self like his enemy, and Seb wasn’t a great enemy to have when he had nothing, but now?
I think of the cash I know he keeps at his house. Large sums, larger sums than any rational, fiscally responsible person would keep hidden away. The money could be invested instead, but he liked to have rainy day money around that he wouldn’t have to go to a bank to get.
The kind of money there’d be no paper trail to, because it’s just cash and he’s had it hidden away so long whatever paper trail that may have once existed has been blown away by the winds of time.
Intense, oceanic eyes regard me once more as Seb walks back into the space I’m occupying. His hands are still shoved into the pockets of his charcoal gray jacket. Without a word he nods ahead of him to the door, letting me know we’re leaving.
It occurs to me for the first time in all our years together, maybe I shouldn’t feel as safe with him as I do. His love runs deep, but what if it ever stops? My favorite part of last night flashes to mind again, Moira stealing those few minutes in the bathroom with me.
What if I ever became one of Seb’s problems? If he can discard people as easily as that, like so much dead weight, just because they’re in his way… what happens if someday I’m the one in his way?
Instead of going to his car, he slides into the passenger seat of mine and shuts the door, enclosing us in this chilly fucking pocket of privacy. I look over at my best friend in the world, the man I’ve built my whole life with, and I don’t know what he’s capable of.
“What’s on your mind, Griff?” he asks me, his tone still that of a man in charge.
“A lot of fucking things, Seb,” I answer, honestly.
“Can you be more specific?” he asks, patiently.
I can, but I don’t know how. How do you ask someone the things I need to ask him? How do you look a man in the face and ask if he’s capable of murder? Even if he didn’t pull the trigger, if he had a hand in things, this is his doing.
My stomach rolls over again. I feel like I’m gonna lose the lunch I didn’t even fucking eat, but I take a deep breath and try to keep it together.
He should be thrown by the way I’m acting right now, but he’s not. He should have questions. His brow should be furrowed in concern as he tries to figure out what the hell is wrong with me.
The fact that he doesn’t feels damning. It just makes my stomach hurt worse.
My throat feels thick and I honestly don’t want to ask him a damn thing, but I need to. “What would you do for Moira?” I ask him.
It’s a clumsy question without context, but he understands and answers without hesitation, “Anything.”
That’s exactly what I expected him to say, so I nod my head. Then I force myself to meet his gaze and ask, “What would you do for me?”
He holds my gaze, searching for the right answer, but after missing no more than a beat, he repeats, “Anything.”
My stomach sinks with a whole assortment of fucking feelings. On some level, a sick level, that’s reassuring. I know he means it. I don’t doubt the look on his face or the inflection of the word. Seb would do anything for me. Hell, he already has. When I tried to leave him, he opened his life up to me and shared his beloved wife with me, for fuck’s sake. He’s already proven he would do anything for me.
But this?
I never asked for this.
I want to look at his face when I tell him, but I don’t have the stomach for it right now. Staring at the wedding ring on his left hand instead, I tell him, “Ashley’s dead.”
I think he understands there’s no point in putting on a dramatic show of surprise, because I wouldn’t believe it at this point.
“Damn,” he says instead.
That’s it. Damn. At least he says it in the way people do when something unfortunate happens, and not with the sarcastic inflection of someone who couldn’t give less of a fuck, but it doesn’t matter what he says or how he says it.
He did it.
Somehow, he did this.
After a moment, he adds, “Are you okay?”
“Am I okay?” I repeat, with surprising calm for someone sitting in a car with a fucking murderer. “You know the husband’s always the first suspect, right? If anyone else concludes—as I already did, in the last 20 minutes—that Ashley wouldn’t have shot herself to death even if she did commit suicide, which I also consider very unlikely… I’m her husband. Not just her husband, but her husband who was trying like hell to divorce her, whose prenup wasn’t going to stand up in court, who was set to lose half of everything… Jesus Christ, Seb, do you know how guilty I look?”
Now I look at him, a different sliver of suspicion slicing through me. What if he does know that? What if he planned on it? He seems to like sharing Moira with me, but what if he realized he doesn’t and he needs me out of the way now?