All The Broken Pieces

  Volume 2

  H. M. Ward

  Laree Bailey Press

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2020 by H.M. Ward

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form.

  LAREE BAILEY PRESS

  First Edition: April 2020

  ebook: 978-1-63035-241-7

  paper: 978-1-63035-242-4

  Contents

  Terms & Slang Used in All In The Broken Pieces Series

  You GOTTA Know This Before You Read!

  All the Broken Pieces

  1. Chapter 1

  2. Chapter 2

  3. Chapter 3

  4. Chapter 4

  5. Chapter 5

  6. Chapter 6

  7. Chapter 7

  8. Chapter 8

  9. Chapter 9

  10. Chapter 10

  SUGGESTED FERRO READING ORDER

  COMPLETED SERIES BY H.M. WARD

  MORE FERRO FAMILY BOOKS

  MORE ROMANCE BY H.M. WARD

  FERRO ELITE TEAM

  KID READS

  CAN'T WAIT FOR H.M. WARD'S NEXT STEAMY BOOK?

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Terms & Slang Used in All In The Broken Pieces Series

  Ever wonder what the heck an idiom means? Never heard a slang term before?

  Below is a list of the most commonly used verbiage in this series and the meaning in plain English.

  Asshat (v): Demeanor and actions that are unattractively dickish.

  Awesomesauce (adj.): A way to describe something that is beyond awesome with a dash of excitement. Typically said by women.

  Name-ism (n): Typically two common turns-of-phrase that were mashed together to create a new, more pungent meaning.

  Babylon (n): A township on Long Island where Avery grew up. There are million-dollar homes on the waterfront to tiny Cape Cod houses.

  Cleavagefest (adv): When a woman’s breasts are thrust up and smashed together so tightly that it infers a sexy party may be imminent.

  Cray Cray (adj): Super, over-the-top crazy.

  Deer Park Avenue (n): A heavily congested road that runs through several towns on Long Island.

  Guido (n): An Italian young man.

  Guidette (n): An Italian young woman.

  L.I.E. (n): The Long Island Expressway, or Interstate 495, is a six-lane road the runs East/ West on Long Island that ends in Manhattan.

  Skankzilla (adj): A woman who is part godzilla and part skank.

  Slutified (v): When the amount of skin a piece of clothing covers is severely decreased to reveal more skin.

  Squee (v): A squeal of glee. Try it. You’ll like it.

  Tramperella (adj): A promiscuous woman who has access to Cinderella’s royal closet and slutified the garments.

  To all those with a broken heart and endless hope. Hang in there…

  You GOTTA Know This Before You Read!

  Read me, babe!

  Thank you to everyone who supported this project! Before you start, a quick heads-up.

  THIS SERIES IS FAN-DRIVEN. So I’ll release a new novella when enough people ask for another book via reviews and social media. When tons of people ask and are involved, the next book comes out fast.

  So if you like the idea and love the book, make sure you do both! Having that bit of reader involvement makes a huge difference in the success of a series. It’ll also make sure you don’t miss any voting that occurs as the series progresses.

  Last thing—there are ‘Easter eggs’ in this book. One per chapter. An ‘Easter egg’ in this case is a hidden bit from one of my other books. It can be anything from DEMON KISSED to DAMAGED 3.

  An example would be seeing a Trystan Scott poster or passing by Ivy’s high school in Demon Kissed. This is a fun game for those who have read all my books. If this is your first book of mine or you haven’t read everything, it doesn’t affect the way the book reads at all. It’s just fun hidden surprises. I did this on a smaller scale with SCANDALOUS and STRIPPED. Have fun with it! 😊

  This series has been three years in the making. It’s tense, raw, and dark. I almost didn’t publish it, but you guys cheered me on, so here it is. Thank you so much! Happy reading!

  You can join in the discussion via my Facebook page: www.facebook.com/AuthorHMWard.

  For a complete listing of Ferro books, look here: http://hmward.com/books/

  Thank you and happy reading!

  ~Holly

  All the Broken Pieces

  Volume 2

  Chapter 1

  Everyone is afraid I’ve gone off the deep end. They didn’t see me grieve. They have no idea what I endured or how I survived. Somehow, I returned to our empty house. Alone. Don’t get me wrong. I was alone while Zach lived here. We were still married, but not in love. Actually, we couldn’t stand one another. What began as pure love turned rancid somehow. Before we left on the trip, we barely spoke. His hackles were always raised. No word went uncriticized. Somehow, I went from being everything he wanted to everything he despised.

  The thing is, I don’t think I changed. But how could that be if we were so close at one point? How could his love become so tainted that his voice dripped with resentment and scorn?

  ‘People don’t change.’ They say that before you marry someone. Better really love this person, because you can’t change them. People don’t change.

  Then, when we hit the scream-o years of our marriage.

  People told me, ‘It happens. People change.’

  What the Hell? Pick one. People either change or they don’t.

  At the moment, I don’t know what I think because I never got the chance to figure it out with Zach. The decision was wrenched from my hands. He died a moment after we screamed at one another. The vein on the side of his temple bulging as his words became razors. I swallowed those jabs in the beginning. When he’d say things to me that were little barbs. Then the words became lances and he aimed true.

  Our marriage didn’t erupt in flames until I fought back. There was this hope inside me that if Zach could see things my way—maybe he’d understand how much he hurt me. Maybe he wouldn’t pour salt on my wound. It must have been an accident. He wouldn’t harm me on purpose.

  Toward the end, that was all he did.

  All I did.

  Anger swells inside my chest as I hobble, trying not to fall over. Half my life was stolen from me. A freak accident with Zach. Zara in the wrong place at the wrong time. Death looms like a goblin in the night.

  There’s no one to blame. That makes it harder, because not everyone sees it that way.

  The family where I was always welcome turned on me. Now that place is filled with jagged memories with sharp corners. While Zach’s brother Tim reached out, tried to feed me, and include me—his mother was another story. She was pissed. Livid with me for losing her son.

  “You had no right going on that trip with him. You hadn’t been a wife to him for months—not in any way that counts. His pity cost him his life.” She spit those words at me more than once. I can see the slits of her eyes, and the cruel curve of her mouth as the words slew me.

  When she learned that I didn’t bring his body home to be buried in the family plot, all hell broke loose. There was no greater sin than abandoning her child on some “godforsaken” island. Just because other people call it paradise doesn’t mean she would.

  Venom. For not bringing him back.

  Venom. For failing him as a wife.

  Venom. For not giving her grandbabies.

  For being a viper.

  For having no faith.

  “You’re a hollow shell of a woman! You’re barren in every way possible. Satan broke the mold when he made you. All your smooth lies and charm. Zach never had a chance. You’re a blight on this family. I wish you every ounce of pain and misery you caused us to return to you tenfold. Even that is too good for you, you heathen whore.” She knew she didn’t need to etch those words onto a stone tablet because she carved them onto my heart.

  Zach must have told her we were having trouble before we left on the trip. In the end, the fighting didn’t matter. I’d win.

  Lots of women confess, rather stupidly, that death is a lot easier than divorce. Less messy. Those people have no clue the amount of self-hatred that can build. At least if Zach was my ex, I could wish him well and walk away.

  There’s no closure this way. No way to resolve past arguments—things that were said. I’m left wondering what he really thought of me. Whether he loved me or hated me because I really couldn’t tell at the end.

  I didn’t know.

  And now I never will.

  Zach’s family still doesn’t understand why I buried him there on Grand Cayman. They think I had a choice, but I didn’t. The truth is, I made several bad choices while trying to deal with the loss. I put him in the ground and fled. Tim was there. At the airport. Not the grave. He picked me up. Took me home. He asked why I didn’t wait. I yelled a lot. Tears were everywhere.

  That night... It was one of those times where we were both so fucking lost in grief that the only way out was by clinging to another person. I hate that it was him. We don’t talk about it. Ever.

  It’s nea
rly 5am and I can’t walk because of the glass in my foot. Plus, I need someone who can help close up the window pane. Shit. There’s no one else to call. I’ve got less than two hours to get the shards out of my foot and get to work. Careful not to shove the glass any deeper, I inch toward the phone in the foyer, sliding my heel across the floor. There’s a phone, a real land line, on a table with a vase full of pink peonies.

  I suck it up and punch in his number. For once, I’m glad I have a landline. Otherwise, I’d have to go all the way back upstairs to grab my cell. I press the receiver to my ear and wait. It only takes two rings before he answers.

  His voice is thick with sleep. “Abby? What’s wrong.”

  “Hey, I’m sorry to wake you.”

  “No problem.” He was groggy, his voice raspy a moment ago, but the sleepiness is replaced with urgency, “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing major. I’m okay—”

  “No you’re not, or you wouldn’t be calling me at the butt-crack of dawn—”

  I sigh and consider hanging up on him, but I feel really weird. I don’t know if it’s from seeing my own blood or the adrenaline wearing off. “Right. Listen, I’m not fine—”

  “—which we already established. What’s wrong?”

  “Stop talking!” We both huff for a second before I press on. “Listen, something came through the window—”

  “And?” the question hangs in the air.

  “And I kind of stepped in the glass.” I groan inwardly. For calling him. For asking for help. After a pause, I hastily add, “I can get it myself. I shouldn’t have called you.”

  “Right, because you can see the bottom of your foot so well…” his voice is playful now instead of curt and anxious. “Anything you need, babe. Just ask me.”

  There’s dead air. Neither of us says anything. I swear I can hear him smiling as a frown eats my face.

  “I hate asking for help.”

  “I know…”

  Silence. Gruff starts that have no words. Just weird back-of-the-throat sounds as I try to ask him for help. “Any chance you could—?”

  He cuts me off. “No problem.” I can hear him moving around. “I’ll be right there.”

  I must make a weird noise because he asks in a more concerned tone, “Seriously though. Are you all right?”

  My voice is completely even. Flat. I don’t answer his question. “There’s a word on it.”

  “What?” Tim stills, and the only sound I hear is his quick breathing.

  “The weight. The metal dive weight that came through the window. There’s a word carved into it.” I look at it for a moment, feeling the heft of the metal in my hand.

  Quick footfalls are followed by a car door slamming. He’s already on the way here. He lives a couple of blocks away. The groan of an engine as he shifts gears. “Wait until I get there and then we can—”

  I cut him off. Cradling the weight in my palm, fury boils inside my chest. “I don’t get it. Who would do this? A kid wouldn’t have… a rock, maybe. But a dive weight?”

  His tone is careful. He senses my mood as it shifts from strong to fragile. “Maybe it’s just a coincidence?”

  I’m so tired. So sick of this. “There’s no such thing.” Not after the day I’ve had. Not after the things I’ve seen.

  I slump back against the wall and slide down it slowly until my butt hits the floor. A pool of blood forms at my heel. It’s slick and sticky. I stare at my pale ankle, tilting it to the side and looking for the cut. Fear tickles the inside of my belly and licks at my spine. For the first time in a long time, I feel something other than pain.

  Chapter 2

  Waiting for Tim, I watch the crimson pool on the floor by my heel. The blood conjures a memory. My mind is immediately caught in it, tossed around like a ball lost in the tide.

  There was so much blood. And they all thought I had something to do with it. My throat tightens, and my hands fly to my neck. My fingers press in hard. There’s no air.

  A voice buzzes in my ear and I realize I’m still holding the phone. I don’t care anymore. I can’t go through this again. The anniversary of Zach’s death brings them back—Zach and Zara—year after year, like an inescapable plague.

  The phone is pressed to my forehead, denting the skin. Someone is talking, urgently saying my name. It barely registers.

  “What?” I mutter, spent. I rise, rubbing my hand over my face and gently pad a few steps back to the foyer with the cordless phone still pressed to my head. A dazed feeling is sucking at me, trying to pull me under. The only thing holding it away is the nervousness churning in my stomach.

  And the voice in my ear…“You said she shows a lot of promise.” Tim continues prompting me, “Have you heard from any of the colleges she applied to?”

  My students keep me sane and he knows it. Tim baits me with topics I can’t resist, trying to distract me, but all I see is red. It covers the dive shop walls, thick and dark. My mind is in a different time, a different place. Bits of plaster float through the air, falling like pieces of snow. I tip my head back against the wall and close my eyes.

  Tim’s voice is in my ear as I do everything I can to stay on my feet. But I can’t. Before I know what’s happened, I slide back down the wall, and slump to my side on the cold floor, eyes fixated on a shard of blue glass. Ocean blue.

  Like that Facebook picture of Zach taken by the dock.

  God, what’s happening to me? I remember every fucking detail. Every agonizing moment. But I can’t remember seeing that Facebook picture before. Why can’t I recall that image? Did I block it out? My guts curl tighter and my insides feel like a knot. I can’t breathe.

  Then Tim’s there, arms around me. He sits me up, asking me questions. I can’t find my voice. The muscles in my cheeks twitch as I try not to lose it. When he sees my foot, the decision to involve the police is out of my hands.

  He insists. “It’s not a tiny cut. You need a medic. Just let them come.”

  I don’t protest.

  Chapter 3

  The older cop is thick through the middle with deep set eyes and dark skin. His head is shiny and devoid of hair. “Ms. Taylor. Did you see anyone?”

  Tim says something and the cop barks at him to let me answer. Then he says it again, softer. I lift my gaze and realize that I’ve met this cop before. He thinks I break my own windows. This man doesn’t believe someone did this to me. He never does.

  “No,” I answer flatly, avoiding his dark gaze.

  He makes a sound in the back of his throat and breathes out loudly through his thick nose, clogged with thick hairs.

  His partner, a younger man with skin the color of bleached bone and dirty blonde hair, palms the weight. He flips it over a few times in his latex covered palm. “Do you recognize what this is, Ms. Taylor?”

  “A weight that goes on a diver’s belt.” There’s no strength in my voice. I stare blankly, ignoring the flashing lights and flurry of people moving around me.

  “There’s a word on here.” Young cop says it like a question.

  “I saw.” My gaze is locked on the floor. They didn’t find anyone in the house. No sign of entry. Just the broken window.

  “Why would someone tell you to stop, again? Stop what?” Old grumpy cop makes another sound in the back of his throat and glances at the young guy. He doesn’t let me reply. “Do you own one of these dive belts with the weights?”

  My shoulders curl in further and I close my eyes slowly, pressing them together. Wishing he was gone.

  “Yes, you know I do. You know it was my husband’s. You know he’s dead. You know all this already…” it sounds like I’m going to rant, scream, say more, but when I run out of breath, I stop talking. I can feel it. The cops don’t believe me.