Page 21 of Bitter Sweet Heart

She points to the top of the garbage can, where a gift basket sits awaiting its fate. “You have one guess.”

I can tell by looking who it’s from. “How the hell did he get my address?”

“I guess you’ll have to call him if you want to find out. I was going to toss the whole thing, but some of your favorite treats are in there, so I figured I’d let you make the decision.”

I take a hefty gulp of my wine and set it on the counter—otherwise I’m going to chug the entire thing. Today has been a day. “I hate being wasteful.”

“Is there anyone at work who might appreciate it? Maybe you could leave it in the lounge and people can pick at it?” Sophia suggests.

“Maybe. Are there chocolate-peanut-butter pretzels in there?” I ask.

“And movie theater popcorn.” Sophia makes a sympathetic face and pats me on the shoulder. “Don’t feel bad about wanting to keep it.”

“I hate it when he plies me like this. He’s trying to butter me up.”

“Literally with the popcorn,” Sophia jokes.

“I’m not going to let my guard down. Then he’ll come in and try to plead his case. Thank God he lives far enough away and can’t show up on a whim.” I continue stirring the risotto with increased vigor.

“Let’s hope it stays that way,” Sophia says.

“There’s no reason for him to move to Illinois. He travels too much for work.” But as I say it, I wonder how true that is. Gabriel seems to be ramping up his attempts to get back into my good graces, rather than acquiescing and signing the divorce papers. He’s proven that he makes important life decisions on a whim—like the way he proposed and how quickly we got married.

He also took a consulting job after that, and secured me a position at the same company without asking. At first, the surprises seemed impulsive, and mostly well-intentioned, but over time it got to be . . . too much. After a while, I started to see that he wasn’t doing it to be nice. He was doing it so he could keep tabs on me.

Sophia makes a noise, neither in agreement nor disagreement. “Let’s worry about the basket after dinner. How was the rest of your day?”

“Odd, to say the least. Maverick came to my office first thing this morning,” I tell her.

She pours a healthy amount of white wine into the pot of creamy rice and mushrooms. “No! What happened? Did you report him?”

I shake my head, and Sophia gives me a disapproving look.

I hold up a hand, the one that isn’t busy stirring in the wine. “Hear me out before you judge my lack of action.” I detail how he came in looking all contrite, that he was apologetic and adamant about wanting to make sure I felt safe. “It almost felt like hewantedme to report him.”

“Then maybe you should. Maybe it’s a cry for help.”

“I considered that, until he passed over the key and his revised paper.”

“What if it’s a copy? And why would his paper change your mind?”

“Because he wrote it based on a personal experience. His younger sister was abducted when she was six, and he was there when she went missing.” I explain what happened, informed by both the articles I read earlier today and his paper.

“Oh, God. I can’t even imagine.” She presses her fingers to her lips and shakes her head. “And she’s okay? His sister?”

“She’s a student here at the school. And she lives with Maverick. When can I stop stirring this?” My hand is starting to cramp.

“Let me test it.” She grabs a spoon and dips it into the pot, blowing on it for a few seconds before she tastes it. “Probably five more minutes. I’ll take over again. You grab the wine.”

I do as she asks and pour until she tells me to stop. I cork the bottle and lean against the counter. “How would I even know if the key was a copy?”

“You can take it to a locksmith. They’ll likely be able to tell you if it’s an original.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, but it doesn’t mean he hasn’t made copies and doesn’t have a whole stack of them at home.”

“I already turned it over, so I can’t get the answer to that.”

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