Chapter 8
“Busy? You already quit your job. What could you possibly be busy with? I give you two grand a month–isn’t that more than enough?” Stuart’s voice dripped with entitlement.
How ironic.
Stuart had always been a cheapskate. In my past life, even Peter’s school supplies had come out of my pocket. Now that he didn’t have me to leech off, parting with over a third of his measly five–thousand–a–month salary must’ve hurt. Not a shred of guilt or gratitude toward Rosie for raising his kid.
My PI told me Stuart was stashing money for his boss’s mother’s birthday gift, hoping it’d land him a promotion.
To pull it off, he even cut that woman’s allowance–from–three grand to two. Same as Peter’s.
I did the math. By the time the birthday rolled around, he’d have close to thirty grand saved up. Probably thought it was a game–changer.
Too bad I knew the truth–his boss’s wife came from old money. Twenty, thirty grand? Pocket change.
In my past life, I’d handed Stuart a hundred grand for the gift, and his boss had been so impressed that Stuart landed a deputy director position not long after.
This time? Not happening.
I smirked.
Then I caught movement near the kitchen door. Peter. He set something down, then slipped away.
For a split second, his gaze was cold and resentful. Not the look of a kid.
***
Rosie lost the baby.
Phoebe had barreled into the kitchen, slipped, and slammed into Rosie, driving Rosie’s stomach into the counter.
A sharp scream. Blood pooling on the floor.
Phoebe stood there, stunned–right before her furious father smacked her across the face. Then chaos. Rosie rushed to the hospital.
Everyone left. Except me. I offered to stay behind and watch the kids.
I stepped into the kitchen, eyes scanning the floor. Beneath the bloodstains, a thin sheen of oil. Subtle, but there.
Peter.
He’d done it. Spilled the oil. Framed Phoebe.
