Page 118 of The Locksmith's Promise

Deprived my son of his father.

Hurt Baxter worse than he ever had before.

And broke Jenny.

Grief swelled in my chest, expanding to fill every bit of space not occupied by regret. Its heavy, aching presence near suffocating me.

She continued, her voice flat. “I woke up alone in Baxter’s bed, my head splitting. I pulled my clothes on and left. I just wanted to get home to Deacon.”

“What happened with him?” I asked softly.

She shook her head and pressed her lips together. “That’s a different story for another time. I went to the hospital, and they confirmed I’d been drugged. No sign of rape, but they did a test and gave me the morning after pill just in case.”

She’d faced a nightmare, and she’d faced it alone.

As had Bax.

I raised my eyes to hers. “Did you go to Sergeant Elliott?”

She nodded. “I planned to press charges, but after you left, Baxter nearly killed him.” Her lip curled. “That bastard threatened to press charges against Bax. Baxter would have gone to jail for attempted murder, Maggie.”

Prison for attempted murder.

My sweet Baxter who dreamed of us having our own house.

Who longed for his own key so badly he inked it onto his ribs.

I pressed my fingers over my mouth and breathed, “Oh my God.”

“I told Sergeant Elliott what he did to us, gave him copies of my hospital report, and told him what I wanted. He took it to Baxter’s father and made a deal.”

“What was the deal?” I whispered.

“He drops his charges, I drop mine,” she murmured. “And Baxter had to leave town. If he stepped foot in Moose Lake, his father would renege on the deal.” She raised her eyes to mine. “Never in a million years did it occur to me he wouldn’t track you down and explain. I thought he knew what happened, but I think he blocked it out.”

Her soft eyes implored me. “Maggie, I’m not telling you to accept him or his past. But you need to stop holding it over his head like a guillotine. Forgive him. Or let him go. He deserves happiness.”

Forgive him?

He wasn’t the one who needed it.

She pressed her lips together in a thin line. “And so do you.”

“Jenny,” I whispered, shattered to the depths of my soul. “I’m so sorry.”

She sniffed, a hint of anger warring with grief flashing in her eyes. “I never would have done that to you, Maggie. And even if I tried, he would have never.”

The scene I walked in on filled my mind.

Jenny’s face as white and bloodless as the pillow beneath her head.

The kitchen chair knocked over on its side.

A coil of rope peeking out from under the bed.

Baxter laying twisted up in the sheets, his face lax.

And I left him.

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