“I can’t do this anymore. I’m sorry.”

Grant stared once again at the text message he’d received that morning. Even when Blaire failed to debark from her Boston flight, denial still rallied in his mind and heart. Seven hours had passed. He had since flown from New Jersey to Colorado and, after the countless times he’d willed the words on the screen to change, their weight slowly sunk in. In the ensuing hours when his calls transferred to voicemail and later to a disconnected number, the reality settled like an anvil in his chest.

She had left him.

Expelling a ragged breath, Grant slipped the phone into his suit pocket and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel of the Escalade as he contemplated the log cabin before him—Blaire’s secluded sanctuary. The structure was built with locally harvested Engelmann spruce while tall evergreens stood behind it like sentinels. Part of the back deck had a gorgeous view of the Colorado Rocky Mountains—a far cry from the urban setting of his brownstone back in Massachusetts.

“Ms. Callahan’s not here,” Jake Donovan, his head of security, noted beside him.

“No, she’s not.” Grant had already arrived at the same conclusion. He got out of the SUV, prompting Jake and his security detail in the car behind them to step out as well. Blaire’s old pickup was still under a tarp, covered by a layer of decaying leaves, branches, pollen and dirt. All hinted at the seasons that had passed since he whisked her to civilization nine months before. He hadn’t expected to find her here. This was the last place Blaire would go if she was trying to hide from him. But as untouched as the surroundings looked since the last time Grant had been here, he hoped to find clues as to why his woman fled.

It was fortunate Grant had the foresight to have made a set of spare keys to the cabin before they left for his home in Boston. Unlocking the door to the log house, a musty smell greeted his nose. It was dark except for the streaks of sunlight filtering through the slit between the curtains.

“Open the windows,” he instructed his men as he walked into the kitchen area where the circuit breaker was located. Blaire had refused to disconnect the utilities because she wanted to be able to come back here whenever she wanted. It was another point of contention between them in the past month. Her refusal to permanently move in with him infuriated Grant to no end.

When the lights came on, he walked into the master bedroom. It was furnished with custom-made furniture that matched the cabin’s interior. A wood-burning fireplace was built into the wall across the bed. It was surrounded by a slim couch, two chairs, and a coffee table. His heart squeezed at the memories this room evoked.

“Mr. Thorne?” Jake stood just inside the doorframe. “Liam Watts’ house is empty. It appears to have been abandoned for a while.”

Just like this property, Grant thought. There was an overgrowth of wildflowers and weeds around the cabin.

“Also”—his security guy’s throat bobbed—“there’s something else you need to see.”

Grant crunched his molars as he followed Jake to the kitchen. The farmer’s table and rug had been moved, exposing a trap door to an underground cellar.

“What the fuck?” he muttered as he walked around the opening in the floor. Grant didn’t know what was down there, but a troubling premonition told him that everything as he knew it was about to change. He took a deep breath, and just as his foot hit the first step, Jake gripped his arm.

His head of security looked contrite. “I’ve failed you, Mr. Thorne, and will totally understand if you fire me after this.”

“As long as my girlfriend is not a serial killer, you can keep your job.” He attempted to smile, but the muscles in his jaw refused to cooperate. He clenched and flexed his fingers but still failed to relieve the compressive tightness that had gripped his body. What the hell was Blaire keeping from him?

He descended the steps and her paintings greeted him. Nothing unusual about those items given she was an artist. It wasn’t until he saw the wall on his left that the air was punched out of his lungs.

Jesus Christ.

Grant took a couple of steps closer and saw the open safe and the documents scattered on top. He shuffled through them in disbelief. He could blame his lightheadedness on the lack of oxygen in the cellar, but he’d be lying to himself. He could blame his shortness of breath on the thin mountain air, but that wouldn’t be true either. But the truth before him threatened his future with Blaire.

Would there even be one after this?

A future obliterated in the blink of an eye.