Page 107 of Wicked Promises

I wince. It’s too bright in here, and my eyes sting.

“I do remember,” I say to Margo’s dad. It’s hard to look at him, but I force myself to meet his gaze. “I had just… forgotten.”

“You remember Lydia knowing?” Margo asks.

“I went downstairs because I heard a noise, and Mom pulled me away. She said he laughed around her because…” I pause. I’m an asshole, but not a big enough one to wave Keith’s wife’s infidelity in his face.

Keith clenches his jaw. “Go on and say it, son. You won’t hurt my feelings.”

I let out a sigh. “Because she was new and not his. Not yet.”

He nods. “Your father always did like to have the best toys.”

“She said that? Not yet?” Margo asks, latching on to the important part.

I knew she would. She’s whip-smart when she wants to be.

“Right. Implying…”

“That Lydia knew exactly who her husband was,” her dad finishes sourly. “Shocker. I knew the bastard, too.”

“Dad!”

He presses his lips together. “I’m sorry. I know what you believe and how long you’ve believed it. But I did not kill your father.”

He sounds sincere.

That’s the most dangerous part. He could be telling the truth or he could just be a fantastic liar.

“If you didn’t, who did?”

He drops his head into his hands. “I swore I wouldn’t speak of this,especiallynot to?—”

Margo leans forward and yanks his hands away, trying to get him to look at her. “Dad. Please.”

“Okay.” He lets out a ragged breath. “Caleb… your mother orchestrated the whole thing.”

My stomach drops into my shoes. I misheard him, I think. The words jumble in my head, and I shake it to clear them out. What he’s saying is ridiculous. She orchestrated the whole thing meaning what? Dad’s death? Or… more?

I let out a laugh. “She’s not capable of that.”

“Time’s up!” the guard yells.

Around us, people rise and say their goodbyes. Margo and her dad do, too. She hugs him while I sit there dumbly.

She knew.

She orchestrated the whole thing.

Not outside the realm of possibilities.

“Caleb,” Keith says, his hand on my shoulder.

I rise automatically and flinch when he hugs me. When’s the last time I was hugged by a man? Certainly not Uncle David.

My eyes burn.

“It’s okay, son,” he whispers. I’m barely taller than him. “And I’m so, so sorry.”