Page 31

I watched her open the closet and reach for the kit, standing on her toes the way she always had, muttering under her breath when the box didn’t come down easily.

I knew I should tell her no. I knew I should insist she go back to her safe little apartment in Gatlinburg with its walls covered in drawings and its distance from me.

Instead, I eased myself back onto the couch and waited for her to come back, feeling something I hadn’t let myself feel in a very long time.

Hope.

Chapter Seven

I woke up to the wrong ceiling.

For half a second my brain tried to insist I was in my little Gatlinburg apartment, with its slightly stained popcorn ceiling and the faint hum of my neighbor’s television through the wall. Then the shadows sharpened into smooth white paint and the familiar crack that ran from the vent toward the corner.

Our house.

My chest squeezed.

I lay there in the guest room, listening hard. The house sounded like it always had in the mornings—quiet, but not empty. The soft tick of the hallway clock. The faint whoosh of the fridge cycling. No clatter of dishes. No water running.

He was awake. I could feel it, the way you can feel a storm before it hits.

I stared at the ceiling another beat, then threw back the covers. The guest bed was made up with fresh sheets, like everything else in the house—too crisp, too laundry fresh.

My man had turned into a Martha Stewart, and it was up to me to find out why.

I slid my feet to the floor and tiptoed into the hallway, ears straining for any sign of Zarek.

Nothing.

Bathroom first. My bladder was not interested in emotional timing.

The hall bathroom was exactly where I’d left it in another life, but not how I’d left it. The counter was clear. No stray contacts case, no beard trimmer, no toothpaste cap abandoned in a tiny glob of minty paste. The hand towel was folded over the bar with geometric precision.

I shut the door and did my business, then turned to the sink and opened the top drawer, muscle memory leading the way.

Empty.

Second drawer. Extra hand towels, neatly rolled. Third drawer, cleaning supplies lined up like soldiers.

I stared at the pristine rows of spray bottles and sponges, then back at my reflection.

“Seriously?” I muttered. “Now you decide to be organized?”

My mouth felt gross. Yesterday’s lasagna and stress. I checked the medicine cabinet, hoping for a spare travel kit, a hotel toothbrush, something.

Nothing.

Gah. What was wrong with me?

Of course there wouldn’t be some secret stash of feminine products and spare toothbrushes. Zarek was the most faithful man on the planet.

Still. A spare toothbrush would’ve been convenient.

I cupped my hand under the faucet and finger-brushed my teeth with water like a college kid who’d forgotten her overnight bag, swishing and spitting until I felt marginally less gross.

There was a knock on the door.

“Chloe?”