Page 61 of Surrender

“What if she already knows?” Her frightened, wide eyes hold mine. “What if his family is in on it? What if they’ve been helping him?” she whispers.

“It won’t make a difference. It’s still wrong.”

“But they would have lied to me.” Her chin wobbles. She seems to shake herself out of it. “No. Alice wouldn’t do that.”

I gently squeeze her knee and shut her in. The sooner I can get her home, the sooner she can sleep this night off and analyze it with a fresh mind.

The moment the engine fires to life, she fills me in on what happened before I got there.

“I feel like an idiot.”

“You have no reason to feel like an idiot, Whitney. This isn’t your fault.”

“He had guys watching the house. I should have known he was into something bad. I should have done something.”

“What could you have done? Were you going to call the cops on your husband?”

“Maybe. If it meant keeping my kids safe.”

“Did he tell you what he was doing?”

“No.” She curls her feet onto the seat and leans against the center console. “He was a freaking accountant. I don’t even know how he did it. How does someone fake their own death? There was... there’s... I have a certificate even. It was sworn, stamped, and certified that he was dead.”

I pull into my driveway and kill the engine. Her lids are half closed as she stares at nothing.By the time I round the hood and open her door, she’s half asleep.

“Come on, pretty girl. Let’s get you into bed.”

I pick her up around her back and under her knees. Her head falls against my chest, tucked beneath my chin. Her floral perfume is growing familiar, sparking something primal and protective. Snow crunches beneath my boots on the trek to the door, and the whirr of the garage closing encases us in darkness.

With her securely in my arms, I walk through the unlit halls to my bedroom and lay her gently on the bed. She tucks herself into a ball and faces the middle, hands beneath her cheek.

I make quick work of her heeled boots, dropping them to the floor one at a time with a muted thud. Undressing her further would be a violation, so I just pull the comforter to her chin.

As I turn to leave, her hand shoots out of the blanket and grabs my wrist with surprising strength. A burning touch.

“Don’t go.”

“I’m not leaving. I’ll sleep in the other room.”

“Sleep here. I don’t want to be alone.”

My heart stalls before doubling its beat. Sleeping next to her is okay, right? The war in my mind lasts all of thirty seconds before I’m toeing off my boots. “Let me lock up. I’ll be right back.”

She nods sleepily, and her breathing evens out.

I do as I said I would before grabbing a stack of clothes to sleep in and change in the bathroom. On the way to the other side of the bed, my pulse trips over itself. I could back out now. I could go sleep on the recliner as I originally planned. But her sweet voice when she asked me to stay rings in my head.

She’s been let down enough tonight. I don’t want to be another on that list.

And if she regrets it in the morning?

I’ll make sure there’s nothing for her to regret.

17

Whitney

You’d think I’d have learned not to drink so much by my mid-thirties. Though it seems the older I get, the quantity doesn’t matter. I’m going to wind up with a shitty hangover whether I had a glass of wine or did a line of shots—even if I can’t remember the last time I did a line of shots.

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