My hands tremble so much it’s nearly impossible to work the tiny catch that holds the elegant jewelry box closed.

The contents stop my heart.

A giant, square-cut sapphire sits atop a white gold band. The stone is designed to stand out, tall and proud, when it’s worn. The Art Nouveau style filigree casing is crusted with a slew of tiny, brilliant diamonds that catch the light.

It’s exactly the type of ring people would have worn to speakeasies during the 1920s—and it suits me to a T.

Unable to resist, I slip it out of the box and hold it up to the light for a better look. Engraved in an elegant script on the inside of the band, I read the words:

It’s an engagement ring. And not the kind of ring Paul would have found in the first jewelry store he walked into. He went hunting for this, looking for something he knew I’d love because something this big is important.

The rings slides smoothly onto my ring finger and feels completely natural there, which is strange because I rarely wear any kind of jewelry on my hands. I never want to take it off.

Realization sucker punches me.

I see the situation from his perspective. Here he is planning a future with me, and I refuse to tell him about something huge in my life. And even though it wasn’t my intention, he’s right; the way I’ve behaved does make it seem like he’s unimportant to me.

I’m such an idiot.

I need to find him. Tell him I’m sorry. Beg him to forgive me.

Hopefully it’s not too late.

I race down the stairs, nearly tripping over my feet in my haste to catch up with him. Not that much time has passed, so he can’t have gone too far. As long as he follows our usual course, making a left turn and cutting through that narrow alleyway between my building and the boutique next door rather than turning right and going someplace other than the dog park, I should be able to catch him.

I dart through the Blind Pig and push open the door, barely taking time to reset the security system before running to the left.

“Please have gone this way,” I say to no one in particular as I hit a fast jog, catching the attention of the late-night Christmas Eve shoppers. “Please don’t be so mad at me that you can’t forgive me.”

I skid to a stop at the mouth of the alley. During the day, I don’t give a second thought to using it as a short cut, but now, the lack of illumination and deep, dark shadows gives me pause. My hand moves to my stomach, protecting my child, as I weigh my options. Run down a scary alley and maybe catch up with Paul, who might not have even gone this way, or take the long way around the boutique…

In the months that I’ve been living in this area, I’ve talked to lots of people who use this alley as a shortcut and no one has ever mentioned anything bad happening in it, so surely, this one time, it’s okay to throw caution to the wind.

Pulse jumping in my throat, I put my head down and run as fast as I can, positive I feel eyes following my every step as I race through the narrow space. With every step, I expect to feel someone’s hands close around my ponytail, yanking me backwards and off my feet.

I burst out of the shadows and onto a well-lit sidewalk, nearly crying with relief. I never realized how reassuring street lights are.

The foot traffic on this street is considerably lighter than on the other side of the alley. There’s only one or two people around. It only takes me a second to spot Atticus’s plumed tail and the tall man walking beside him.

“Paul,” I yell.

My boots click against the concrete as I run, my skirt whipping around my leg. Ahead of me, Paul keeps walking. Either he didn’t hear me, or he’s ignoring me.

A black mini-van with the name of a lawn care service painted in big letters on the side rolls past me as I call out a second time. “Paul!”

This time he hears me. As he and Atticus turn to face me, the mini-van glides toward him, the brake lights glowing bright red. It slams to a halt beside Paul. A door slides open and two men jump out.

What the …

Horrified, I watch as they grab Paul. He drops the dog leash and cocks his arm back, but before he manages a single blow, one of the goons drives a fist into his gut. The force of the blow doubles Paul over, making him fall to his knees. Using his sudden vulnerability to their advantage, the goons grab him by the arms and half lift, half drag him toward the van.

They force him inside. I scream and force my legs to move even faster, knowing I’m too far away to stop them. Why isn’t anyone else around? Why isn’t anyone rushing to his rescue?

I scream at the top of my lungs, begging them to let him go even as they force him into the van.

Atticus leaps forward, his tiny feet barely touching the ground as he races toward the mini-van. He launches himself at the man, his mouth connecting with the back of the thug’s thigh.

The goon throws back his head and howls, before reaching back and swatting my dog, breaking his connection to the thigh and sending his thin body careening to the cold concrete.

The goons leap into the van just as its tires start to move. Atticus scrambles to his feet as they start to roll the sliding side door closed. He makes another leap and manages to get his body into the van a split second before the door slam shuts. Tires scream as the driver steps on the gas, sending the vehicle down the road in a crooked line.

“No!” Screaming, I run after the van, not caring that I don’t have a prayer of catching it.