CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The rhythmic clatter of pans and the faint, comforting smell of garlic fill the kitchen, creating a sense of normalcy that feels so at odds with the storm brewing inside me. Shephard is at the stove, his back to me, stirring something in a gleaming skillet, humming softly under his breath. It’s a tuneless, content sound; he’s completely at ease in his role as the devoted husband and father. He’s prepping dinner while I sit at the kitchen island, hunched over a brightly colored jigsaw puzzle with the girls. Andi, my youngest, giggles beside me, her sticky fingers carefully placing a piece.
Chloe murmurs instructions: “No, Andi, that’s a wing, not a tail!”
He’s so absorbed in what he’s doing, the meticulous chopping of herbs, the sizzle of oil, that he doesn’t seem to notice how distracted I am.
My eyes dart from the vibrant puzzle pieces to the clock, to the window, to the back of Shephard’s broad shoulders.
But then again, why would he notice? I’ve been playing the part for years, slipping in and out of roles and characters like they were costumes I could change at will. The serene, engaged mother. The supportive, loving wife. The business-minded public speaker. I pretend to be all the things I’m supposed to be when I need to be them, while trying not to live completely in my head. I’m used to it—I’ve been this way my whole life. I dress the part for every other aspect of my life, but I’m the most me in the silence of my mind. But today, it feels less like I’m wearing a costume and more like I’ve been shoved into a suffocating straitjacket.
The humming falters. It’s almost imperceptible, just a slight catch in his breath, a break in the rhythmic stirring of the pan. My gaze, which was fixed on a bright-blue puzzle piece, flicks to Shephard. His stirring slows, becomes hesitant. His head cocks slightly, his eyes narrowing as he looks out the window, a subtle shift in his focus. There’s a pause, a beat of hesitation that stretches taut in the quiet kitchen, before he turns his attention fully to the driveway, his body stiffening almost imperceptibly.
Something about the shift in his body language sets off alarm bells in my head, a frantic jingle behind my ears. My skin prickles. My stomach clenches, a cold fist tightening. But I don’t look up right away. I can’t.
Instead, I keep my eyes glued to the puzzle pieces in front of me, trying to make the disparate pieces fit into a coherent picture, even though my mind is a frantic whirlwind elsewhere.
“Mommy, found it!” Chloe crows, thrusting a yellow piece into my vision. Andi nods approvingly. The girls are giggling beside me, their little hands eagerly helping me assemble the picture of a bustling farm, their joy so innocent. Their laughter, usually a balm, feels like a distant echo in the sudden ringing in my ears.
It should be a moment of calm, of simple family bonding, the kind I tell myself I cherish. But I feel anything but calm, knowing that a car just pulled into the driveway, an uninvited, ominous presence. My hands are shaking as I place down a green piece, missing the connection slightly, my vision hazy as my thoughts spiral.
I tell myself it’s fine, that everything will be fine, that it’s just the neighbors, or a delivery, or . . . anyone but him.
But deep down, there’s a gnawing unease that I can’t shake, a cold certainty. It’s been gnawing at me since I sent Saint that text telling him my husband and children were here. He never responded. The silence from him was louder than any roar.
I’ve been on edge since I sent the text, jumpy at every shadow, waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the fragile peace I’ve constructed to shatter.
Is this it? Is this the end of my comfortable family life as I know it? Is this where everything unravels? The scent of garlic and simmering sauce, once comforting, now feels cloying, heavy, suffocating.
I finally work up the courage to follow Shephard’s unblinking gaze.
My neck feels stiff, resisting the turn. When my eyes land on it, I stiffen further, every muscle locking into place. A black, unmarked car, its windows tinted, reflecting the bright afternoon like dark mirrors. It’s the kind you see in movies, the kind that signals trouble, the kind that belongs to men who operate in shadows.
It’s the car I followed two days ago. The car that pulled over and waited for me.
The kind of car you never want to see pulling up to your house unannounced, ever. I’m grasping for any way to rationalize this, but deep down, I already know. I know before I even see him step out of the dark vehicle. My intuition, sharp and unwelcome, screams his name.
Shephard cuts the fire to the pan and then pushes off the counter.
“Someone just pulled up.” His voice is low, strained, a question and a warning wrapped into one. He sees it too. He knows something is profoundly amiss.
The car door closes, a silent swing, almost graceful. The blood feels like it drains from my body, rushing from my head, leaving me lightheaded, dizzy. My vision tunnels. The world seems to tilt on its axis, a sickening lurch, the floorboards swaying beneath me. The air suddenly feels too thick, too heavy to breathe, pressing down on my lungs. My heart lurches in my chest, a violent, painful beat, my stomach dropping like a stone, the sensation of free fall. I blink, hard, once, twice, hoping that somehow I’ve imagined it, that my mind is playing cruel tricks on me, a residual
nightmare from last night.
But it’s real. He’s real. Motherfucker.
The sunlight catches on the sharp line of Saint’s jaw, the dark gleam of his hair. Saint. He’s here. And he’s walking toward my house. Toward Shephard. Toward my girls.
My breath hitches, lost in my throat. What is he doing here? The words are a desperate whisper, barely audible, directed at no one, a plea against the impossible.
“Who is that?” The question slams into me like a freight train, sending my thoughts spiraling into a maelstrom of sheer panic. Shephard’s quiet query echoes in the sudden, cavernous silence of the kitchen, but it’s my own internal scream. Every rational thought evaporates, dissolving like smoke; I’m desperate to find a reason that would explain his impossible presence here and doesn’t involve the scorching, undeniable truth of what I’ve done.
I can’t think straight. All I can hear is the rushing in my ears, a roaring like a distant ocean, the steady thrum of blood pounding in my veins, deafening me to the innocent giggles of my daughters still playing with their puzzle on the island.
My heart is hammering against my rib cage, a frantic bird trying to escape, its wings beating a furious rhythm.
“Do you know this person?” Shephard asks.
Suddenly, it’s hard to breathe, each inhale a shallow, desperate gasp. I can feel the walls of the sterile kitchen closing in around me, the familiar comfort suddenly constricting. Every instinct screams at me to stop this, to
find a way to stop him before everything unravels, before the fragile facade of my life shatters into a million irreparable pieces.
“No idea,” I say, my voice steady but my shame buried just beneath it.
Shephard starts heading to the door, his steps purposeful. I want to scream at him, to stop him from answering it, to grab him and hold him back, to physically block his path, but my voice is stuck in my throat, a dry, choked whisper.
I slide Andi off my lap, almost roughly, as soon as Shephard says, “Why would a cop be here?”
His voice is more casual now, a slight note of confusion in it, like he’s mildly perplexed by this unexpected visit, not truly alarmed. He has no idea what’s really going on, no idea that the officer outside isn’t just here for some routine check, isn’t just a friendly public servant. But I know. I know with a sickening certainty, and the dread pooling in my stomach, a cold, viscous liquid, is almost unbearable. It tastes like ash.
My legs feel like they might give out beneath me, like jelly, but I force myself to walk to the door with Shephard, each step a monumental effort.
Every stride feels like I’m walking toward my own execution, toward the scaffold. I glance out the window, my breath catching in my throat when I see Saint walking slowly around Shephard’s car, circling it like a predator.
His movements are deliberate, measured, a terrifying choreography, like he’s taking his sweet time, like he knows the absolute, devastating power he holds in this moment, a puppet master pulling invisible strings.
I keep my distance from Shephard, putting a few precious feet between us, trying to maintain some semblance of composure, to project an image of calm.
Shephard’s hand is already on the doorknob, his face still a picture of mild confusion. He pulls the door open, and it’s as if I can literally see my family dissolving like a sandcastle hit by a rogue wave. The foundation we’ve built, the life we’ve shared, all of it feels impossibly fragile, like it could shatter with just one wrong word, one wrong look, one perfectly delivered lie.
I want to scream, to tell Saint to leave, to go back to wherever he came from, but I’m frozen. Paralyzed.
Why else would Saint be here? There’s no good reason, no benign explanation that doesn’t lead straight to the truth spilling out in the most
catastrophic, painful way possible. He’s here for a reason, a calculated, devastating reason, and whatever that reason is, it’s going to end me.
Shephard steps out onto the porch, a picture of genial hospitality, and I remain frozen in the doorway, my hand gripping the doorframe for support, my knuckles white. My legs feel weak, like they might give out at any second, but I force myself to stand still, to hold my ground, to remain upright. I can’t let either of these men see how terrified I am. I can’t let Shephard know I have anything at all to feel guilty for, and I can’t let Saint know how much power he holds right now.
Saint glances at Shephard, a brief, dismissive flick of his eyes; then his gaze, cold and sharp, cuts to me. The look in his eyes is hard, unreadable, like polished obsidian, but there’s something in the set of his jaw, the tightness around his mouth, that makes my heart sink even lower, plummeting into the pit of my stomach.
He’s in full uniform, crisp and impeccable, a perfect mask of professionalism. The badge gleams, the dark fabric of his shirt accentuating the breadth of his shoulders, the holstered gun a stark, chilling presence.
But his eyes—they’re locked on me, zeroed in with an intensity like laser beams piercing my very soul. He knows exactly what he’s doing, like he’s fully aware of the precise chaos he’s about to unleash, the emotional fallout he’s meticulously planned. His jaw is hard, a rigid line, his expression severe, almost menacing, and I can’t breathe. I can’t even move.
I am a statue of dread.
“Sorry to bother you folks,” Saint says, his voice perfectly modulated, the picture of professional courtesy. But I can hear the testiness in it, a subtle, almost imperceptible undertone. He slowly brings his gaze to Shephard, his eyes lingering on me for just a second longer than necessary, a deliberate, silent promise of destruction.
Saint stops at the bottom step, his presence looming large even from a distance, radiating an unnerving power. “I’m just doing a standard patrol of the area and noticed you don’t have a visitor tag.” His words are casual, almost too casual, delivered with an ease that is utterly chilling.
Shephard tilts his head, confusion flickering across his face, a slight furrow appearing between his brows. “Visitor tag?” His voice is laced with surprise, a genuine bewilderment. I can see him trying to make sense of what’s happening, trying to fit this odd interaction into his comfortable, predictable world. He shrugs slightly. “We’ve been coming here for years.”
Saint nods, his expression never faltering, a perfect, unwavering mask.
“New county ordinance. All vehicles traveling in and out of the area now require a visitor tag. Standard procedure, just implemented this month.”
Shephard lets out a short, surprised laugh at the absurdity of needing a tag just to be here, on a public lake that isn’t even an official park. His chuckle is light and dismissive, as if he’s trying to brush off the strange encounter with casual humor.
I can’t even fake a smile right now. My mouth feels dry, like cotton, my hands trembling slightly as I clasp them together in front of me, trying to steady myself, trying to anchor myself in this rapidly destabilizing reality.
I know Saint is lying. Every fiber of my being screams it. There’s no requirement for a visitor tag in this area, and there never has been. We’ve been coming to this lake for years, and not once have we ever had to deal with something like this. He’s playing a dangerous game.
It’s a risky lie, an incredibly audacious one, that sends my mind spinning with a sickening mixture of questions and dread. What is he thinking? Does he really expect Shephard to believe this blatant fabrication? And more importantly, what’s his plan? What’s the next move in this terrifying chess game?
Saint has no idea how much Shephard does or doesn’t know about the local laws, or how much attention he pays to minor ordinances. He’s gambling on the hope that Shephard will take him at his word, that he’ll be too distracted or too trusting, too polite, to question it. And for a split second, a terrifying, hopeful second, I think it might work. Shephard doesn’t seem suspicious—just confused, a mild annoyance creasing his forehead.
“I didn’t realize,” Shephard says, his tone still casual, but there’s a slight furrow in his brow as he turns around to look at me, seeking confirmation. His expression is full of mild confusion, but there’s no alarm, no suspicion, no accusation. “Did you know this, Pet?”
I can feel Saint’s eyes on me, drilling into me with an intensity that makes it hard to breathe. I feel pinned to the doorframe by Shephard’s nickname for me being spoken in front of Saint.
Pet.
I swallow hard, as if every word I utter is going to betray me, to unravel the precarious lie. Saint is staring at me, hard, his gaze unwavering,
and I know this is a test. He’s watching to see how I’ll handle this, whether I’ll crumble under the pressure or play along, whether I’m a good enough actress.
This moment feels pivotal, like walking on a knife edge. One wrong word, one hesitant glance, could unravel everything I hold dear.
I nod, a stiff, barely perceptible movement, forcing my face into an expression of mild nonchalance, of detached understanding, even though inside, I’m falling apart, pieces of me splintering. I clear my throat, trying to push down the hot, painful lump forming there, fighting to keep my voice from breaking. “Yeah,” I say, my voice barely steady, a thin thread of sound. “It’s a new law. I . . . forgot to tell you.” The lie feels heavy on my tongue, sticking there, thick and repugnant, but I push it out, praying it sounds convincing enough, praying for his belief, for my salvation.
Shephard seems to accept my explanation without a second thought.
He even offers a small, rueful laugh. He tosses a hand toward me, his smile easy and relaxed, as if this is all just one big joke to him, a minor inconvenience, something to be amused by. “She forgot to tell me,”
Shephard says with a light laugh, the sound bubbling up as he looks back at Saint, as though he’s trying to break the awkwardness, to turn this strange, unsettling moment into something normal, something lighthearted. He’s hoping to get a smile out of Saint, a shared moment of masculine
understanding.
But he gets nothing.
Saint’s expression remains unchanged, a stoic mask. His gaze is fixed on me, unwavering, intense, dark and piercing. He’s not here to laugh, not here for polite social graces. He’s here to make a point. The air between us feels thick, suffocating, charged with unspoken menace, and I can’t tell if he’s acting, a master of deception, or if this is something darker.
Saint is still staring at me, his eyes narrowing slightly, as if he’s waiting for me to crack. Every second that passes feels like an eternity, the tension stretching and pulling until I feel like I might snap under the pressure.
“I’m only here for the night,” Shephard says, oblivious to the swirling undercurrents, the deadly game playing out right in front of him. He speaks calmly, still trying to be amiable, completely unaware of the storm brewing right in front of him. “My car will be gone by eight tomorrow morning. Can we let it slide this time?”
He’s just trying to be polite, to resolve a minor inconvenience, to wrap this bizarre conversation up and go back to the comfortable, predictable life we’ve built together, completely unaware that it’s all hanging by a single fraying thread.
Saint finally looks back at Shephard, his expression still hard, a chiseled mask of authority, but something in his posture shifts, a subtle easing of tension around his shoulders. He gives Shephard a tight nod, a curt, professional acknowledgment, his jaw clenched, a muscle jumping under his skin. “I’ll be back in the morning to make sure the car’s gone,”
Saint says, his voice flat, but his words are laced with something that feels like far more than just a promise. It’s almost as if it’s a warning, a subtle threat wrapped in the chilling formality of his professional tone. The way he says it sends an icy chill slithering down my spine, burrowing into my bones, and I know, with absolute, terrifying certainty, that he means every single word.
This isn’t just about Shephard’s car—it’s about control. It’s about letting me know that he’s not done, that this isn’t over, that I am still firmly within his grasp. Or maybe he just wants me to know he’s angry that I failed to mention I have a husband. The thought is a bitter, unwelcome taste in my mouth.
Shephard looks at me, raising an eyebrow, his expression a complicated mix of bemusement and disbelief, like he can’t quite believe what he’s hearing, or what he’s just witnessed. He doesn’t say it, not out loud, but I can see it in his eyes: This guy is crazy. This is beyond weird.
And for a terrifying, fleeting moment, I find myself agreeing with him. He might be right. This might be pure, unadulterated madness. But then I pull
myself back, a frantic mental tug.
No, this is Saint.
This is Cam.
I can’t tell.
The character and the muse are bleeding into each other like watercolors in a storm. I don’t know if Saint is just playing the jealous, possessive role of Cam right now, or if he’s crossed some unseen, dangerous boundary, if the character has consumed the man. Either way, the cold, sticky fear bubbling in my chest won’t go away, clinging to my ribs.
As if the moment couldn’t get any worse, I see a mop of orange curls on top of a silky dress making its way up the driveway.
“Are you kidding me?” I whisper, mostly under my breath, but
Shephard glances at me.
“Who is she?”
“Hi!” she sings, waving a wild hand. “Just going for a stroll and
thought I heard children!”
“The neighbor. Owner of the house.”
Saint’s eyes dart back to mine just as Mari reaches him. “Hello, there, Officer. Lovely to see you again.” Mari’s eyes move toward Shephard.
“And who are you?” she asks, reaching out a hand as she ascends the steps.
“I’m Mari.”
“Shephard. I’m Petra’s husband.”
Mari stops in her tracks. She looks at me. Then at Saint. Then back at Shephard. Then back at me. “Oh. How fun.”
Kill me now.
“I’ll be heading out,” Saint says, bringing me my first sigh of relief since Shephard showed up today. He tips his hat toward me, a slow, deliberate gesture, his eyes never leaving mine, drilling into me, holding me captive. “You two have a lovely night.” There’s something about the way he says it, that subtle curve of his mouth, like he’s amused by all this, by my terror, by Shephard’s cluelessness.
Then he turns and gives Mari a tip of his hat, his movements fluid and unhurried, and walks back toward his car, each step measured, like he knows exactly the impact he’s having, exactly how deeply he’s burrowing under my skin. He gets inside the black vehicle, a silent, predatory glide.
The air in my lungs feels thin, inadequate, but I exhale as much of it as I can afford to let out.
“And who are these two?” Mari asks, gesturing toward the doorway, where the girls are now standing.
“Andi and Chloe,” I say, my words clipped. “Mari, do you think you could come by another time? We were about to sit down to dinner.”
She blinks several times. Too many times. “I sure can. Just wanted to introduce myself to your company.” She looks toward Shephard. “If you need anything, please let me know. We’re just at the end of the road.”
“Sure will,” Shephard says.
As soon as Mari turns, I walk back inside the cabin, my hands shaking so violently I have to press them against my sides to control them as I close the door behind us. The latch clicks with an exaggerated finality. My legs
feel weak, like they might give out at any second, so I go straight for the wine rack, my trembling hands grabbing the bottle with a desperate urgency.
I pour myself a glass, the red liquid sloshing slightly over the rim. My thoughts are a jumbled mess of pure panic, searing regret, and the gnawing, terrifying realization that this situation is spiraling out of control faster than I can possibly manage, faster than I can even comprehend.
Shephard returns to the stove, shaking his head with a bewildered smile, a picture of blissful ignorance. “That was weird,” he says, his voice light, tinged with amusement, like he’s already dismissed the strange encounter, already moved past it and tucked it away into the “odd occurrences” file of his mind. He lights the flame under the pan again and stirs the pot on the stove, the garlic scent suddenly overwhelming, his back to me as he talks, his shoulders relaxed. “Wonder why they’re getting so strict around here all of a sudden.”
“I don’t know,” I mutter. My voice is tight, my throat constricted, dry and scratchy, but I force the response out, trying to sound as casual, as unbothered, as possible.
Shephard walks over to me, and his arms wrap around me in a warm, familiar embrace. He pulls me close, pressing a kiss to the top of my head, the scent of him, clean, comforting, safe, momentarily grounding me, even though my insides are still rattled, a chaotic tempest.
“I guess it’s a good thing with you being out here all alone,” he says, his voice soft, full of concern and love, a protective rumble in his chest.
He’s trying to reassure me, to make me feel safe, to be my anchor, but his words only make the panic claw deeper into my chest, a cold, sharp blade twisting. The irony is a bitter laugh caught in my throat. Alone. I have been far from alone.
I force a tight smile, the muscles in my face aching with the effort, nodding against him. “Yeah. It’s . . . comforting,” I say, the words coming out hollow, empty, devoid of any genuine emotion. I say that in my most convincing voice, the one I use for book signings and interviews, but every syllable feels like a blatant, painful lie. There’s nothing comforting about any of this. Not Saint showing up unannounced, not the chilling way he looked at me, not his deliberate lie, and certainly not the looming, terrifying threat of everything I’ve built, everything I cherish, crumbling down around me like a house of cards in a hurricane.
It’s disturbing. Profoundly, deeply disturbing.
