Tangled In Strings

Chapter Fourteen

The sound of my ex-husband's voice, laced and woven with disdain, is something I never hoped to hear again in some dark corner of my apartment. The memories of a night where he said similar words to me begin to race through my brain in a whirlwind fashion, paralyzing my body with terror.

"You have too much time on your hands, Dixon, if you really have been sitting here waiting for me." Unfortunately, despite the intended undertone, my words still manage to come out weak and breathy, lacking any authority.

"I haven't been here long. Although, I stopped by the other day. Had a key made."

At the sound of a boot inching forward against the ground, my body reacts, spinning towards the sound. He is standing by the window, close enough to the door to make a run for it nearly impossible. He'd reach me before I got to it. Dressed in his police uniform, his sandy hair coifed back neatly, he looks as if it were years ago, back when we were married. If it weren't for the menacing leer, I'd almost be able to remember a time when we were happy.

There is something gleaming in his hands. I realize it's a house key. My eyes wander around my apartment, and I wonder how many things he's touched while I was out.

"How did you get that?"

"I'm a cop. I have my ways."

I regard him closely. "You're abusing your position. What you're doing is illegal."

He nods, inching forward. I slide along the counter, inching away.

"Did you like Italy?" he asks, a softness to his voice that sends chills down my spine. "I remember you had always wanted to go abroad. I should have taken you, for our honeymoon."

I shake my head, smiling softly in an attempt to keep him calm. "We were both busy, Dixon."

"I know. But still."

I glance down at the counters but find nothing to grab onto.

"You know, you never gave us a chance, Scarlett."

"What are you talking about?"

"You never gave me what you've given him. I fuck up, and you throw me out. But he—he does it, again and again, and you're suddenly some fucking saint."

"His fuck-ups didn't include me beaten to a pulp."

"You didn't want to help me. You never wanted–"

"Yes, I did. Dixon, I tried. I begged you to see someone. I begged you to get help. You were usually too drunk to listen and when you weren't, you would find a way out of the topic. I could never reach you. Not even your friends on the force could reach you."

"They were the ones who got me help, after your fucking hero nearly killed me. Tell me, does the image of him choking me to death keep you warm at night? The way he so easily switched into a monster? I think you've got a preference."

I shuffle where I am, feeling the twinge of panic seizing hold of my clarity. "Dixon, I want you to leave. You shouldn't be here."

"Why? Is he coming back?"

"Yes. I just got off the phone with him. He's going to be here any minute."

He smiles slowly, and I freeze, hands clutching the countertop. He's near the couch now, blocking the door.

"No, he's not. He's in California. You came alone." He shrugs. "The downfall to fame, baby. Your life, your every waking move, is suddenly public knowledge."

"I want you to leave, now."

"And I want you to sit the fuck down." His voice crackles through my apartment, causing my blood to jump beneath my own skin. His finger is pointed at the couch, his eyes darting from me to the cushions. "We are not done here."