Page 73 of The Silent Hour

“I want to know exactly what perfume Lila wears. Brand, fragrance notes—everything. And her go-to lipstick shade. Plus, I need her address.”

Carmen’s brow shot up; Toya peered over her glass. “Are we building a murder basket?” she asked with a half-smile.

“No,” I said, and I meant it. “This isn’t about hurting her.”

Serena’s amusement faded, replaced by her customary steel.

“I want information. Because right now, I don’t know what we’re dealing with—and I’m not going in blind.”

Serena tapped her chin, then nodded. “I can get it. Discreetly.”

I paused, swirling the last of my wine. “Another thing—I checked the Marinos’ history. Neither of the women connected to the family before this ended well. One died, the other vanished without a trace.”

Carmen leaned in, concern creasing her brow. “What do you mean?”

“One funeral nobody attended,” I said softly, “and one empty apartment that’s gone cold—hardly any paper trail. I’m not accusing Lila of anything, but it tells me something about the world she belongs to. And now that world has reached into mine.”

I set down my glass with purpose. “I’m not waiting for the next shoe to drop before I start paying attention.”

Carmen placed a steady hand on mine. “If you ever want more eyes on her, just say the word. It never hurts to know where the pieces are.”

“That’s all I want.” I offered her a grateful smile.

Toya pointed a playful finger. “And if shit ever stops being theoretical—midnight, three in the morning, peak crisis time—you call me. I won’t be stuck at home twiddling my thumbs while you bitches form the Avengers.”

“Noted,” I promised, the slant of their solidarity warming me against the unknowns gathering just beyond the patio’s shaded edge.

Their quiet confidence settled a tension I hadn’t even realized was coiled inside me. I wasn’t gathering evidence to accuse Lila; I was fashioning safety nets—multiple, unbreakable contingencies—just in case.

Mehgan was already crawling through records and whispers on my behalf, and I’d spent every spare minute tracing my own lines of inquiry. Not because I believed Ethan was lying. Not because I suspected Lila had been strategically slipped into his firm. And certainly not because I thought my husband was one wayward look away from forgetting our vows.

I trusted Ethan with my whole heart. I also trusted myself enough not to confuse devotion with naïveté or doubt my intuition telling me to be on guard.

Some women swore they’d never sift through a partner’s phone or track a location or notice if his clothes carried someone else’s fragrance—because if you had to check, the relationship was already dead.

Fine for them, but not for me. I had never caught another woman’s perfume clinging to Ethan’s collar, and I prayed I never would. If that day came, I wanted to know the name of the floral top note before I called it betrayal. If a rogue swipe of lipstick ever imprinted itself on his skin, I wanted to identify its exact shade.

If Ethan slipped away to Lila’s house without Laurel or Serena or Eric in tow, I wanted a map pinpointing her doorstep before I had to ask. He already shared his location with me; I shared mine with him. That was Tuesday in our marriage—not paranoia, but partnership.

Did I believe my husband would ever stray? No.

Ethan wasn’t a man who chased cheap thrills or fleeting fantasies. But I’d inherited my mother’s instinct: love someone fiercely, and still build a fortress around your own heart. One shielded your feelings; the other protected your ass. Maybe it sounded clinical. It wasn’t.

I loved Ethan Marcelli with a devotion so profound it sometimes made me scared. He’d been my refuge, my collaborator, my closest friend, the father of my children—the steady beat I recognized even in a crowded room. If he ever became the one to shatter that life, I would crumble. I would unleash a rage so fierce it might destroy something priceless—and I’d feel no shame.

If Ethan ever chose someone else, that would be his rupture to make. What happened afterward would belong to me. That truth lay crisp and chilling in my mind. I did not want that future, and I was certain it wasn’t looming. Yet even knowing I could survive it gave me a terrifying kind of freedom.

This wasn’t really about Lila. She might turn out to be nothing more than an overambitious associate with a terrible draw in sperm donors—and I hoped she was. Because the alternative suggested something far larger had crept through my family’s life without any of us noticing.

I glanced toward the house. Somewhere behind those walls, Ethan sat with his father and the men he trusted most, piecing together dossiers, legal strategy, surveillance footage, and whatever Dominic Cortez had laid on the table.

I had my own designs unfolding in parallel. His plans safeguarded the firm; mine would shield our family. The scales remained locked in perfect balance, for now. I wasn’t planning to tip them.

If someone else did, I would make sure I stood on the side that survived the fall.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

ETHAN