Page 105 of Just Ten Seconds

He walks forward, his boots heavy on the pavement as he pins me between him and the wall. His chest is raging like wildfire, and I’m scrambling to catch my own breath.

“You want to stop hurting me? Start by telling the fucking truth!”

I clutch my chest, breathing hard, so very, very hard. The beginning of a panic attack is ready to strike. Bitterness rises in my throat as I hunch and grab my knees.

Taking a step forward and then one back, Dean seems at odds with himself. His instinctive nature to protect is overcome by his conscience, which is probably telling him to run as fast as he can.

I’m too buzzed and too upset to be rational. So, despite my staggered breaths and slightly slurred speech I let it all out.

“His name is Benjamin Greenfield. Three years ago, he murdered his best friend, and it was uncovered that he’d stolen twenty-five million dollars in a Ponzi scheme.”

Dean turns and hits the side of the building with his fist. “Fuck!” He runs his hands through his hair. “Mara, why didn’t you tell me that?”

I stand up and try to explain, “Because I just … God, I don’t even know where to start.”

My lack of transparency has his boots moving, walking away from the club and through the parking lot. I follow him, running to keep up with his long, angry strides. We’re halfway through the lot when he turns with a pointed glare.

“You came into my home and lied to me and lied to my daughter. What kind of sick person pretends someone is dead?”

He turns and walks toward his truck, but I can’t let him get in. I scramble fast and block the driver’s door, unwilling to let him leave.

My palm is up, halting him from approaching as I try to speak. When I do, it’s with heavy palpitations and words that just pour out of my mouth.

“You asked so many times why I gave up acting even though I loved it more than anything. I walked away, so I could help my husband build his business. I didn’t do much. I answered phones and made coffee. I played the role of the doting spouse and assistant. People trusted Benjamin, trusted us, because of the lifestyle we were portraying. One day, I was in his office, and he had papers for me to sign. He always had papers for me to sign. I had no idea what they were. I was just the idiot wife who thought her husband was brilliant and did whatever he said. I noticed the account was a wire transfer to Guernsey in my name. I asked him about it, and he scolded me. Before that day, we’d never fought about anything. I chalked it up to stress.”

I look up into the starless sky. The clouds above are probably ready to threaten rain. “I told Michael—Benjamin’s business partner and his best friend—about the fight and the account that I thought was peculiar. Three days later, Michael was dead, his blood on my hands, while I did … this.” My shoulders hunch forward with the sob as my hands come in front of my face, and I flip them over, seeing the visions of red just as they were that day, coating my nails. “I panicked, and he bled out in my arms before I could call 911. If I hadn’t said anything, he wouldn’t have confronted Benjamin. He wouldn’t have been killed.”

I look at Dean and try to explain the feelings that have been so hard to accept, “I loved Benjamin. But when I saw him standing there, holding a gun, he wasn’t my husband. He wasn’t the man I’d had dinner with the night before or woken up in bed with that morning. He was a monster. My life changed so fast that I never had a chance to grieve. The chance to process how the man I’d cherished was no more.”

Dean’s head is shaking, his body still rigid. “Jesus Christ, Mara. You could have told me that.”

“And then what? You’d walk away from me like everyone else,” I state. “Benjamin stole millions from municipalities and organizations. Pensions were depleted. Life savings of honest, hardworking people vanished. It had taken too long for me to realize the reason he wanted me in his office was because I was naive. I didn’t know anything about finance. I was an unwilling accomplice who still had to pay the price.”

I heave out a breath as I make my best attempt to hold my shoulders up and square my chin. “I’m a criminal. Don’t you understand? I wore an electronic monitoring device for nine months and served my time because I was guilty too. Aside from Jackie, everyone I know turned their back on me. They didn’t care that I was guilty by association. All they heard was the gavel go down and the sentence given. I was part of the crime, and I paid my price. I will never be able to repay what Benjamin stole. But what hurts the most … what is actually causing a huge pain in my gut is how, worst of all, I stole from you.”

His head swivels slowly. His eyes look up, as one does when they’re thinking, as he’s trying to pull together how in the world I could have taken anything from him.

“Nicole,” I whisper.

“Nicole?” His eyes have gone from red-rimmed in anger to bearing an emotional sadness.

“The New York Clinical Trial Foundation was one of our clients. After the murder, our financial records were revealed, and assets were frozen. That’s why Nicole was denied her treatment.”

His mouth falls open like he’s the one who’s going to be sick.

I rush forward, my heart begging to help him. He turns away.

“I didn’t know about that connection until today, I swear,” I plead to his heaving back. “All this time, I felt this thing between us, something binding us, and now, I know why. Yesterday, I was ashamed to tell you about Benjamin because I was afraid you’d look at me like a liar. Tonight, I realized you’d only see me as a thief.”

His body turns back to me as his eyes glower. “You are a thief!”

I fall back a step, unsure of his reaction.

With a mighty fist, he beats the hell out of the side of his truck. His steel-toe boots kick the door, making a dent. His skin is on fire, and his face is tight with rage and sadness and betrayal and every emotion under the sunless sky.

I want to stop him. Keep him from hurting himself or doing excessive damage to his truck that will only make him upset in the morning. I don’t do anything. I stand here, watching in fright, as his hair sways with the aggravated swipes, and his mouth lets out a string of curses. A vein in his neck appears with the final kick to the tire that has the truck bobbing in its place.

He finally halts. His knuckles are red and swollen, his jaw a trembling mess. Despite his rage, he looks exhausted.