Jessica’s laugh is a sharp exhale. “Yeah, I’m sure you want to help. So damn perfect. Always so perfect. He still loves you, you know?”
“Richard?” I ask carefully.
Her arm shoots out—gun thrust forward.
“Don’t play dumb.” Her voice breaks. “You string him along. Keep him close. He can’t move on if there’s even a chance you’ll come running back. You cheated on him—you fucked around—and he still loves you.”
She is unraveling.
Unspooling right in front of me.
“That’s what this is about?” I breathe. “Jessica…”
I soften my tone. The way I would with a panicked client on the brink of destroying everything. “This is a misunderstanding.”
“Oh, is it?” She sneers. “You greedy little whore. You want it all. He only gets her on weekends. Has to beg for holidays. And you—you’re so fucking judgey. So high and mighty. Planning your perfect little trips while he just wants a normal family.”
“He loves you, Jessica.”
“No,” she whispers. Her lips twist. “He loves you. Still.”
Her breathing fractures. The gun trembles, not quite aimed at me—more toward the corner, like she can’t hold it steady.
Her gaze flicks again to the window.
“Everything’s ruined,” she murmurs. “You ruined it.”
She starts backing toward the sill.
For a moment, I consider letting her go. Let her climb out and vanish. Let this be over.
But Stella is upstairs.
Stella is awake.
If Jessica circles back?—
If she tries the third floor?—
If that gun goes off?—
No.
A heavy thud shakes below.
Then another.
Faster.
Harder.
Footfalls pounding up the stairs.
The breath I’ve been holding tears loose.
Jessica’s head snaps toward the sound.
Her pupils blow wide with recognition.