Page 72 of The Thinnest Air
Andrew’s a good father to Isabeau and Calder, but in his own way.
It’s not fair to compare the two.
The flash of headlights veering into the driveway steals my attention.
My husband’s home.
“So what was the stalker’s name?” I ask. “Just so I know.”
And so I can tell Andrew, so he doesn’t grow suspicious of this unexpected house call.
“Perry Davis,” he says without missing a beat.
My lips jut forward. “Oh, okay. Never heard of him.”
“He’s currently awaiting sentencing. Rest assured we’ll be watching his every move,” he says. “He won’t be able to so much as fill up his gas tank without one of us knowing.”
I imagine the old-moneyed husbands of Glacier Park would have a conniption if their little police department did nothing to thwart some deranged lunatic harassing their pampered wives.
The chink of keys on the counter and the beeping of the security system echo through the foyer, and our eyes meet.
“Mer?” Andrew calls. “I phoned you six times on my way home. Why didn’t you answer?”
He’s been doing this more and more lately, getting worried if I don’t answer, if I don’t text him back within minutes. Ever since I mentioned in one of our counseling sessions that it bothers me how he never seems to worry about my safety, he’s been going overboard trying to make up for it.
“Ringer was off,” I call out. “Sorry.”
Ronan forces a breath through his flared nostrils, his lips flat as he bites his tongue. He doesn’t have to say anything. He knows I know exactly what he’s thinking.
“Had me worried. Thought something happened to—” Andrew appears from around the corner, stopping short the second he sees Ronan. “What’s this?”
“Detective McCormack stopped by to tell me they found my stalker,” I say.
“About damn time,” Andrew says, resting his hands on my hips and kissing the side of my neck, just below my ear. He lingers, his grip laying claim to my body as if he feels threatened by the sheer presence of Ronan.
Does he know?
The two of them loiter, all hard stares and broad shoulders, a couple of bucks fighting over a prized doe. Ronan studies us, his gaze fixated on Andrew’s hands at my hips.
“I should go,” he says after a moment. “Just wanted to let you know.”
“Thank you so much,” I say, wishing I could walk him to the car, dying for just a few more innocent moments with him.
Just being in his company gives me the tiniest hint of a rush—a sliver of what I felt with him before.
I miss the rush.
I miss him.
But I made my bed. I married Andrew for better or for worse. This is the life I chose.
Giving him a small wave and ignoring the upsurges of melancholy washing over me, I stand, watching as he leaves, until Andrew slams the door shut.
“That was random,” he says. “You haven’t been bothered by that stalker in a couple of years, right?”
“Apparently he was messing with other women in the area,” I say. “He must have moved on from me. Ronan—Detective McCormack—was just following up with me as a courtesy.”
“Ronan?”
