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“This can’t happen. I have a job. My patients need me. And Chase’s nanny just quit. She said she didn’t sign up for police and ambulances. She did it over text so I didn’t have a chance to talk her into staying.” I pull away from him and fall into a chair next to the table. As if passing out didn’t exhaust me enough, my husband hiring a hitman has put me over the edge. “She was probably tired of Chase’s nonstop chatter. I think she was looking for a reason to quit. The DEA escorting her from the park was the perfect reason. Not that being thrown into the middle of a murder-for-hire scenario wouldn’t have done the job on its own. It doesn’t matter how well I pay. And I pay really well.”

Micah stares down at me. “You cannot ignore this. It might shake your life up, but you need to take it seriously. The people your husband was working with are no joke. They are not the kind of people who don’t follow through on a job. In their world, they get killed for shit like that.”

My head swirls with details that I’m not mentally prepared to deal with. “It’s not like I can work from home. I need to be in the office with my patients and check in on them in the hospital. And now I’m without childcare.”

“Childcare should be the last of your worries right now. You need security around the clock.”

“Security? How will I be able to work? Shit.” I run my fingers through my hair and wonder how much worse this day can get. “Where did he get the money for this? Especially cash? I have alerts on every bank account we have. I wouldn’t miss that much being withdrawn.”

When Micah goes silent, I look up and find him studying me.

“What?” I demand.

“You really have no idea.” It’s a statement, not a question.

“Agent Emmett, I work long hours. I have one afternoon off a week, and I’m on call every third weekend. Even when I’m not on call, I check on my patients if they’re in the hospital. Asking Jeff for a divorce was enough to shake up my life. This is so much more. To say that I have no idea is an understatement.”

He runs a hand through his hair, and the expression on his face gives new meaning to the word frustration. “Your husband has been running drugs from the Bahamas for one of the biggest cocaine distributors in Central America. He’s been under surveillance for the last couple months.”

All thoughts of security and child care escape my mind. “Running drugs?”

He tips his head and hikes a brow. “Your husband found a way to make some extra cash while playing with his big boy toys.”

“The boat,” I whisper.

“I’ve never seen a Colombian drug cartel offer direct deposits, so I think that’s a safe assumption.” This time Micah shrugs. “He wasn’t exactly a stay-at-home dad like he wanted you to believe.”

Anger replaces the hurt that coursed through me just moments ago. We bought that boat right after Chase was born. He talked about it my entire pregnancy. Things were better then.

Was our marriage ever picture perfect?

Hell no.

But it started to spiral after we had Chase. Jeff was never happy and didn’t like our new life that was consumed by a bundle of joy. Though consumed wasn’t his word.

It was more like dragged down. Boring. I think once he told me our family sucked the life out of him.

I finally relented and gave in to getting the boat. He still had a job then, a decent one. And since the house was a wedding present from my parents, fifty feet of luxury in an ocean cruiser wasn’t out of our pay scale, though it was unnecessary.

That boat magically solved every first-world problem in Jeff’s life. He stopped complaining, but he also stopped being present. Looking back, I never once complained.

I might have acted as a single parent most of the time, but I wasn’t unhappy with the newfound peace that boat offered me.

“I guess it’s good to know I don’t need to petition for Jeff to split his drug-running 401k with me in the divorce.” I pull in a deep breath and stand. “Is there anything else I should know before I go home, deal with my lack of child care, my patients who need and trust me, and security to keep my son and myself alive?”

The room is small. I’m so close to the agent, that when he crosses his arms, it’s all I can do not to let my eyes wander to his thick, tattooed forearms to study the artwork. Growing up in the pretentious home of my parents, tattoos were unacceptable. My brother came back from spring break his junior year of college with a small piece of art on his shoulder blade, and I thought my mother was going to have to be committed she was so beside her straight-laced self.

On one arm, his sleeve disappears into his T-shirt. It’s a cracked Roman numeral clock—intricate and dark—snaked with thorns and vines that are just as elaborate, but not at all beautiful.

If I’m being honest, they’re eerie.

I’m fascinated.

It starts at his wrist, and I really want to know where it ends.

The tat on his other arm starts at his wrist and fades at the thickest part of his forearm. It’s a compass, but it’s not pointing north.

It’s pointing south.

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