I’m not sure how much time passes before Kane squeezes my leg and I jolt awake, instantly aware of his warning me of the imminent landing. It’s not long before we’re on the ground, deboarding, and heading inside the airport together. There was a time when I’d have been concerned about the gossip we stir, but that time isn’t now. I still can’t say that Kane and I are good for each other, but I simply don’t care anymore. We fit together. I always knew this, of course, from the moment I met him, but that was the problem. I saw my addiction to a man as notorious as Kane Mendez as a judgement on my character. Back when I wasn’t willing to take responsibility for who, and what, I am.

Once our bags are in hand, we step outside, an early fluttering of snowflakes in the air and dusting our shoulders, but our pace is steady, relaxed. In control. I like this about Kane. He’s always in control. Control is good and it’s not long before we're inside the sporty black Mercedes he favors here on the island. He cranks the engine to a low, smooth hum and I’m remarkably happy to be here. It is the home to both of my crimes. My mind flashes back to the night I killed Roger. To me standing naked in the shower with Kane as he washed the blood off of me, my new diamond on my hand. We didn’t speak then, either. But when he pulls us onto the road, it’s hard not to be back on that boat where he proposed, and I killed Roger. “I don’t feel guilty.”

There’s a slight shift to the air, but Kane’s reply is nothing short of nonchalant. “And that bothers you,” he assumes. God, he knows me.

“I am an FBI agent. I should feel something different. I shouldn’t feel—”

He glances over at me. “I’m not the person you pause with, Lilah. You know that. Finish the sentence.”

“I felt guilt after killing that man on the beach. He raped me and I still felt guilt. I don’t this time, Kane. I feel happy he’s dead. That doesn’t feel normal.”

He halts the car at our front gate and punches in a security code, glancing over at me to ask, “Normal by whose definition?”

“My training. My textbooks,” I reply as he pulls us into the garage.