Page 32 of The Silent Hour

In the years between marrying Julia and building a life with her, I'd grown too accustomed to being the one standing between my family and the darkness that I no longer questioned which side of that line she belonged on. I'd sell my soul to make sure that never changed.

I just never considered what might happen if I was the one who changed it.

CHAPTER TEN

JULIA

THE MORNING UNFOLDED without incident.

I guided the Big Ange into Palm Crest Academy's drop-off queue, South Florida's October sun already warming the leather seats as the sound of my daughters bickering filled the back.

"Love you, Mama!" Ellie announced, already halfway out the door the second I clicked off the safety locks, her backpack swinging behind her.

"Love you more, Ella-Bella," I called after her.

Aria took her time, fussing with her headband like it was a crown. Just before sliding out, she turned and blew me a kiss. I caught it and blew one back. She shut the door a little harder than necessary before hurrying to catch up with her sister.

I checked my mirrors and caught sight of Latoya's gleaming black Range Rover a few spaces behind me in line, her tinted window rolled down just far enough for her to wave at me and a few other moms with the languid grace of royalty acknowledging peasants.

I suppressed a laugh because I knew the deliberately prolonged gesture was aimed at the platinum-blonde mom in the sporty car behind her, who'd snubbed us both at last month's fundraiser.

My girls had already disappeared into the stream of uniforms, so I pulled away, giving Mrs. Carmichael, crossing guard extraordinaire and unofficial guardian of carpool, a smile and wave.

From there, it was a quick run to Publix, where the air-conditioning hit like a wall of relief after the humid October heat I'd fought across the parking lot and had me considering adding some powder under my tits.

I navigated the polished aisles past pyramids of gleaming produce, tossing romaine hearts and plump cherry tomatoes into my cart alongside a bag of Honeycrisp apples that would last exactly three days in our household.

In the snack aisle, I lingered over the blue packaging of Double Stuffed Oreos, my midnight weakness, and the salted caramel chocolate bars I kept hidden behind the quinoa before grabbing both. I turned into the next aisle, the front right wheel of my cart making an irritating squeak-thump with every rotation.

"Julia?"

The sound of my name froze my fingers mid-reach. I glanced over and nearly tripped into my cart. Elena Dawson.

Her hair was different. Shorter and lighter now, a honey-blonde bob she was rocking, framing her face in a way that made her blue eyes seem larger, more vulnerable, nut it was unmistakably her, standing a few feet away with a shopping basket hooked over one forearm.

"Elena. Hey!" I greeted with automatic brightness, fixing a smile onto my face while my mind raced.

What else was I supposed to say? Oh, hey! Heard about your shitty husband. If you're interested, Carmen has a shovel, and I have a boat. You remember Carmen, right?

She blinked before breaking into a smile that didn't quite reach the puffy skin beneath her eyes.

"You are gorgeous as ever. Haven't aged a bit."

"Says you," I replied, noticing the faint tremor in her hands as she clutched the basket.

She scoffed, the sound hollow. "It's the makeup. I spend so much time crying, I'm surprised I don't resemble a raccoon on meth. My bathroom counter looks like a Sephora exploded."

My mouth opened, ready with the polite, sugar-coated Oh, you look fine, but I stopped myself. That wasn't me.

"Yeah," I agreed gently instead. "You look like hell, but you also got yourself out of bed and out into the world. That counts for something."

Her lips parted, a laugh that was half bitter, half grateful slipping free. "Thanks for that. And thanks for not running the other way like having an asshole for a husband is contagious."

"Wait. What do you mean?" My brows pulled together. "Someone did that?"

"A few," she admitted, her eyes dropping to the speckled linoleum as though she were embarrassed to even say it aloud. The weight of it sat heavily on her face, sharper than the concealer could hide beneath the harsh grocery-store lighting.

"Well, fuck those bitc..." I caught myself as a woman in a pressed linen dress rounded the corner with a little girl sporting matching pigtails. "Ladies."