Chapter One

Karen Cappelletti visualized the Glock cradled in the palm of her hand, contemplating her next step. She felt her index finger resting on the thin, cool metal strip. Felt the firm tug as she pulled it back. The jolt of it firing. The lingering smoky, sulfurous aroma. A hot metallic slug whizzing through the air, penetrating that thick, insensitive, self-absorbed brain.

Her foot slammed onto the brake pedal—following an abrupt refocus to the present—saving her vehicle from hitting the car ahead of her, still stopped at the green light. Clutching a travel mug filled to the rim with coffee and billowing steam, the scalding liquid flew onto her wrist, just missing the cuff of a freshly pressed white button-down. Damn it, Capp! Get your shit together. You’re a goddamn detective. Act like it.

Karen berated herself, perturbed for allowing her muddled thoughts to create such a distraction—a distraction created by that early morning text. A text. Not even the courtesy of a phone call. She glared at the innocent electronic device sitting on the passenger seat. No phone call, no apology, just a fucking text. Her mind drifted back to earlier that morning. It started out like a punch to the gut, sucking the air right out of her at a time when she felt most vulnerable. Follow through, she fumed. Be reliable. Act like you care, for once.

Torn between frustration and rage, depression and defeat, she eased her way through the intersection. The effortless five-minute drive from home to work took her through Parks Ford’s business district, past the quaint shops and mom-and-pop restaurants on Market Street. Moments later, she turned onto the curved driveway of the town’s police station. A grassy area surrounded the driveway and buildings, a pleasant, peaceful appearance, not to mention a delightful scent of fresh-cut grass every Thursday. This day was different, though.

Today, she was met with the sight of a raucous crowd gathered outside the county courthouse, a mere half block from Karen’s office. They packed the parking lot shared by both the town and county municipal buildings and spilled into the open space in front of the police station, leaving Karen circling to find a parking space. Finally parked, she headed to her department’s building, elbowing her way through the noisy throng just to get to the front doors.

As she pushed through, she noted the signs protesters elevated in the air. Residents of this small town outside of Philadelphia were vehemently opposing the release of a prisoner in the county’s jail. She passed by television cameras, listening as town residents spoke to reporters of Kenny McPherson’s drunken rages and numerous minor assault charges. They spoke of his wife’s bruises. Reporters looking for a tasty soundbite found residents expressing fear over what Kenny might do once he was free. This sleepy suburban community—hard-working and close-knit, a town where you grew up learning right from wrong quickly—never wanted to see Kenny again.

In an even, deliberate fashion, Karen proceeded up the cement steps of the old, two-story stone building. The multipaned colonial-style windows along the left side of the building spoke to its nineteenth-century roots. She slipped through the glass double doors of the police station, the sound of the crowd fading as the door clicked closed. A palpable stillness surrounded her.

Standing in the silence, she felt a knot twist deep in her gut. Kenny McPherson. The man Karen herself had arrested ten years prior. Her mind revisited the news anchor’s comments about Kenny’s crimes. Felony assault after attacking his wife with a knife. She recalled how the assault left a gaping, three-inch wound across the woman’s left cheek. This news felt personal.

With a deep sigh, she trekked down the hushed hallway to her office, the thud of her Blundstones bouncing off the linoleum flooring. A clear picture of what her day would likely entail illuminated memories of Kenny’s arrest, the scar on her right forearm a grim reminder. Her uneasiness felt like a black cloud forming in the cloudless sky and abundant sunshine beaming through her office window.

For the past year, this four-point-two-square-mile town had been dealing with a flurry of banal but annoying issues requiring police activity and worsening during the summer months with children out of school. And even though Parks Ford was the county seat, their pocket-sized police department only had twelve patrol officers.

With Labor Day complete and early October beckoning, the town had returned to a peaceful calm, unpleasant for a single divorcée detective with empty-nest syndrome in need of a distraction. She sat in the silence of her office watching the second hand perform laps on the wall clock.

Breaking her vacant, mesmerized stare, her hollow gaze pivoted to the corner of her desk and Caiden’s graduation picture. Her precious little girl, her head full of loose, auburn curls. She had desperately hoped Caiden would stay local for school, but a lucrative scholarship to the Fashion Institute of Technology had pulled her away from a town that no one ever left.

She sighed over the original reason for the emptiness at home and in her life. The predictable demise of her eight-year marriage and now—after fourteen years of dating rather aimlessly—another dysfunctional relationship, this time with a thirty-four-year-old physician’s assistant, ten years her junior, who had opted for travel work assignments. Miles had promised to return home after Caiden left. His one-line text message stating he was extending his current work trip an additional three months left a sickening pit in her stomach. Another letdown. One of many.

Her tidy, sunlit office was a far cry from the mess swirling inside her head. Even after the morning’s disappointment, she felt reluctant to throw in the towel on yet another relationship. She took pride in her ability to persist through obstacles. It served her well in her career—surely it would be a useful skill in fixing her dysfunctional relationships.

The chief of police lumbered in, interrupting her faraway trance.

“What the hell?” Karen motioned to the crowd outside.

“You’ve heard?” Chief Walden said, his wide-shouldered, six-foot frame taking up the entire doorway to her office.

She nodded. “Hard to believe it’s been ten years.”

“Town’s been causing a stir. Even signed petitions. Might see a protest at the prison tomorrow.” A routine even-tempered look came over his aged, pale face, complete with graying chin whiskers and a maze of wrinkles, each with its own story. “They don’t want him out, and they don’t want him here.”

“Can you blame them? You know this town. They remember his shit.”

Walden let out a muted snort. “Only place I’ve worked where children grow up and leave home to move a few blocks away. It’s incestuous.”

“People here may know your business, but they don’t judge.” She felt a need to defend her lifelong residence. “You’re judged on your character. Kenny’s being judged on years of atrocious actions.”

“Just read through the old file. He sent his wife to the hospital.”

“Yup. Ambulance and several squad cars got there ahead of me. I remember coming down the street as they were loading her into the bus.”

“One of his drunken rages?”

Karen shrugged. “Marianne said he waved a knife at her. Neighbors said she ran outside, blood streaming down her face…screaming. Kenny staggered out next. Apparently, a neighbor kept him back with a baseball bat.”

“Lucky you didn’t end up with her in that bus.”

Karen groaned.

“Heard you took it on the arm.”

“Forearm. Ruined my favorite button-down.” A laugh quivered in the back of her throat. She felt a phantom ache deep in her arm.

“How’d it happen?”

“Rookie officer was with me. His sloppy procedural move.” She glanced away, her chest tightening. “Let down his guard while cuffing him. Turned Kenny around, right where the knife was on the counter. I was reading him his rights.” She snorted. “Couldn’t handle a woman collaring his misogynistic ass.”

Walden scowled. He scratched his thinning hair, shaking his head. “Lucky it wasn’t worse.”

“No kidding.” She felt her eyes widen as she nodded. “Marianne never returned to their house. Moved in with her cousin.”

Walden shot her a grim look. “What about the kids? He hurt them too?”

“Marianne took the brunt of the abuse.” Her gaze drifted. “Tammy was the youngest. Heard she moved away when she turned eighteen. Bobby was in his early twenties. He’s still in town.”

“In that house? How do you stay with such horrific memories?”

Karen nodded, staring straight ahead.

“Well, I think Kenny may be a different man now.”

Karen always admired her chief’s even-keeled, optimistic outlook. Her jaded view—not to mention the scar on her left forearm—left her skeptical. Eighteen years his junior, she wondered if her cynical outlook would ever mature into his.

“Up for a drive? See if Bobby’s there. Nothing pressing here.”

She grimaced. “His father’s release could bring up a ton of shit.”

Walden gave a single nod, then pivoted, heading down the hall to his office.

Karen grabbed her blazer. A trip across town to the old McPherson house. It was a place she hoped to never see again.

As Karen drove her black police SUV, she ruminated over the town to which, twenty-two years ago, she had sworn an oath to serve and protect. At just over eleven thousand residents, Parks Ford’s population swelled to nearly sixteen thousand as people came into town to shop, dine, or work in the business district. The business district—the main hub—consisted of one main street packed with shops and restaurants. She knew the street’s history. Originally named High Street, owing to its early eighteenth- and nineteenth-century British heritage and occupancy, it was renamed Market Street by nineteenth-century residents because all the shops and markets existed on that one street.

Present-day Market Street hadn’t changed much, as if stuck in the nineteenth century. Most businesses were still situated there, and a trolley continued to chug up and down the street. The police station sat a block off Market, nestled in between the library and other municipal buildings. A small volunteer fire department building was a block away, not far from the expansive Central Park. An art center, several blocks from Market, served as the heart of the town’s thriving artistic community.

Karen headed south and west toward the McPherson house, making her way from the business district past modest two- and three-bedroom homes built in the mid-twentieth century. Postage-stamp-sized yards had children’s toys scattered about. Most front yards proudly displayed American flags, or less proudly housed a decrepit, broken-down vehicle in the driveway. Mowed front lawns had weeds cropping up along the perimeter of chain-link fences.

She drove down streets with trees still bearing the leaves of an early autumn day. In another three to four weeks, the foliage would light up the sky with oranges, reds, and yellows, before free-falling to the ground—a beautiful fall ritual.

Within the span of five minutes, Karen moved through a section of older row homes and twins, built during the first quarter of the twentieth century, to the far western edge of town. Here, newer single-family homes lined the streets of a blue-collar area—simple, small homes with minuscule front yards and modest backyards. If a homeowner wanted to expand, they would have to go up, not out. Owners took pride in their homes and labored to keep up their properties. Referred to as Garden Valley, this was where the McPherson house was located.

Her black SUV wound around the twists and turns of streets all too familiar. Ten years. The scar on her arm. A lifetime ago. She felt an inexplicable sadness come over her as she drove down Hillside Street.

She recalled arriving to see Kenny stumble back into the house. No one had known if his children were inside or if anyone else had been hurt. She’d only briefly spoken with Marianne when her attention was diverted to a dark sedan pulling into the driveway. It was Bobby. As he rushed toward the house, officers slowed him and Karen stopped him. She had no idea what condition Kenny was in and, with the injured Marianne pressing charges, the house was now a crime scene.

Kenny had been slouched in a chair in the kitchen, disheveled and reeking of alcohol. His sweaty, dirty, white ribbed tank top hung over his flabby torso. Blue jeans spotted with blood. Remnants of the dinner Marianne was preparing sat on the countertop, along with the bloodstained knife. Splotches of blood dotted the path from the kitchen to the doorway, onto the front porch, and down the steps.

Now Karen’s tires crackled on the beat-up asphalt street as the SUV eased to the curb in front of the house. She gaped, struggling to recognize it. Instead of the eyesore in virtual disrepair, the house boasted a renovated, freshly painted front porch. A row of angel coneflowers lined the walkway, their delicious fragrance filling her nostrils. New siding covered a home once marred with peeling paint that fell onto weed-filled grounds. The old chain-link fence surrounding the lot had been removed, presenting an open, welcoming appearance.

Neighbors peered out from behind their blinds as Karen stood on the walkway and looked around, admiring the azalea bed framing the porch, bursting with deep-pink blooms. As she strolled up the wooden porch steps to the front door, the local regional commuter train rumbled off in the distance. She tapped on the door. The pit in her stomach grew.

The door creaked open a few inches with a tall, dark-haired man peering through the opening. It was Bobby. The minute the slender and muscular young man saw the detective, a smile erupted.

“Detective.” His voice was soft. His youthful, handsome face glowed. “It’s been a long time.”

“Hi, Bobby.” She returned his smile, noting how well he looked.

“It’s good to see you. What brings you back out this way?” Bobby motioned for her to come inside. His head was a wavy mass of thick brown hair, his jaw chiseled and clean-shaven.

Karen sucked in a deep breath. “Listen, Bobby, I’m sure you know.” She stood in the foyer of the one-story bungalow. “Your dad’s getting out tomorrow. I just wanted to reach out…check in.”

Bobby’s gaze lowered to the hardwood flooring. His shoulders and upbeat mood sagged as if all the air inside had escaped. Looking up, he expelled a long breath. “Life’s been calm. Peaceful. I don’t want him here.”

“Look, Bobby, I have no idea where he’s planning to go or if he’s even thinking of coming here. I just felt you should be prepared.”

“Yeah, yeah. That’s cool. I appreciate it.” His eyebrows pulled together—a portrait of tension. Unease. Emotions likely not this intense for a decade.

Karen studied the change in his demeanor. She had come to know him through the years. A kind soul. She recalled his compassion toward the homeless population at the end of his block, opening his wallet even when down to his last dollar. “You okay, Bob?”

His jaw tightened. “I spent a shit ton of money to keep this house…not to mention all the repairs.” His body grew animated. “I worked two jobs to keep things together. Why should I welcome him back?” A rhetorical question. He looked as if his mind was filled with marbles that were about to perilously scatter to the floor.

Karen moved toward him to lay a comforting hand on his shoulder. From down the hall, a slender woman with cropped, tousled sunny-blond hair headed toward them. The notable lightness of her step contrasted with the mood in the room. Fearing she had interrupted Bobby and this blond-haired woman, Karen turned back to the door.

“Kare, do you remember my little sister, Tammy?”

Tammy, alert and curious, scrutinized the detective’s face as she approached. It was a gentle, almost seductive look that made Karen feel incredibly transparent—like cellophane. Yet she had never established that level of familiarity with Tammy, which caught her off guard. At the same time, she felt a touch of flattery, causing her to consciously force back the smile she felt beginning to take form.

As Tammy approached, Karen felt her eyebrows arch and eyes widen. She looked at the woman now in her early thirties. The Tammy she remembered had a shy, rough-around-the-edges tomboy appearance and straight, plain, sandy-brown hair. Back then, Tammy had pretty much stayed out of sight and Karen had rarely dealt with her. Is this really the same person?

Tammy bounced down the hall toward her, beaming with a bright smile that lit up her entire face and a personality visibly steeped in charm and confidence, extending her hand.

“Hi, I’m Tam.”

Karen was taken aback and a touch flattered by the eagerness in Tam’s tone and the brash nature of her eye contact. If she hadn’t known better, she’d have thought she’d caught a sparkle in Tam’s eyes that spoke to an interest beyond just friendly and casual warmth. “Hi, Tam. I…I’m sorry, I don’t remember you from when I was out here making calls.”

Karen thought back on how Tam was so shy. Now, she appeared beyond assertive, almost aggressively so. No…confident. She’s confident.

Bobby stepped in. “Tam moved to New York before the abuse got bad and you were here all the time. She wasn’t around when Dad got arrested.”

“Ahh.” Karen nodded. “So, back for a visit?”

“Nope.” Tam’s tone was light and airy. “I’m back!”

“Really? Didn’t like the big city?” Karen asked. It was the same city her daughter had just relocated to.

“I didn’t like the crazy cost of living. I’m an artist. Couldn’t make ends meet.”

“I understand.” Would this be the plight of Caiden, her artist daughter? “What kind of art do you do?”

Tam beamed. “I’m a ceramicist.”

Karen squinted.

“I make pottery.” Tam flashed a gentle smile.

“Oh…great…cool.” Karen attempted to sound a touch less ignorant.

Tam’s face was gentle but animated. Alluring. Fantastically, inexplicably charismatic. Not at all what Karen would have expected from the unassuming kid she’d seen run around the neighborhood. She couldn’t help but think how Tam was so willing to return to Parks Ford, when someone like Miles, who had proclaimed his love for Karen, refused to stick around for more than a month at a time, let alone lay down roots.

“What’s goin’ on?” Tam said to her brother, who was disconsolately leaning against the wall. “You look like you just lost your best friend.”

“Nothin’.” The word was barely audible.

“You’re full of shit.”

Bobby looked up at his sister. “What if Dad does come back?”

She winced. “Can he just come back and take over the house? It was your money.”

“After he went to jail, I made him sign a quitclaim.”

“Will that work?”

Bobby shrugged and looked at Karen.

Karen fought to keep her emotions at a distance. “Listen, I don’t think your dad will cause problems. He’d be a fool. But if you need anything, just call me.” She had no idea how her positive words were being received. After all, she had her own gnawing discomfort about Kenny’s release.

“See? We have someone to help if there are any problems.” Tam looked at her brother, his head lowered as he picked at the cuticles on his thumbs—a nervous habit Karen remembered from his adolescence.

“Bobby, we can call our detective.” She shifted her gaze from Bobby to Karen. “I really appreciate you offering to help us. You’re very kind.” An enigmatic smile touched her lips. “Maybe we could get to know each other better…that is, when you’re not working.”

Bobby shot his sister a contorted side glance.

Tam whispered something to her brother, but all Karen could overhear were the words she’s hot. There was a glint in Tam’s eyes.

Christ. Am I invisible?

Bobby rolled his eyes and shifted the subject. “I just don’t want him here.”

“You don’t owe him anything, Bob. Just call Kare here if he stops by.” Tam turned and looked at Karen with a wide grin. “Thank you for your offer.”

“I’m not gonna bother you.” Bobby looked at Karen. “You have more important things.”

“She told you to call.” Tam’s voice was smooth and reassuring. “You have her number, right?” Leaning over to her brother, she whispered in his ear again.

“Leave it alone. She dates men,” he said in a hushed tone, gritting his teeth.

Karen’s chest grew tight. Her eyes darted, landing everywhere—anywhere—to avoid eye contact with Tam. She felt a vaguely familiar, warm sensation run up her neck, flooding her cheeks as her hand rested on the doorknob.

Tam gave Bobby a playful punch in his shoulder. “I was just joking, dumbass. When did you lose your sense of humor?” She shifted her attention to Karen with a smile that practically lit up the entire room. “Seriously, thank you for stopping by and looking out for us. I’ll help my brother through this.”

Karen nodded. She couldn’t tell if Tam was being earnest or facetious but figured Tam likely didn’t feel the same level of concern as her brother. Having been removed from the turmoil and chaos for so long, Tam could embrace a light and airy tone. Probably good for Bobby to have her here. She’s confident. Easygoing. Positive.

Karen pivoted to leave. “Bobby, you’ve really done a great job here. It’s nice to see you again.” She felt tenderness for him and how difficult this moment must feel.

“Thanks. Life is good now.” His even-tempered, soft voice had a slight lilt as if welcoming her soothing words.

Karen nodded and headed back out to the porch.

“I’ll walk you out,” Tam said, running out behind her.

“I’m good.” Karen trotted down the steps and back to the street.

“Hey, Kare.” Tam raced toward the curb.

Karen tilted her head, wincing at the familiarity with which Tam addressed her.

“Hey. If my dad comes back. If he causes problems, ya know, like, how do I get ahold of you?” Tam gave a sheepish grin.

Karen cringed, sure that Tam was just shy of flashing a wink. Right there, on the street, with neighbors peering out their windows. Karen yanked out her business card. “There’s the number where you can reach me.” Her tone was crisp.

Tam brushed Karen’s thumb with lingering fingers as she grasped the card. “I hope we can get to know each other. My friends are all strong, professional women. Like you.”

Karen hopped in her car and accelerated away from the curb.

Tam’s presumed advances annoyed her. Working in a male-dominated profession, it was incumbent on her to maintain a strong, tough exterior—which she did. But she often wondered what people thought. Did people equate that tough exterior with being lesbian? Tam’s public display of interest only elevated these concerns.

At the same time, she felt flattered by the attention—something sorely missing from her life. The sheer thought of her longed-for closeness being furnished by someone of the same gender, someone with such an attractive personality, caught her breath short. It was one thing to worry about what people thought of her tough exterior, her choice of profession, her inability to hold a man. But dating a woman? She was certain gossip and suspicion would harden into judgment.

But I’m open-minded. Or am I just open-minded when it involves other people? She vigorously shook her head as if to shake away the contradictions.

Turning the corner off Hillside, Karen chuckled to herself, recalling the first woman she experienced feelings for: an instructor at the academy. The flush of flattery she felt when the instructor admired her work. A crush, she told herself. Yet she couldn’t get the woman off her mind. She had always chalked it up to admiration, then briskly dismissed the feelings.

Karen arrived back at the police station minutes later to a handful of messages resting on her tidy desk. She stared at the words hastily jotted down on the top message: Please call.

Shit. What on earth could have happened?

She picked up her office phone and stood rigid. The call picked up on the first ring.

“Kare?”

“Yes. It’s Detective Cappelletti.” She enunciated each word. “Got your message. Everything okay?”

“Yeah. Everything’s good,” Tam said, almost gleeful. “Bobby’s off with his friends tonight. I’m still pretty new in town…” An empty buzz filled the phone line as if waiting for Karen to respond. “I don’t know the local joints…ya know, like where to get a drink or the good restaurants—”

“Seriously?” Karen felt her eyes narrow. Her tone was acid. “You’re calling the police station to request recommendations for a good bar or a diner?”

Tam’s laugh danced through the phone line, an infectious laugh that drew an involuntary soft chuckle from Karen. Immediately disarmed and not quite sure why she was entertaining this young woman’s ridiculous request, she cleared her throat to mask her amusement.

“If you don’t mind driving out of town, Michael’s still has the best steaks,” she said, referring to cheesesteaks. “In town, can’t go wrong with Pat’s or Coco’s. The Geneva Diner on Market…same quaint feel…excellent food. Lots of bars, but Grimaldi’s is about a half mile from your place.”

“Cool. Thanks.” Tam seemed to be waiting for something else. “Hey, Kare, listen—”

“Detective Cappelletti.”

“Oh. Apologies.” Tam paused. “Look, I know you’re busy. I shouldn’t have bothered you. I guess…I just don’t have any friends here yet. I’m feeling a little lost.”

What if this was Caiden, a stranger in New York City, with no friends to speak of yet? I’d want someone to extend a welcoming hand. “All good, Tam.”

“I’m sorta used to just putting myself out there and meeting new people. That’s pretty much what I’ve had to do since I moved away. I’m really sorry if I overstepped.”

“No worries. Go grab a bite and a beer. Enjoy your evening.”

Karen paused before putting the receiver down. Something about Tam. She was self-assured. Upbeat. I don’t remember her being this assertive as a kid. Nice change. Guess moving away was good for her. And as much as Tam persisted, she seemed to recognize when she neared Karen’s boundaries. A little unexpected attention. It’s kinda nice. Karen shrugged and let out a soft chuckle as she hung up the phone.

She glanced down at the other messages: a reminder about the police academy graduation celebration that weekend. Yeah, I’ll be sure to be busy that night. The last message drew a blank stare. A neighbor of hers had found a rat in her toilet. She rolled her eyes. “That’s an Animal Control issue,” she muttered under her breath, aware that her elderly neighbor, Marge, might just be hallucinating.

She sat at her desk, staring into space. The barren squad room only exacerbated her feeling of hollowness. Grabbing her phone, she snatched her steel-gray blazer off its hook.

“Hey, Jake,” she called to a patrol officer down the hall. “Headed out. Call if you need me.”

“Sure thing, KC.”

Heading out the front doors, a vibration came from her leather bag. A pleasant surprise illuminated the phone in her palm. Judy, her childhood friend and neighbor. Even though Judy lived at the end of her block, she hadn’t talked with her all week. A text message.

Hey you! Judy had typed.

Hey Jude. Karen grinned; she loved that Beatles song. When’s our next Friday girls’ night?

No night out with Miles?

Karen growled as she typed. No. Extended assignment. Again.

Next Friday?

Sold. Karen typed with emphatic eagerness. C u then. She tucked the phone in her bag and headed home.

Beginning the slow traverse up her rounded brick walkway, she stopped to gaze at a front lawn in desperate need of mowing, looking forward to a month from now when the mower could be put away for the winter. Gingerly, she put her key in the front door, dreading what awaited on the other side. It seemed like an eternity before she finally gripped the handle and entered the vacant space.

Karen rummaged through the refrigerator for something that might constitute a dinner. A leftover half of a cheesesteak and a beer. She could have walked down the street to her parents’ house for a healthy meal. But, oddly, she preferred solitude.

She sat in her sparsely appointed living room—frozen—startled by the stillness surrounding her. An empty silence—an unfamiliar “sound.” A cavernous void enveloped her as she felt the absence of her vibrant, bright, and talented daughter. Leaning her head back on the sofa cushion, she could hear Caiden’s clogs clunking down the steps. The slam of the refrigerator door. She envisioned the half-eaten container of yogurt left behind on the countertop as Caiden rushed out the door, yelling reminders of what to pick up at the grocery store. The house was never quiet with Caiden around.

She glanced at her phone—a blank screen. Nothing from Caiden. Recalling the constant “just checking in” phone calls she received from her parents when she first started at the academy, she swore she wouldn’t bother her daughter. Nothing from Miles, which left an odd sensation of relief. A sudden realization: she really didn’t want to chat with him or hear him go on and on about himself. Yet, she craved hearing his voice—any voice—to break the silence. Her thoughts drifted. Drifted to Tam. Tam’s upbeat laugh. Her insouciant eagerness for attention.

The ring of her phone penetrated her rambling thoughts. The Brady Bunch ringtone. A warmth of relief.

“Hey, Dad. Thought about you guys tonight. Almost headed down for dinner.”

“We had your mom’s baked ziti. Plenty left. Want me to walk some down?”

Karen smiled. “I’m good, Dad. Already ate. How are you and Mom?”

“Good. Well, we’re concerned about you.”

“Me?”

“That character getting out of prison tomorrow.”

Character. What a way to describe Kenny McPherson. A chuckle seeped out. “I’ll be fine, Dad. He’s not gonna hurt me.”

“That’s what you thought the day you arrested him—”

“I’ll be fine. Promise.”

“We’d feel a lot better if Miles were there.”

The comment landed like a lead weight. “I’ll be fine.” Her stoic, independent nature came out in full force. “Maybe I’ll even swing by for some ziti tomorrow night. Gotta busy day tomorrow. I’m headed to bed.” A lie. She just didn’t feel like chatting. Something was gnawing at her. Kenny? Miles? Caiden? Not Tam. No way. She chuckled to herself.

In bed, she stared at the blank ceiling, wide awake. The house felt somber. She kept waiting to hear Caiden get up and shuffle to the kitchen for a late-night snack. She longed to see the blue light peeking through the cracks of her bedroom doorway as Caiden sat up late at her computer. The house was pitch black.

She tossed and turned, working to push aside the void left by Miles’s protracted absence. Shoveling away the detritus of personal failures—a personal skill set. Yet even in the face of growing evidence, she couldn’t convince herself to toss Miles on the debris heap, much to the dismay of family and friends. Lying in a pervasive stillness, haunted by loneliness, she wondered whether the best choice would have been to give up her career to save her marriage.

C’mon, Capp. Let it go. She stared at the ceiling and sighed. She needed rest—for her mind to rest. A storm was brewing. The next day held the potential for enormous stress. Tomorrow, Kenny McPherson would be a free man.