My Husband's Past: An addictive and nail-biting psychological thriller with a breathtaking twist by Shari J. Ryan

Author:Shari J. Ryan [Ryan, Shari J.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Bookouture
Published: 2024-09-23T00:00:00+00:00

THIRTY-TWO

My conscience tells me to go back to my car. Leave. Confront him later. It also tells me to see if he’s left his GPS locator on, allowing me to find him here at this log house off the road should I have happened to look.

With one quick glance at my phone, I realize I have no signal. I shouldn’t be surprised. We’re in the middle of nowhere. Even if nowhere is within minutes of the place I’ve always lived. I tap the camera icon and tap the record button, taking a panoramic view of Griffin’s car at this house. If it’s the only evidence I have, it’ll be something.

If this has something to do with Izzy, I need to know. I have no choice but to confront him.

My knees shake with every step I take closer to the house, keeping my eyes set on the window. There’s no one in the front room, though decorated like any common living room. I didn’t know anyone lived out in this part of town. It’s so secluded.

I wipe my palms on my pants and reach for the storm door. Laughter echoes from inside. Griffin’s laughter. An interior door closes. That’s it? He just walks into this house and makes his way into a room? How long has this been going on? How stupid could I be? Again.

With the storm door open enough for me to squeeze through, I try my chance at the front door, finding it unlocked and easy to open. I almost wish it were locked so I had no choice but to run away. It’s too late to unsee what I’ve seen, though.

I ease the storm door closed so it doesn’t make a sound and do the same with the front door.

Griffin is talking, but I can’t make out what he’s saying. A woman replies, laughter following.

Her voice. I recognize her voice. This can’t be possible. I’ve told myself this for so long. This isn’t possible.

I tread carefully down the hallway, making my way to the door between the two of them and me.

“I can’t even believe—” she says. “My God.”

I tell myself to go in. To barge into the room right now. Confront them. I have to. I’m a fool if I just allow this to happen to me.

My hand is shaking so hard as I reach for the doorknob. I gaze up at the wall, preparing myself to get through this. To be tough. I can handle this. I’ve done it once. I can do it again.

A hanging framed portrait of a couple embracing stares squarely at me before I can reach the doorknob. The girl facing the camera—short brown hair. Freckles covering her nose and rosy cheeks. It’s Izzy. It’s her. I’m almost sure of it. My breath catches in my throat as if she’s alive in this photo. But the picture is aged. She has her arms looped around a guy, the focus only on his back and bleached blonde shaggy hair with a backwards baby-blue cap on, the same cap I saw in the picture I found in Griffin’s shoebox of letters.

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