Page 3 of No One Can Know

His brow creased slightly, as if puzzled. Sometimes, she thought, she underestimated how well he knew her. He saidwe want kids, but maybe he knew that he wanted kids, and she said okay. “We’re out ten thousand dollars, and that wasallwe had. The down payment was supposed to be another loan. I’m unemployed. We’re getting kicked out at the end of the month. How are we supposed to raise a kid right now?” he asked.

“I don’t know.” Her hand became a fist against her belly.

He sat back in his chair, a look of consideration on his face. “What about your parents’ house?” he asked, and there was something odd in his tone—like he’d been waiting to bring it up all along.

“What about it?” Emma asked, instantly wary. Her stomach tightened with a feeling like dread.

“Well, we own it, don’t we?” he asked, eyebrow raised.

“Technically,wedon’t own anything. The trust does. You know I can’t do anything with the house unless Daphne and Juliette both agree.” They were the names of strangers in her mouth. “We can’t take out a mortgage on it or sell it or anything like that by ourselves.”

The way the trust had been set up, they hadn’t been able to do anything with the house until Daphne turned twenty-one. By then,none of them had spoken to one another in years. It was easier to go on ignoring one another’s existences. Ignoring the house, and the horrors it held.

“I’m not saying sell it—not yet, anyway. But there’s nothing to stop us from living there,” Nathan said. He looked excited. Here it was: the perfect solution to all of their problems. Emma’s heart was rabbit-quick. He stood. He crossed the floor, put his hands on her arms.

“We can’t,” she said. It felt like she was forcing the words out against something solid. She never thought of it as the house where she’d grown up. Only the house where her parents died.

“This is the perfect solution. We move into your folks’ old house. We fix it up, talk to your sisters about selling it, and then we can buy our own house. It’s ridiculous that you’ve all just left it sitting there empty,” he said.

“I can’t go back there,” Emma said, shaking her head. Not to the house. Not to Arden Hills.

He made a frustrated noise. “Why not? Come on, Emma. You’re not being rational. We need a place to live. You own a house. It’s not complicated.” He gathered her to him, her face pressed against his chest. She closed her eyes and breathed in the familiar scent of him. “If you want to have this baby, we have to do this. We’ll move into the house. We’ll figure things out.”

The button of his shirt dug into her cheek. She let him hold her, and said nothing.

Secrets shifted beneath her skin, ready to bloom.

Emma had never lied to Nathan about her past.

Not exactly.

She’d told him she had two sisters, one older and one younger, that they hadn’t spoken in years, that they had drifted apart after their parents died when she was sixteen. That they had inherited the house—four bedrooms, three bathrooms, two acres of land.

That Juliette, already eighteen when their parents died, had left for college and never came back. That Emma and Daphne had been shuffled off into foster care—split up and then spit out.

He’d asked how her parents died. Of course he had. Delicately, pressing a kiss against her shoulder, his hand against her hip, because that was the only time she ever talked to him about her past—stripped bare in the dark, looking anywhere but into his eyes.

She hadn’t lied.

She’d let him lie for her.

“Was it an accident?” he’d asked.

“They never found the person,” she had said, and let him think it was the answer to his question. Let him imagine screeching tires and winding roads.

Now, after the sun had set and they’d retreated to bed, she fixed her eyes on the slanted light from the street that stole through the blinds.

“My parents didn’t die in an accident,” she said. She felt him shift behind her, felt the weight of his attention. “They were murdered.”

“Your parents were murdered?” Nathan asked, hurt and accusation and bewilderment braided together plainly in his voice. She could read every strand. She turned, finally, to face him, but the shadows stole the contours of his expression from her.

In the safety of the dark, she told him. How they had died in the house. Been shot. A bullet to the brain, a bullet to the heart. A missing gun.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked.

“I didn’t want that to be what you knew about me,” she said. “I didn’t want to think about it.”

He was silent. She could feel something between them, a rebalancing. His mistake weighed against her secret.

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