Page 95 of The Art of Dying

“Your kids are great.” He paused. “I was uh… I was actually asking about the sitter because I was wondering if you’d be up to grab dinner sometime?”

“I… I’m flattered, really, but… it’s not about the sitter. I’m married.”

“Trust me, I know the conflicting emotions you probably feel about moving on. But I guess at some point we have to. Listen,” he said, taking a step toward me. “I didn’t think I’d look twice at another woman again, but… I don’t know. There’s something about you, Karen, and I’d really like to get to know you better.”

His use of my name made me inwardly cringe. “I appreciate that. I really do, and I think you’re great.”

He grinned, trying to hide his disappointment. “But?”

I sighed. “I don’t have to move on. I don’t want to. I’m still in love with my husband, and whether he’s here or not, there’s no one else I want to be with. I know that probably doesn’t make sense to you, but that’s the way I feel and it’s not going to change.”

His head fell and then he looked up at me with another forced smile. “I respect that. But… if in the very unlikely chance you change your mind, please let me know.”

I pressed my lips together. “Have a good night.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, backing up a few steps before turning around and closing the door behind him.

I followed, turning the bolt lock.

“Mom?” Dylan called from the hall.

I turned and smiled. “Did you brush your teeth?”

“Oh!” he said, running into the bathroom.

“Emma?” I called, slowly walking across the living room. “Your turn!” Exhaustion had begun to settle in, and I was glad. Kitsch finally having the journal in his hands was huge. If he found Mason, he could be home tomorrow, or I could get a call that he’d been arrested, injured, or worse. Still, I couldn’t allow myself to hope.

I’d been desperate for the day Kitsch finally removed the threat that was Mason Hughes. But to do that, he’d be risking his life. The only thing I was sure of was that, once Kitsch had the journal, the next time the phone rang, it could change our lives forever.

My mind swirled around those thoughts through bath time and tucking in the kids. I could barely focus on my reading ofThe Wonky Donkey. Even Dylan mentioned that my sounds and facial expressions weren’t my best work.

I stood under the steaming stream of the shower too long and then slipped on my favorite, thin microfleece sweatshirt and matching sky-blue sleep shorts. My 9mm was ready and hidden away in a touchpad lock box in the bottom drawer of my nightstand, my slip-on sneakers by the door, next to a small black duffle. I toggled the security system on with the app on my phone and climbed into bed and under the comforter I didn’t choose, lying on sheets I didn’t buy.

Even after going over the checklist of the following day’s to-do’s, a meditation exercise, and telling myself I was prepared for the night, my brain wouldn’t shut up. I worried about Kitsch finally confronting Mason, if he would just take the shot or they’d have one final conversation. Then, an intrusive thought pushed its way through my fantasies of life returning to normal. Envisioning hiding it in a box in the furthest corner of my mind didn’t work; instead, it stared me in the face. What if Kitsch didn’t walk away? What if Mason was expecting him? What if Kitsch was surprised? What if Mason or his thug friends killed my husband and we were left defenseless? Would Tiger continue to bankroll our disappearance and protection if Kitsch wasn’t hunting down the man who also threatened his family?

My phone pinged. It was Gina texting to ask if I was still awake, and if so, to call.

I pressed her number and waited, not long of course, because as always, she picked up on the first ring.

“So,” she said. By her tone, I already knew what her next words would be. “Tobin.”

“What about him?” I asked, rubbing my forehead.

“You’re on speakerphone, by the way.”

“Hi, Grant,” I said.

“Did you let him down easy?” Grant asked, amusement dripping from his voice.

“I think so,” I said. “He accepted it quicker than most, for obvious reasons.”

“What are the odds?” Gina asked. “That a widower would move in across the street? A hot one at that…”

“Hey,” Grant protested.

She chuckled. “Just checking to see how you felt. You did great, by the way. You have nothing to worry about meeting Doug and Lori.”

“Speaking of friends… did you hear anything more on Alecia? Did he say how she was?”

---