Laurel’s SUV was gone when I pulled my truck into the garage. She didn’t usually run errands this early in the day. She liked to wait until after nine p.m. to do the grocery shopping. She’d sometimes go a few minutes before midnight, to the market that stayed open until one a.m. That way, she didn’t have to see the other mothers pushing their children in shopping carts.

I entered the laundry room through the door in the garage and found some of my gym clothes neatly folded on top of the counter. There was no trace of Laurel’s clothing. Stepping into the hallway, my blood pressure soared.

I could see straight into the guest bedroom across the hall, the room we’d been using as storage space since we moved in two years ago, right after the murders. The ’90s-era oak flooring was barely visible, concealed by stacks of dusty, unopened boxes of Junior’s baby stuff. The door to the guest bedroom was always kept closed. Always.

But this wasn’t enough evidence to say with one hundred percent certainty that Laurel had left me or, God forbid, we’d been burglarized.

I charged down the hallway and into the living room. There was no sign that the house had been ransacked. Turning my attention to the breakfast nook, I finally saw it.

Atop the dining table lay a folded piece of paper. On top of the paper lay Laurel’s wedding band.

A puff of laughter erupted from my mouth. I shook my head as I approached the table. I should have fucking known.

As I left for the gym this morning, Laurel asked me if I’d be back soon. She never fucking cared how long I spent at the gym. She didn’t care about anything anymore.

I snatched the folded paper off the table, letting the ring slide off. It landed on the wooden surface with a clink, then rolled away, falling off the edge of the table furthest from me. All day long, I’d been taking my aggression out on the power racks, imagining myself crushing the murderer’s skull with my bare hands, while my fucking wife sat at home, plotting to leave me.

I didn’t bother sitting down to read. Unfolding the paper, my gaze skidded to the top of the page, ignoring the roaring ache in my chest as I read the first two words: Dear Jack.

I devoured the letter in seconds, every word turning my stomach with disgust. She was accusing me of being obsessed with Junior’s case. I was somehow a bad person because I thought my son deserved justice. She thought I needed to see a shrink because I firmly believed the filth who stole my son’s future shouldn’t be allowed to have a future.

What was I supposed to do? Forgive the bastard?

Forgiveness was for pussies. All I wanted was revenge. And if I couldn’t have that, then I’d settle for justice, and nothing less.

I walked into the kitchen and held the letter over the stove as I turned on the burner. When the corner caught fire, I watched it burn, recalling how much I had wanted to torch our house that night. I wanted to see it all turned to ash and pretend it had never happened.

Tossing the burning letter into the sink, I watched the orange embers crawl over the paper, transforming it into a thin skin of ash. Then, I went back to the breakfast nook and rounded the table to retrieve the ring off the floor. Sliding Laurel’s wedding band into the pocket of my gym shorts, I didn’t bother taking a shower and changing out of my workout clothes. I marched straight to the garage and climbed into the driver’s seat of my truck.

Laurel was right. I knew exactly where to find her. And I’d be a damn idiot if I let her walk away from our marriage that easily, on our fucking fifth anniversary, no less. Not that we’d celebrated our anniversary today, or last year. You’d have to be pretty fucking sick to celebrate the day your child was murdered.

I pulled my truck onto the freeway, mildly thankful that Laurel had decided to leave me on a Saturday. I should encounter less traffic on the one-hour drive to Portland.

As I drove through the sun-soaked gorge, the hillsides scorched black by the summer wildfires, I felt a flame blazing inside me. Hot blood pumped through my veins, pulsated in my fingertips. Laurel always did this to me.

She pretended as if everything was fine, until suddenly everything was wrong and it was all my fault. She blew up at me at least once a week these days. I should have seen this coming.

Why the fuck didn’t I see this coming?

Taking a few deep breaths to calm myself, I turned on the stereo and put on my workout playlist. The hard, rhythmic beats kept me focused. Still, I had no fucking idea what I was going to say when I got there.

I shook my head. This wasn’t the type of conversation that could be planned out. I had to go with my gut. I had to admit that maybe I’d fucked up, but she had to admit that she’d also abandoned me. Does she think I don’t notice how she can’t look at me when we fuck? Considering how we only communicated while we were arguing or fucking — which happened at least a few times a week — I’d have to be blind to miss that.

Nope. I wasn’t going to take all the blame for this clusterfuck of a marriage. We were in this together. For better or for worse. Till death do us part.