The Perfect Husband - Lisa Gardner [15]
He walked right up to her even as she leaned way back, sinking into the chair. Her eyes were wide and fearful. He ignored her distress, reaching out and swiping a finger down the vicious scar marring her pale thigh. Broad. Shiny. Many snaking tributaries, the kind that would be made by a bone snapping and tearing through flesh.
“He do that?”
She didn’t answer.
“Dammit, did he do that?”
She opened her mouth, then gave up and simply stared at him.
“Who the hell are you, Angela?”
“A woman who needs help.”
“Your husband was that bad?”
“No,” she said bluntly. “He was worse.”
J.T. turned away. He was angry again. That was always his problem. He was too good at getting angry and not good enough at fixing anything. Control, control. It’s not your problem, it’s not your business.
But he hated the sight of the scar on her thigh. It made him think of things he’d dedicated the last few years to forgetting. And it made him want to find her ex-husband and slam his fist through his face.
He forced himself to relax and took a swallow from his beer. He didn’t speak again until he trusted himself completely.
“I’ll make oatmeal.”
“Thank you.”
“Honey, you haven’t tasted it yet.”
ANGELA FOLLOWED HIM into the kitchen. He was proud of the kitchen—Rachel had designed it. He knew a lot about pools, and in the last couple of years he’d become a good landscaper. He didn’t know much about decorating though. In the marines you stuck a girlie poster above your bed and that was considered the finishing touch.
Rachel had had a natural flair, so she’d designed the house they were going to build in Montana, where the sky was endless and they would always feel free. He was going to learn about horses. She was going to study interior decorating. Maybe they would have a second kid, give Teddy a little sister to play with. And Teddy and his little sister would be raised right, without any bad memories to keep them awake on dark nights later in life.
Those dreams were gone. J.T. just had Rachel’s kitchen, a large, cool room with a red-tiled floor and eggshell-blue counter. The stove was big and accented with a wreath of jalapeños. A huge collection of brass pots and pans hung from a wire rack suspended from the ceiling. He’d placed each one just where he figured Rachel would have, having listened to her excitedly describe the kitchen night after night as they’d lain together in bed and dreamed like children.
“It’s a nice kitchen,” Angela said from behind him. “Do you cook a lot?”
“I don’t cook at all.” He moved to the sliding glass door, which Rosalita had left slightly cracked. The heat seeped in like a tentacled beast. He shut the door.
“You aren’t going to lock it?”
“Lock what?”
“The door.”
“No.”
There was a small pause. He contemplated the pots and pans, trying to figure out which to grab. It had been a long time since he’d tried cooking anything; that was Freddie’s job.
“Do you lock your front door?”
“Nope.”
“Could . . . could I do it?”
He looked at her. She stood by the wood table, her hands twisting in front of her, and her gaze fastened on the sliding glass door.
“Sweetheart, this is Nogales, the outskirts of Nogales. You don’t have to worry about anything here.”
“Please.”
He was really starting to hate how well she used that word. “You’re scared,” he said flatly.
She didn’t bother to deny it.
“You think he followed you here? This big bad ex-husband of yours?”
“It’s possible. He’s very, very good at that.”
“You said you paid cash, used fake names.”
“Yes.”
“Then you’re fine.” He turned back to the stove, but he heard her move behind him, then heard the click of the sliding glass door lock sliding home. Whatever. He didn’t feel like telling her about the small arsenal he kept in a safe and the fact that even dead drunk he could shoot the Lincoln head out of a penny at two hundred yards. If she wanted the doors locked that badly, he wasn’t going to argue.
He boiled water. He opened a canister of oatmeal and wondered how much he was supposed to dump in. He dumped in half and figured