Losing Angeline: London Calling Book Two (14 page)

Neither could know it would be their last walk together for more than twenty years.

CHAPTER EIGHT

A
NGELINE
AWOKE
,
FACE
down and sprawled across the bed. She cautiously opened one eye to see the sky was still dark. Smoothing her hand over the sheets, she could feel the warmth from where John had lain. She sat up, gathering the light duvet around her. Muscles ached from a long night spent in her husband’s arms.
 

They’d been desperate for each other. A soft smile lit Angeline’s face, recalling the endless passion and need. Steeped in worry and despair, she’d selfishly stolen time with him, despite knowing there were hard decisions to face. She hadn’t expected her acute desire to be matched, even eclipsed, by his. But it had. Now she sat, drowsy from their loving and still bearing the imprint of his scent on her skin.

Was there a way out of this for her? Could she talk to John, tell him the truth about everything?
 

The alternatives were unthinkable. The mere thought of Edward Pierce filled her with revulsion and shame. She couldn’t stand to be near him, and she sure as hell wouldn’t expose her daughter to him.

Terror clawed at her, causing her to double over in torment. She’d run so far from the hell of her old life, she’d begun to believe it would never catch up with her. Yet, here it was.
 

Edward was back.

Frantic thoughts swirled in an endless spiral. She could see no solution. Leaving with him was out of the question. It was such a grossly repugnant choice, she couldn’t bear to contemplate it. But exposing Devon, risking her, was worse.
 

Angeline would die before she allowed Edward to come near her daughter.
 

She glanced down at the square gold wedding band gracing her finger. Was there another choice?

John loved her. He was kind and strong, generous.

Would he forgive her? Could he?

Her mind raced. Maybe it was time to stop running from her problems and run
to
someone. John was her husband, the love of her life, and the father of her child. All this time, had she condemned them by not trusting him with her truth?

She swung her feet to the floor, determined. By God, considering all the players in this tragic farce, she’d bet on John. He had never, ever let her down. Now, she would show the same faith. If she couldn’t quite believe in herself, she would believe in him.

Turning the shower to a scalding spray, she dropped her robe and stepped in. The water beat at her, pounding her tense muscles until they released the stress binding them tight. By the time she shut off the water, she was calmer. Pushing open the glass door, she reached out to wrap an oversized towel around her.

It was time for this to end. She would go downstairs and confide in her husband, as she should have done years ago. By lying, she’d disrespected him. With her distrust, she’d insulted him. That would stop today.

She fed her long legs into a pair of faded and torn denims. Grabbing one of John’s old shirts, she buttoned the loose oxford and left it untucked. A pair of ballet flats completed her wardrobe. She left her hair damp and hanging loose around her shoulders. Shunning makeup, she left her face bare except for a light dab of moisturizer and lip gloss.
 

It fit somehow that she would face her future without artifice or props. Today, her past self would merge with the current one she’d engineered, practiced, and perfected. She had to believe the whole would surpass the pieces.

She found John sitting at the kitchen island. A newspaper was opened flat and pushed forward to make room for a plate filled with eggs, toast, and meat. A cup of steaming coffee sat at the side. Idly, he stabbed a sausage link, shaking his head and grumbling over the story he was reading.

“Good morning.”

He turned on his stool to face her. “Morning.” He patted his lap. “Why don’t you come and greet me properly?”

She felt her face warm. He could still unsettle her. She came over to settle between his parted legs. Cupping the back of his neck, she pulled him in for a kiss. He tasted of toast and butter overlaid with the faint bitterness of the black coffee he favored. She pulled away to eye his plate.

“Mm.” She snatched a bite of toast. “No bacon?”

He grinned. “In the warming drawer. Along with scrambled eggs and more toast. Not that I mind sharing.” Teasing her lit his eyes to palest gray.

She moved to prepare her plate. Placing it beside him, she turned to pour her own cup of coffee liberally laced with cream. She raised the carafe, one eyebrow lifted in question. “More?”

“Yes, please.” His attention was already back to the news.

After settling beside him and shaking out her napkin, she gestured to the paper with her fork. “What’s got you grumbling there?”

He looked up with pained eyes. “Remember that little girl who went missing? In Atlanta? It’s been a few days.”

“Did they find her?”

He nodded.
 

“Is she okay? She isn’t—”

“No. Physically, she seems unharmed. But apparently she won’t speak. To anyone, not even her parents.”

Angeline was aghast. “Did they catch who was responsible?”

“They did, thank God. It’s early but it looks to be a trafficking ring. They take babies and toddlers, then place them with parents looking to adopt. People who have a lot of money and little patience for a slow system. It remains to be seen whether the new parents had any idea the children they were getting were actually stolen.”

Angeline laid her fork next to the unfinished food on her plate and covered her eyes with her hand. “I can’t imagine. I just can’t. Those poor parents. They might never have seen their child again.”

“It’s okay. They found her, and equally as important, they found the people responsible.” John closed his hand over hers. “Nothing like this is going to happen to us. But if it did, you have to know I would never stop searching for our daughter.” He smiled but his eyes remained grave. “No one is going to take away our life together. I’d see them in hell first.” His mouth flattened. “And when I found them, they’d wish they were never born. I can promise they’d never have another chance to hurt anyone else, that’s for sure.”

Stricken, Angeline stared.
 

Her situation, and all she’d done to cause it, came barreling at her.
She’d
brought a dangerous and sick man to their door.
She’d
brought the risk of his foul depravity directly to her own flesh and blood.
 

She couldn’t breathe. As she felt the blood drain from her face, she struggled to focus on John’s precious face, memorizing every line and contour.

“Ang, what is it?”

She labored to bring some air into her lungs. Digging her fingernails into her arms allowed enough distraction that she could take a breath. As John shoved away from the island to bring her into his arms, she found the strength to answer him. “Suddenly, I don’t feel well. I’m sorry.”

He cradled his arms around her shoulders, easing her to her feet. “Let’s get you back upstairs. You need to lie down.” Nerves roughened his voice to gravel. “You don’t have a speck of color.” He easily swung her into his arms and climbed the stairs back to their bedroom.

Angeline closed her eyes to better experience the sensation of being held by him. They shared a love so special and rare. Silently, she committed his touch to memory. It would be the last time she felt it.
 

It was over.

There had never really been a choice at all. The decision had been made long ago, when she gave her trust and affection to an evil, aberrant excuse for a man. She’d run but the results of those actions had finally caught up. Now, to save her family, she had to face the consequences. It was past time to confront herself and the monstrous fallout from her actions.
 

Hearing John’s words, she realized he would always come for her too. He would never stop looking. And because he was the man he was, he might take risks that unknowingly jeopardized their daughter. At all costs, Devon must be saved. Her daughter must never see Edward Pierce again, nor be seen by him.

Angeline knew what she had to do. And of all the terrible acts she’d committed, this would be the worst.

She must kill the love John had for her.
 

In doing so, she knew she would destroy them both.

***

The house was eerily quiet when John returned early that evening. He’d heard nothing from Angeline. Unsurprising, as she’d been so pale and washed out that morning. But unusual. Concerning. He’d feel better when he saw that she was feeling more herself.

He scaled the stairs, trying to shake off the feeling something was very, very wrong. He’d dropped Devon off at the Martins’ that morning and Alice would be by to return her in a half hour or so. First, he wanted a little time alone with his wife. He’d kept her up late the night before and now, knowing she was ill, guilt gripped his stomach in a fist of regret.

She never complained. Lately, it was true, they’d had some bumps in their road. He knew something still bothered her, but he’d let the matter rest in the last week or so. She’d seemed so much better. Yet yesterday, when he surprised her at work, she looked desolate for a moment before she’d realized he was there, watching. She’d quickly recovered and they shared a sublime afternoon and evening. Now, he wondered.

What was bothering her? And was it the cause of her illness?

He recalled the conversation—borderline argument—they’d had over having more children. She’d been truly upset at the time. Rather than reconsidering, as he’d assumed, had she hidden her misgivings, internalizing the agony of her indecision? Ang was a pleaser. He knew she’d thump him for saying so, but it was true. Now, confronting her obvious misery, John concluded he’d been unforgivably selfish.

They would talk tonight. No more distractions or excuses. He would tell her that her happiness was paramount. He had no desire to expand their family at the cost of her peace of mind.
 

He meant it, too. They had a perfect little family. As a man, he was blessed with the ideal match for him. She’d given him a child he couldn’t possibly love more. It was time to stop focusing on what might be better and be content with everything he’d been given.
 

Pausing outside their bedroom, he slowly pushed open the door, careful not to make any sound in case she was sleeping.
 

The room was empty and the bed perfectly made. Frowning, he turned to check Devon’s room. Sometimes, she still sat in the old rocking chair he’d bought her after their daughter was born.
 

As he came to Devon’s room, he knew, even before looking, that his wife wasn’t there either.
 

“Ang?” he called out to the empty house. Her name seemed to echo and he knew no answer would be forthcoming.
 

Retracing his steps, he returned to their bedroom. She had a small writing desk there and would sometimes leave notes for him when she stepped out. Perhaps she’d gone to get Devon if she was feeling better.
 

He released a pent-up breath upon seeing the pastel cream envelope propped up there. His relief was short-lived, however, as he saw his name written on the outside in neat script with the date underneath.

That was odd.

Picking up a sterling silver letter opener, he sliced it open and shook out the one page letter contained within.
 

Dear John,
it began.
 

Faint lines creased his eyes at the obvious reference. Seconds later, all laughter was wiped clean. Blindly groping for the cane desk chair, he eased himself down.

By the time you read this, I’ll be gone.

The blood rushed from his head, and his vision tunneled to the point where all he saw were Angeline’s damning words.

I’ve met someone. He’s all the things I never understood I was missing. He has a similar background and appreciates the same things I do.
 

Art. Theater. Music.

I never intended any of this, but it’s happened.
 

John, I’m in love with him.

Reading the words, John’s heart raced faster and faster. It simply wasn’t possible. This had to be some sort of awful prank.
 

Please don’t bother to look for me. I am finally happy.
 

Long-buried doubts niggled. He’d always known she married down. And she hadn’t been herself lately. She’d been distracted, distant.

I’ve left Devon for you. You wanted children far more than I ever did.

A red haze descended and John snapped upright. Crumpling the letter, he fisted it into a ball before tossing it in the trashcan. His breath was coming in short gasps, as if he’d been mortally wounded. Forcing his head down, he gripped his knees and waited for his vision to clear.
 

She’d left him their daughter as if she were some sort of package or trinket to be forgotten about.