Lisa’s words never leave me despite how much I want to banish them from my brain completely. Her warning about Will, about his father—they linger within me, always nagging. Throughout the week, when I try to focus on anything else, like cleaning my house, purging my closet, messing around with a paper that’s due the Monday after Thanksgiving. But I can’t get into it. Any time I try to engage my brain, my thoughts circle back to what Lisa said.

So I’m constantly doing something mindless. Reorganizing my kitchen. Bagging up all the stuff I banished from my closet and delivering it to Goodwill. I cleaned out my extra bedroom, at one point thinking it would make a great office for Will, but then my thoughts turned dark. Heavy.

Ominous.

Do you really want him to move in with you after all? What if it’s true? What if he’s talking to his father and your relationship is really some big, crazy plan for them to get their revenge against you?

It sounds crazy. It is crazy. But I can’t help it. We don’t spend much time together Thanksgiving week, since he’s so busy preparing for his trip to Southern California and the new Web design project it’s going to bring. Plus, he’s wrapping up another project that he wants done before he leaves, so I give him his space, needing some for myself. Processing Lisa’s words, trying to spot any clues on Will’s part.

But there are none. Not a one. I mention his dad and he clams up, saying he doesn’t want to talk about him anymore. I can’t blame him for that. I don’t want to talk about Aaron Monroe ever again, either. I casually mention Lisa, see if I can work our talk into the conversation, but he’s even more resistant to talking about her. His hatred for her is bigger than ever.

So I let the subject drop. It’s not worth pursuing. All Lisa did was put doubt in my head. Will hasn’t given me one reason to doubt him. Not a one. This is something I need to get over on my own.

We spend Thanksgiving together at my mom’s house and the day turns out better than I thought it would. Brenna brings a friend with her, a fellow teacher who’s new to the area and whose family lives across the country. My sister didn’t want to come alone for the holiday. The widower down the street stops by for dessert, and I think I detect a hint of flirtation between him and my mother.

Interesting.

Will takes everything in stride. He did his best to help Mom in the kitchen, though she shooed him away most of the time, accusing him of wanting to get close to the pumpkin pies. He never denied it, just played along like he was some sort of pie thief, and I think Mom enjoyed it way too much.

I did, too. He’s adapted to my family so well and they seem to be accepting of him. Even Brenna, who was ready to scratch his face off the last time they saw each other, is now joking and laughing with him like they’re old friends. I should be reassured by their acceptance. It’s Thanksgiving—everyone should let bygones be bygones and get along. I think my mom and sister are embracing that way of thinking, Brenna a little more reluctant than Mom, but I expected that.

So why am I skeptical? Why am I watching Will’s every move throughout the day, waiting for him to do or say something awful so I can immediately think, Look at him. Lisa was right?

I hate that I’m thinking this way, that I’m so suspicious. I regret talking to Lisa. She’s filled my head with so much doubt that I can’t differentiate from it anymore. She’s shaded my entire outlook on Will. And that’s not fair to him.

It’s not fair to us.

He’s kind to my mother, praising her pumpkin pie to the point that he embarrasses her, and I wonder if there’s a motive behind his actions. He’s so over-the-top happy, so friendly to everyone, I can’t help but think it feels fake. Phony. Like he’s putting on an act.

My doubt is like a disease slowly eating at my insides and I hate it. I need to talk to Will. Ethan. Tell him how I feel, what Lisa said. He’ll be angry, but he needs to know the truth. I need to unload that truth on him and get rid of this guilty feeling. But will me telling him this only upset him?

It’s the risk I have to take.

We drive back to my house Thursday night, both of us quiet. Will’s going to stay through Saturday before he leaves first thing Sunday for Los Angeles, and I’m hoping these next few days with him will remind me why my rampant thoughts are ridiculous. I need to remember the good things between Will and me. My suspicions are just that—there’s no proof behind Lisa’s words.

But is it a sign that there’s something wrong with our relationship that I’m so quick to suspect him with no proof? I’m almost afraid it is. And that thought alone terrifies me. Worse, I haven’t been able to discuss anything with Sheila. She’s out of the office all week, so we skipped my weekly appointment. She would be the perfect one to spill my fears to.

Instead I have to keep them bottled up inside, all to myself.

“You’ve been quiet all day,” he says as he takes the off-ramp that leads to my house.

“There was so much happening, I’m surprised you noticed.” I clamp my lips shut. That sounded bitter—and a little bratty, too.

We come to a stop at a red light and Will looks my way. “Are you upset with me about something?”

I shake my head. “I’m just tired and a little grumpy. Spending too much time with my family has a way of doing that.” And that isn’t a lie, though it’s not necessarily the truth in this case, either.

He nods and looks away, staring straight ahead at the mostly abandoned road as we wait for the light to turn green. It’s late, past nine o’clock, and I’m ready to collapse into bed. “I had a great time today,” he says. “Thank you for inviting me.”

“You don’t have to keep saying thank you.” The words come out harsher than I intended and I soften my tone. “I’m glad you had a good time.” And I really am. I hate that his father didn’t treat the holidays as special. It was pretty much just another crappy day in the Monroe household and that’s terrible.

Whereas my mother celebrated any and every little thing, decorating the house for St. Patrick’s Day even, and we aren’t Irish. It drove my Scottish father crazy.

I smile at the fond memory.

“You’ve opened up your heart and your family to me and I appreciate it. That’s why I keep saying thank you.” He sounds hurt but he won’t look at me, and I feel bad, too. I’m taking my worry over what Lisa said out on him. Should I tell him about our conversation? Or will he be too angry, too defensive?

It’s probably best forgotten. Yet I can’t seem to forget it . . .

“I spoke to Lisa. She said . . .” I hesitate, then decide to just spit it all out. “She said that your father has someone who’s spying on me and reporting back to him. And that someone is you.”

He’s silent for a moment, his fingers curling around the steering wheel tight before he swivels his head in my direction. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.” His voice is flat, no emotion, and I part my lips, ready to say more when he beats me to the punch. “Are you really going to believe her over me, Katie? After everything we’ve been through? After everything I’ve done to protect you? Seriously? I hate him. You know this. I hate him for what he did to me and I especially hate him for what he did to you.”

“She said she was worried about me.” My voice is small. Saying the words out loud proves Will is right. They do sound ridiculous.

“The only person Lisa Swanson is worried about is herself. Don’t let her get in your head and fill it with doubt. I love you, Katie. I would never hurt you or betray you like that. Ever.” He sounds weary, his expression grim. I feel bad for saying it, for even bringing up the topic, but I had to get it off my chest.

Definitely not the way I wanted to end Thanksgiving. But I can’t talk about it anymore. I just want to get home and crawl into my bed and sleep.

We pull up in front of my house minutes later, Will parking his car in my driveway. The neighborhood is quiet, a few houses already lit with Christmas lights, and I shut my car door, tilting my head toward the house. I fully expect to hear Molly barking in greeting since we left her outside. We bought her a new doghouse a few days ago and Will had assembled it this morning before we left for my mom’s. When we left her in the backyard Molly had been curled up in her new house, looking terribly pleased with herself.

“I don’t hear Molly,” I tell Will after he exits the car.

He frowns but otherwise doesn’t appear too disturbed. “She’s probably in her new doghouse snoozing.” We did put a new bed inside the doghouse, so maybe she is.

Or maybe she’s not.

We start toward the house, the downright eerie silence sending a chill down my spine. I hurriedly unlock the door and sprint through the dark house, heading straight for the back door and unlocking it with shaky fingers. I burst out into the backyard, anxiously prepared for Molly to emerge from her doghouse, panting and smiling at me as she runs across the lawn.

But she doesn’t come out of the doghouse. It’s empty. Molly’s not in the yard at all. I think of the suspicious activity in the neighborhood, how Mrs. Anderson called the cops. But why would someone want to mess with my dog?

I turn to face the back porch at the exact moment Will walks through the door, closing it behind him. “Did you find her?” he calls.

I shake my head and burst into tears.