Pulling my truck into the garage, I’m glad to see Laurel’s SUV. I had to tell her I was going to the gym. I didn’t want her to know I was going to see Charlie Rangel, the lead detective on the murder case at Hood River Police Department. If Charlie had good news, I didn’t want to worry Laurel for nothing. Unfortunately, the news was not good.

Byron Huxley’s cell records indicated he and Brandon were both in Hood River the night of the murder. And Boise PD now has reason to suspect he — or both he and Brandon — may have also murdered Byron’s wife, Dottie, more than a decade ago. Unfortunately, when police were dispatched to Byron’s house to bring him in for questioning, he was already gone.

Paranoia seized me as I exited the truck. Before I closed the garage door, I checked underneath both vehicles and in the storage closets, where I kept power tools and gardening equipment. Once I was satisfied the garage was devoid of suspicious persons and devices, I pressed the button to close the garage door, watching it slide down until it came to a complete stop.

Turning around, I entered the laundry room as quietly as possible, listening intently for any suspicious noises. The house was quiet as a monastery. Maybe Laurel was taking a nap after yoga.

I closed and locked the door behind me. Exiting the laundry room into the hallway, I still saw and heard no sign of Laurel. Something didn’t feel right.

I turned right, toward the master bedroom, and my heartbeat climbed as I registered the open door. Laurel usually closed the bedroom door when she took a nap. I charged into the bedroom and saw the bathroom door closed. Trying the door handle, my body flooded with adrenaline when I found it locked.

“Laurel? Are you in there?”

Nothing.

“Pixie, are you okay?”

More nothing.

Fuck this nonsense.

I took a step back and landed a hard kick on the door next to the handle. The door buckled and flew inward, almost coming off its hinges, as I rushed inside. Laurel was on the floor, her eyelids fluttering as she awakened.

“Baby, what did you take?” I asked, but she didn’t reply.

My mind immediately zeroed in on the panic and guilt I felt last year, when I found Laurel in bed unresponsive with green vomit dribbling from the corner of her mouth after taking too much ibuprofen. But that was nothing compared to the guilt I felt when I allowed the hospital to keep her for a seventy-two-hour psychiatric hold. Leaving her that evening was the second worst night of my life.

I told myself I let the hospital hold Laurel because she needed to talk to professionals who understood what she was going through. The hard truth was I didn’t know if I could keep her safe anymore. I had lost faith in myself, not her.

I slid my hand under her neck to help her lift her head, my other arm curled around her legs to pick her up off the floor. “What did you take, Laurel?” I asked. But as I stood, I saw the pregnancy tests on the counter.

“Nothing,” she whispered. “I… I fainted.”

I tightened my hold on her as my limbs began to feel weak. “Come on, let’s get you in bed. Did you hit your head?”

As I laid her down, she reached up to feel her forehead and scalp. “I don’t think so. I don’t know. I… I feel a little woozy.” She blinked a few times, as if she was trying to clear something from her eyes. “I’m seeing floaters.”

“Stay right there. I’ll get your purse and we’ll go to the ER.”

“No!” she cried, grabbing my hand. “I’m fine. It’s just the sunlight. I’m better now.”

“Are you sure?”

She nodded. “Sit,” she said, patting the edge of the mattress. “Please.”

I helped her sit up carefully, propping up a couple of pillows behind her, before I took a seat on the bed. “Baby, I saw the tests. Are you pregnant?”

I tried to temper my emotions, because the possibility that Laurel was pregnant with our second child felt too fucking good to be true. The idea that we might be parents soon filled me with obscene joy. When she nodded, I thought my heart would burst.

Tears welled up in my eyes and I shook my head, unable to believe I’d been given another chance to get this right. Her hands reached for me and I wrapped my arms around her waist as I buried my face in her chest. She was softer now that she’d been eating regularly, but her skin was cold, probably from passing out. As I inhaled the scent of her skin, I wondered why she had passed out when she found out she was pregnant.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” I asked, sitting up so I could see her face again. That beautiful face, with features so delicate and graceful she looked like royalty. And she was. She ruled me.

She laid her hand over mine as I reached for her face. Closing her eyes, tears streamed down her face as she leaned into my touch.

“No. I’m not okay,” she whispered, her eyelids opening as her gaze found mine. “I am miles away from okay.”

The joy that had lifted me up a moment ago deflated and I suddenly felt heavy and tense, on the verge of an emotion I couldn’t pin down, the threshold between confusion and anger. “Why? What happened?” I asked, pulling my hand away from her face.

She averted her eyes, her gaze cast downward as she cleared her throat. “I slept with Isaac while you were in Idaho.”

The muscles in my face slackened as the ones in my arms and hands tightened like a bow stretched taut and ready to fire. I wanted to rip the lamp off the nightstand and throw it across the room to release some of the tension, but I had to think before I acted. Taking a few deep breaths, I curled my fingers around the comforter to keep my hands occupied.

“Is it his?” I asked, staring at the headboard as I was incapable of looking at her. “Is the baby his?” I shouted.

She flinched and pulled her knees up to her chest. “I don’t know,” she sobbed. “It happened the night of my birthday. I was really drunk. I thought it was you. I thought you’d come back to me. That’s why I didn’t believe it was you when you showed up the next day.”

My stomach turned over inside me as I realized she had sex with me mere hours after she’d had sex with him. “No,” I said, shaking my head in disbelief. “You wouldn’t. You’re fucking with me, right? Please tell me this is a sick joke.”

She buried her face in her hands and shook her head. “I’m so sorry. I hate myself,” she said, her fingers grabbed onto chunks of her hair as her hands tightened into fists. “I’m so stupid. I’m sorry,” she cried as she yanked chunks of hair out of her scalp. “I don’t deserve you,” she said, staring at the fluffy nests of blonde hair in her hands. “I’ll leave. I’m sorry.”

I grabbed her forearm to stop her from getting out of bed. “Where are you going?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know.”

I grit my teeth, clenching my jaw so hard I thought my teeth might shatter from the force. “You’re not going anywhere,” I said, letting go of her arm. “Fuck!”

She flinched again. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” she repeated the words over and over like a shaky mantra.

Her body trembled so hard, I could hear her teeth chattering. God help me. I couldn’t leave her like this. She’d ripped my heart out and I couldn’t even bring myself to lash out at her with the news about Byron Huxley.

I could barely stand to look at her, but I couldn’t leave her alone. Not after what I learned today.

I drew in a deep breath. “Stay right there. I’m calling Drea to stay with you.”

She lifted her head to look at me, and I quickly turned away. “Where are you going?” she asked in a voice so small and fragile I almost took her into my arms. Almost.

“Just stay there. I’ll be in the kitchen until Drea gets here.”

She sniffed loudly. “I never wanted to hurt you, Jack. Please believe me.”

I shook my head. “You didn’t hurt me, Laurel. You fucking killed me.”