Chapter 2 - The Cold Rain of Highland Park
I did not wipe the blood from my lip.
I stood straight against the entryway wall, feeling the plaster cool against my spine through the damp wool of my sweater. My left eye throbbed, a dull, rhythmic pulse that matched the heavy pounding of my heart.
Chase took half a step backward, his hand falling back to his side. The flicker of remorse that had crossed his features evaporated, replaced by a defensive sneer. He hated seeing himself as the villain; it ruined the clean, courageous persona he cultivated for television cameras and motor-racing magazines.
"You pushed me, Vivian," he said, his voice dropping into that flat, accusatory tone he used whenever a pit stop took two seconds too long. "You always know exactly which buttons to press. You’ve been undermining me for years."
Behind him, Brielle crossed her arms over my cream silk robe. She didn't look shocked anymore. Her red-lacquered toes shifted slightly on the dark oak floorboards—floorboards I had spent three weeks refinishing myself while Chase was recovering from his third knee reconstruction.
"Just leave, Vivian," Brielle said smoothly, taking a small sip from a crystal glass she had taken from the kitchen. "You’re making a scene. It’s embarrassing."
"A scene?" I echoed. My voice sounded strange to my own ears—thin, distant, as if someone else were speaking through my throat. "I’m standing in my home."
"It’s my name on the mortgage," Chase interjected sharply.
"Because my credit was leveraged to pay off your team’s mechanics when your main backer pulled out in March," I reminded him. "Because I put my inheritance into the escrow account so we wouldn't lose the earnest deposit."
"You’ll get what the court gives you," he sneered, grabbing the black heavy-duty trash bag off the entryway bench and tossing it at my feet. It landed with a soft, plastic thud. Inside were three sweaters, two pairs of jeans, and my toilet kit—the haphazard collection Brielle had swept off my closet shelves while I was out meeting with our accountant. "Take it and go. If you’re still here in five minutes, I’m calling Highland Park security and having you removed for trespassing."
I looked down at the black bag. Eight years. Eight years of building a life, of editing press releases, of managing his temper, of keeping his medical secrets hidden from the racing commission so his license wouldn't be revoked. Eight years compressed into a forty-gallon plastic trash sack.
"My journals," I said, looking past Chase into the study off the foyer. "My telemetry records. My father's watch."
"Everything in this house is community property under review," Chase said coldly, stepping in front of the study door to block my view. "My lawyers will go through it. You don't touch a single paper."
"The telemetry journals are mine, Chase. I wrote them."
"They contain proprietary performance data for Whitaker Racing," Brielle chimed in, stepping up beside him like a partner presenting a unified corporate front. "They belong to the team. Now take your bag before Chase loses his patience again."
I stared at her. The girl was twenty-six, hired eight months ago to handle Chase's social media expansion. I had trained her myself. I had shown her how to format his press packets, which journalists to trust, which sponsors preferred quiet dinners over loud box seats at the United Center. I had welcomed her into this kitchen, poured her wine, and listened to her complain about her rent.
"You look ridiculous in that robe, Brielle," I said quietly. "It’s two sizes too big for you, and the hem is dragging in the dust."
Her face flushed an ugly, splotchy red. "Get out!" she screamed, her composure cracking. "Get out of our house!"
I didn't argue further. There was no dignity in fighting over velvet hangers or crystal wineglasses while my lip dripped blood onto the collar of my favorite cream sweater.
I leaned down, picked up the black trash bag by its drawstring, and picked up my leather shoulder bag from the console table. My car keys were inside, along with my wallet, my phone, and a small silver ring my mother had given me before she passed away.
Chase stood with his hands on his hips, watching me like a landlord waiting for a delinquent tenant to clear out. He expected me to cry. He expected me to fall to my knees and beg him to remember the hospital room in Indianapolis, the long nights when I bathed his surgical scars, the quiet mornings when we drank coffee on the back porch before the world knew his name.
I didn't give him the satisfaction.
I turned the brass knob of the front door and pulled it open.
The November storm hit me like a physical blow. Freezing rain swept across the deep stone porch, swirling under the overhang and stinging my face. The wind whipped my dark hair across my cheeks, sticking it to the drying blood on my mouth.
I stepped out into the black night, hearing the heavy oak door slam shut behind me with a definitive, hollow click.
The deadbolt turned.
I stood on the porch for three seconds, listening to the rain hammer against the slate roof. My sedan—a six-year-old Japanese hybrid I had kept long after Chase bought his Italian sports car—sat in the long gravel driveway, silver under the dim lawn lights.
I walked down the steps, my wet leather shoes slipping slightly on the slick flagstones. By the time I reached my car, my sweater was soaked through, heavy and freezing against my skin. I tossed the trash bag into the passenger seat, climbed into the driver's side, and pulled the door shut.
The silence inside the car was suffocating.
I started the engine. The dashboard lit up in amber and blue, throwing a faint glow over my reflection in the rearview mirror. My lower lip was swollen, split horizontally near the right corner. A thin trail of crimson had dried along my jawline.
My hands began to shake violently against the leather steering wheel.
I didn't cry. The rage inside me was too cold for tears, a dense, hard stone that settled in the pit of my stomach.
I backed down the driveway, the tires crunching over the wet gravel, and turned onto the dark, tree-lined avenue that led out of Highland Park toward the expressway.
I had nowhere to go. My father was dead. My sister lived in Seattle. My two closest friends were women married to Chase’s racing colleagues—women who would answer their phones with hesitant, awkward sympathy before calling their husbands to report the gossip.
I drove south on Interstate 94, the windshield wipers slapping back and forth against the blinding sheets of water. The city skyline loomed in the distance, a gray cluster of concrete towers partially shrouded in low-hanging clouds.
At 10:14 PM, my phone buzzed in the center console.
I glanced down. It was an unknown number with a downtown landline area code.
I tapped the speaker button on the steering wheel. "Hello?"
"Mrs. Whitaker?"
May you like
The voice was low, deep, and possessed a quiet, gravelly cadence that sent an involuntary shiver down my spine. It was a voice that never raised itself because it never needed to.
Matteo DeSantis.
