Chapter 6 - A Cold Bed in the Master Suite
The mansion grew eerily silent after the police cruisers departed, their sirens fading into the distant murmur of the city. The paramedic team I had requested spent an hour in the grand parlor, performing thorough examinations on Megan and all three babies.
“Dehydration and moderate malnutrition for the mother,” the lead EMT reported, writing notes on his digital tablet. “The boys have minor vitamin deficiencies, but they’re remarkably resilient. Whoever took care of them made sure they ate before she did. As for the little girl, her cardiac repair is healing well, though she needs to stay on supplemental oxygen for another six to eight weeks and follow up with a pediatric specialist.”
“Give her whatever she needs,” I told the medic, pressing a credit card and an open corporate account voucher into his hands. “Book the top pediatric cardiology team at Vanderbilt Children’s Hospital for tomorrow morning. Private wing. Set up a pediatric home-care team here by sunrise.”
When the medical team finally cleared their gear and departed, the house felt enormous, hollow, and suffocatingly quiet. Megan sat in the middle of the oversized velvet sofa in the library, holding Hazel while the two boys played awkwardly on the thick Persian rug, fascinated by the brass tassels on the floor pillows. She hadn't washed yet; she still smelled of summer dust, crushed aluminum cans, and cheap roadside diner coffee. But she looked at the walls of the room with a distant, haunted wariness that broke my heart.
“You don’t have to stay down here,” I said gently, standing ten paces away by the grand fireplace, afraid that stepping closer might make her retreat again. “Our old room upstairs is ready. The housekeepers changed the linens this morning. Everything is clean.”
Megan looked up, her fingers lightly caressing Hazel’s back through the soft cotton blanket.
“That was our room, Garrett,” she said quietly, her voice still hoarse. “Now it feels like an interrogation cell. Every time I look at that mahogany door, I remember your private security guards dragging my luggage down the stairs while you watched from the balcony with a glass of bourbon in your hand.”
I couldn’t answer. There was no defense, no mitigating circumstance that could wash away the stain of that memory.
“I won’t sleep there,” she said, her tone completely calm, completely devoid of anger—which made it a thousand times worse. “I want to stay in the guest cottage near the orchard. It has a separate entrance and a lock on the inside.”
“Whatever you want, Megan,” I replied, bowing my head. “Whatever you need to feel safe. The entire world belongs to you and the children. If you want me to leave the property entirely, I’ll sleep in the downtown terminal office.”
Megan paused, studying my face in the soft firelight. She saw the dark circles under my eyes, the torn denim at my knees from crawling through the briars, and the blood on my knuckles from striking Walter.
“No,” she whispered, standing up slowly with the baby in her arms. “Stay here. The boys need to know who you are. But don’t ask me to be your wife again, Garrett. The woman who loved you blindly died on the shoulder of Highway 70.”
May you like
She walked past me toward the French doors that opened to the garden pathway leading to the guest cottage. Boyd stepped up silently behind her, carrying the boys in his broad, gentle arms, followed by the private nurse carrying Hazel’s oxygen condenser.
I watched them disappear into the shadows of the magnolia trees. When the cottage door clicked shut across the lawn, I walked upstairs to the master suite alone. The room smelled of Tiffany’s expensive lavender spray. I walked over to the closet, pulled every designer dress, every pair of red-soled shoes, and every luxury handbag Tiffany had left behind, threw them onto the stone balcony, and set them on fire with an industrial lighter.
