I followed Cody inside, shutting the darkness out behind me. A trail of cool air swept over my shoulders. It wasn’t much warmer in the house than outside.

“Is the heat working?” I asked.

Cody pressed his fingers against his temple. “I’m working on it, Marin. The furnace broke again.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

When would I catch a break? And then I remembered Mortimer’s inheritance. I could handle a freezing cold house a little longer. I was tempted to tell Cody about it, but I needed to know for sure first. I didn’t want to build him up, only to crush him.

Instead I skipped to the subject poking at my curiosity. “Your mom told me she’s got some big, dark secret. Any idea what it might be?”

“My mom?” Cody chuckled. “No, that woman doesn’t have a secretive bone in her body.”

“It was such a strange thing for her to say. It makes me wonder about her past.”

He picked at his cuticle. “She never talked much about it with us. I’m sure it’s as plain old vanilla as it gets.”

“I don’t know. It’s as if she’s hiding something pretty shady. Though, I guess we’re all hiding things, aren’t we?”

I looked him dead in the eye as I said it, inviting the truth to come out. Here was his chance to right things. I needed to know he would always be honest with me. Hypocritical, I know, given I was hoarding dishonesties, but my lies were different. Mine were to protect everyone.

Cody must have gotten the hint, because he cupped my hand and led me to the living room. He tugged me down onto the sofa beside him, angling his knees toward mine. He hunched over like a question mark. I could feel the guilt unburdening itself as he first examined our hands, still clasped as one, then lifted his eyes to meet mine. I suddenly felt afraid.

“Marin, honey, I have something to tell you. And I’m terrified that it will ruin us, but I can’t keep it from you anymore.”

And I waited for my world to blow up.

Chapter 27

Chapter 27

Felicity

Four is the number of bedtime stories I read to Sydney before she fell asleep. Three is the number of piles of dog poop Ploppy—the cringeworthy but apt name became permanent, over my protests—left on the floor when I got downstairs. Two is the number of times Eliot got out of bed whining that he was hungry, then thirsty. One is the number of looks Oliver gave me when I finally settled into bed next to him and told him there was something very very wrong with him.

I only needed that one look to know I had hurt him.

I didn’t care. It needed to be said.

My husband was communicating with my daughter’s ghost.