sicker as a masked stranger tortures my husband, then leaves him to die in a tub of mash.

Numb, I pass the phone back to Red. “I— I— Oh, God.”

I clap my hand over my mouth and race to the bathroom. I throw up bile and whiskey, then close the lid and rest my forehead on the cool porcelain. I don’t even realize that I’m crying until Red finds me there. He brushes my hair back away from my face, then helps me to my feet.

“I know,” he says. “But you need to be strong. We both do.”

I nod. I know he’s right. Whoever killed Mel has their eyes on me now. Red, too. “What are we supposed to do? I don’t know anything about this package. Do you?”

He shakes his head. “Nothing. Or, nothing until a few moments ago. You provided one piece of the puzzle.”

“Me? How? I don’t know a thing.”

“No, but they do. And they let something slip.” He’s looking at me, as if waiting for me to see this massive clue. But I don’t see a thing. “They. You told me your attacker said Where are they.”

“Right, but what—oh.” I nod, proud of myself for having caught up a bit. “It’s one package, but it has multiple things in it. But what? Counterfeit bills? Gems? Blackmail photos?” My love of thriller novels is clearly showing. “And does it matter?”

“It might. Right now, I’m operating on the assumption that any fact we can unearth matters.”

I hoist myself up, but my legs still feel wobbly, so I move to sit back down. I’m aiming for the toilet lid and instead end up on the floor, my back against the sink cabinets.

Red had been squatting beside me. Now he moves to the edge of the tub across from me. “They seem to think we know something about the package. Possibly, they’re desperate and grasping at straws hoping that Mel told one of us something. But it’s also possible that they’re positive one or both of us does know something.”

“Do you?” I ask.

“Not that I know of.”

“Same. And it’s not as if Mel and I were talking a lot lately. And God knows there wasn’t pillow talk. Not for years.”

As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I want to kick myself. Red is the last person with whom I want to discuss my utter lack of a sex life. Especially right now.

“It’s possible one of us knows something, but we’re not aware that it’s relevant.”

“For all intents and purposes, that’s the same as not knowing.”

“Can’t argue with that.” He grins, and for a moment, it feels as if we’re having a normal conversation. “But tell me about the last few months with Mel. Maybe I’ll pick up on something you haven’t.”

“I wish there was more to tell. We hadn’t even been talking much. And like I said, he lived here on paper only.”