Total pages in book: 205
Estimated words: 204377 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1022(@200wpm)___ 818(@250wpm)___ 681(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 204377 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1022(@200wpm)___ 818(@250wpm)___ 681(@300wpm)
I shake the rainwater from my hair and tap a code into the keypad. The back door unlocks, and I wait, listening.
Silence greets me from the main floor.
Upstairs, her footsteps pace.
I step inside.
The security is standard, out of the box. Keypads on doors. Easy-to-guess passcodes. Sensors on windows. Motion detectors on the docks. When visitors arrive by boat, the homeowner is notified. If a door is breached without the proper code, the authorities are notified.
Basic protection.
Arrogant, really.
As if the surrounding ocean somehow serves as an impenetrable moat. As if no one could make the short swim from Sitka through frigid waters and figure out the security key code.
No one but me.
And no one will ever know I was here.
I enter the mudroom and slide my feet into a discarded pair of sheepskin slippers. Size twelve, same as me. But I already knew that.
There are no security cameras on the property. Except the ones I hid inside and around the home during my last unnoticed visit.
All employees are gone for the night.
As for the owner of these slippers? Well, he’s working late at his office in downtown Sitka. I have cameras there, too.
There’s not a soul on this island but me.
And Frankie Novak.
I stroll through the sprawling estate and collect all the cameras I hid here ages ago, storing them in my waterproof bag. There’s a camera in nearly every room, and there are a lot of rooms.
Jesus, just look at this place. Glittering with high-end art and electronics, it’s a technicolor yawn of shiny things that serve no practical purpose.
I mean, why are there swords on the wall? He doesn’t know how to use them. He can’t even bother with a decent security system.
He can’t protect the only irreplaceable thing in this house.
I find her in the primary bedroom.
Her back is to me, her bourbon on the nightstand, the glass full. She poured it earlier, never intending to drink it. Not tonight.
She’s at the window again, her despair demanding she keep vigilance. Watching the dock. Waiting for him. He should’ve been home an hour ago.
She doesn’t know he’s still at the office, his shoes cast aside, tie hanging loose, nursing his own bourbon. Deliberately stalling. He won’t be heading home anytime soon.
I know she’s desperate to resolve the argument they had this morning. But he’s not going to fix this.
He’s never going to see her again.
I unravel the coil of rope in my hand.
She doesn’t hear me. Not the hammer of my heart. Not the whoosh of my blood. Not the tread of my borrowed slippers as I close the distance.
Another step, and another, softly, carefully, until I smell the cherry perfume on her skin. So close. My breath stirs her hair.
Her shoulders hitch, and her entire body goes still.
Now she knows.
Turning slowly, stiffly, she brings her eyes around to mine. They widen, the whites bright with shock. Then they narrow to murderous slits.
Oh, the ferocity. She’s a fighter, this one.
I hope I don’t have to kill her and ruin everything.
“Don’t struggle.” I pull the rope taut between my gloved hands. “This will only hurt a little.”
1
Frankie
—
Ten hours earlier
A seething, ugly hurt ruptures in my chest. I swallow it, choke on it, and more wet sounds bubble out.
Dammit, I’m not a crier. Never in front of someone. Not even my husband. I’d rather rage and scream and break things. Even now, my hands tremble with violence. But I’m too deeply wounded, my emotions too painfully raw and vulnerable. I can’t stop this shit from turning into tears.
Meanwhile, the love of my life stares at me like he doesn’t recognize me, like he’s seconds from running away and scrubbing our marriage from his memory.
Too fucking bad. He caused this—as only he can—and by God, he’s going to deal with it.
“You’re not leaving, Monty.” I fling the plastic test stick at his chest and watch it clatter to the floor. “You’re going to take the day off work so we can talk about it.”
“Wrong.” He steps to the mirror and cinches the knot on his tie, his tone icy, unbending. “The Mountain View office is understaffed. I’m dealing with labor strikes on the East Coast, auditing deadlines in the U.K., and frankly, I don’t have the energy for…” He directs a finger at my tear-soaked face. “This.”
My black state of mind darkens with each word. I love my husband. Deeply. Devoutly. But sometimes, his coldness makes me question my life choices.
As if falling in love with him had ever been a choice.
“This…” I press a hand to my flat tummy, fingers splayed to cradle the fragile new heartbeat within. “This takes precedence over everything.”
“I don’t know how much clearer I can be. I was clear when we met. I was clear when we married. I was crystal fucking clear this morning when you blindsided me with this news.” He paces past me, crushing the pregnancy test stick beneath his shiny shoe. “No children, Frankie. That’s what I said the very first night we fucked, and you agreed. I haven’t changed my mind, not once, in three years. No goddamn kids. No discussion. No exceptions.” He vanishes within the depths of the closet and emerges seconds later, shrugging on a suit jacket. “I’ll schedule the doctor’s appointment. I’ll hold your hand during the procedure. Then we’ll move forward like it never happened.”