Daddy Dearest

Chapter Forty-Eight

Waverly

Ben drives home in utter silence, but I haven’t got a word to say, either. I am just exhausted. My body, heart, and soul are tired. The stress of the last few months is starting to take its toll on me.

I spent the ride home with my forehead pressed against the cool glass of the window because I had a headache and I was convinced I had a fever. Everything in me just ached. All I wanted was to get home, soak in a hot bath with Epsom salt, and have a glass or three of my favorite Malbec.

Hopefully, Gretchen was successful in getting my two young ones to sleep. I don’t think I can deal with anything else tonight.

I nearly jump out of my skin when someone grabs my hand and squeezes. I look at my husband and pull my lips into something that resembles a smile. He’s been my rock tonight even though he’s the one who needs the comforting.

“All right, Wave?”

“Just got a bit of a head.” His attention is on the road, so I don’t attempt another smile. It takes so much effort these days. “Jesus, Benjamin, that spotlight thing had to be at least thirty pounds. You would have died if it hit you directly on the skull.”

“I don’t think I was the intended target, my love,” he says with a heavy sigh. “I think it’s the sick bastard who’s after Melody.”

He’s gripping the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles are nearly white. “Do you think the culprit is your letter writer?”

Jesus, if Melody had died tonight, that would have been it for Harry’s branch of the family. Meredith, Melody, and Harry all dead. I shudder and rub the goosebumps off my arms.

“You’re the behavioral scientist. You tell me.” My husband’s tone is curiosity flat.

I rub my face with my palms, neglecting my carefully applied makeup. Who cares if I smear it all over the place and make myself look like a clown raccoon? It’s the end of the night, anyway. “No. The author of that letter is a lovelorn girl who believes in true love and flowers and stuff like that.” I scratch the edge of my scalp, at the top of my forehead. “The person who would drop a bloody thirty-pound weight on someone’s head is full of rage. Two different people.”

The dance ended in spectacular failure. We had traumatized students and angry parents threatening to sue the school. The police asked me to stay while they searched the school grounds, so of course Ben stuck around with me. I had the archdiocese on my back, demanding I resolve this stalker issue as quickly and quietly as possible. At one point, I must have started whimpering because Ben just grabbed me and squeezed me tight, whispering in my hair, “It’s all right, Wave, just hold tight. You’re my brave girl.”

I nearly fall out of the car when my husband opens my door, so he helps me up, puts my arm around his shoulders, and carries me into the house.

In the living room, we see Gretchen watching something on the flat screen while eating popcorn and talking to someone on the phone. She sees us and quickly ends her call.

“Oh, good God, what happened? Here, sit her down on the couch, Ben. I’ll fetch her some water.” She presses her palm against my forehead as though checking my temperature before heading to the kitchen.

Ben removes my strappy sandals and helps me recline on the sofa, putting a throw pillow under my head. He pushes my hair out of my face. “It’s been a long night, baby. Just try to relax now. Shall I put the kettle on?”

I close my eyes briefly and shake my head. “Where are the twins? Did they say they were coming home tonight?”

My husband makes a disdainful noise from the back of his throat. “Chambers sprung for a bunch of suites at the Peninsula in Beverly Hills, cocky little bastard. He invited a group of students with him for a little after-party. Charlie told me on his way out.”