“This is why I don’t trust women.”

“That’s okay. We don’t trust men right back. Oh and, Sam?” she asked before I hung up.

Here we go.

“Mmm?” I casually flicked the picture to the floor. Sure enough, there was a square-shaped hole in the wall behind it. Just big enough for me to shove my hand into.

“I’m sorry for your loss. And I know you don’t see it as a loss, I do, but I cannot find joy in knowing the woman who created you has passed away. Because at the end of the day—she gave me you. And I love you so very much, son.”

An unpleasant shudder ran through me. Sparrow wasn’t the emotional type, but she sure as shit had her biannual little speeches that made me want to vomit.

I hung up and pulled the shoebox Cat had stashed inside that hole, ripping it open.

The ice around my frozen heart cracked, just an inch.

Letters.

Two hours after finding the letters, I was still sitting on the floor, looking like Gulliver in a Barbie house—the junkie, whore edition—reading through them again and again and a-motherfucking-gain, digesting what I’d just learned.

Apparently, Catalina made Mrs. Masterson promise she’d make sure I’d find these letters, and she had a damn good reason for it.

My estranged mother wanted me to know her life story. At least a part of it. Question was—why?

Even as I read the letters for the hundredth time, I still couldn’t figure out if she wanted sympathy, revenge, or to give an explanation for her behavior.

All twenty-three letters were addressed to Gerald Fitzpatrick, then CEO of the oil company Royal Pipelines and the man I currently worked for on retainer as a fixer.

Coincidentally, he was also the father of Hunter Fitzpatrick, my sister Sailor’s husband, and Aisling Fitzpatrick, the woman I had fucked hours ago. I could still feel her sweet warmth wrapped around my cock whenever I thought about it. I pushed the memory away bitterly.

What I’d read in those letters changed the entire course of my life.

My dearest Gerald,

Thank you for bringing new hope into my life. For making me see that there is more than what I was left with after Brock passed away.

The word ‘mistress’ rings licentious and cheap, doesn’t it? It doesn’t do justice to what I am to you, my dear. To how I feel about you.

I know you’ll never leave Jane for me. I’m not stupid. I’ve learned to live with the burden of being the other woman. All I ask is for a part of your heart. It could be small. A fraction of what you gave to her.

Could you offer me a chunk of that organ that beats inside your chest?

Thank you for inspiring me to become a better person, a better mother, a better lover.

Yours forever,

—Cat.

My dearest Gerald,

We are having a baby! Can you believe it? I sure can’t.

I’m so excited. I know it wasn’t in your plan. Trust me when I say it wasn’t in mine, either. Not when Sam is practically a little boy. A pre-teen. Look, Gerald, I know you and I haven’t been together for very long, and here I thought the diaper-changing days were behind me, but I really think it’s a sign. I guess life has its way of showing us our paths.

I included our pregnancy test. Would you like to come with me to my first OB-GYN appointment? No pressure, but I would love that.

Oh, and by the way, I would absolutely adore it if you could bring me some prenatal vitamins from the store next time we see each other. Gotta keep the little one healthy and strong!

Yours forever,

—Cat.

Dear Gerald,

I did not appreciate it today when you breezed past me when I came to see you at your office. You may be done with me, that much you have made abundantly clear, but you are definitely NOT done with the baby growing inside of me. I am not getting rid of him (YES, HIM) for any price in the world, much less the amount you have offered me to have an abortion.

You can ignore me all you want. For weeks, for months, for eternity. At the end of the day, this baby is coming out of me, and it is yours. You are going to have to face this reality, one day or the other.

Call me back. You know my number.

Yours sometimes,

—Cat.

Gerald,

I want you to know I will never forgive you for what you did to me. To us.

You are a killer. A murderer. I had a son. Jacob. He was inside me. I was pregnant. He kicked and rolled and always moved in pleasure whenever he listened to his big bother’s voice.

He was your child.

I understand that this posed a complication to your perfect life. But it was still the one thing I looked forward to and made me push through my bleak life.

I also understand you own an oil company, that you already have heirs, that the battle over your will, when you die, is going to be a vicious one.

BUT HE WAS YOUR SON.

He was your son and you yanked him out of my body cruelly. You hit me. You threw me around. You pried him out of me. You beat me so badly, you left no room for doubt what was going to happen next.

I had a miscarriage after what went down between us yesterday. That was your plan, wasn’t it? To beat him out of me? Well, it worked.

I bled and bled and bled until I had to run to the hospital, where they told me I lost him.

I was five months pregnant, Gerald. Which meant I had to go through a still birth. Did you know I was three months sober? Had been since I found out we were pregnant.

I wanted to give this baby a new, fresh start. To raise Jacob and Samuel together, and give them the opportunity to fulfill their potential. To turn over a new leaf.

To atone for all my sins.

Now all of that is gone. I am back to square one, confused and lost as ever.

And you, of course, are still not answering. You got what you wanted. My complete destruction so I won’t be a threat to you anymore.

As I’m writing this to you, I’ve found the bag of crack you left at my doorstep. I know it was you who asked the drugs to be delivered. You always loved me more when I was high, even if it meant I wasn’t there for Sam.

Fuck Sam, right? If push comes to shove, we can always give him a little something to subdue him, too. That was your idea. To drug him so he would be quiet. So we could talk on the phone. Well, it stopped working once he was old enough to fight back, and we all know how that turned out. He’d almost bit my skin off the last time I tried to drug him.

Don’t worry, Gerald, I’ll take the drugs. I’ll fall down the rabbit hole. I’ll become a useless body, an empty container that’s only good for one thing—giving you pleasure.

And again, the cycle goes.

Drugs. Alcohol. Rehab. Rock bottom. Repeat.

This is all your fault, and if they ever take Sam away from me, I hope you know it’ll be on your conscience.

Forever not yours,

—Cat.

Gerald,

As I said on our phone call yesterday, I am not going to leave you alone until you pay me for my silence.

You made me miscarry our unborn son. The media is going to know who you really are and what you’re capable of unless you pay up.

And no, I am definitely not going to take your measly 50k and move away, especially as you and I both know that’ll mean having to leave Sam behind. No way am I going to be able to raise him on my own, and it’s not like Troy and Sparrow are going to let me take him away anyway.