The oven timer goes off, and I return to the kitchen. I grab a potholder and open the oven. But I’m rushing, halfway in a dream, and I touch the inside of my wrist to the 400-degrees-Fahrenheit metal.

It burns, and I jump, letting out a small sound of surprise and pain. I finish pulling out the muffins, set them on a counter, and go to run my hand under the sink. The water burns in a new way. There’s already a red mark on my skin, and I know it will leave a scar.

I have lots of scars in places no one sees, places no one will ever see. Those are the scars I didn’t give myself and, in a twisted way, that makes this one better. I can hurt myself, but no one will ever be able to hurt me again. That’s a promise I made to myself when Rhys died.

I turn around to check on Paige and see my phone blinking. I pick it up. Twenty missed calls? No one calls me. Jane and Beau have my number, but they come over every day, so we usually don’t have to call. The prosecutor talks to me, but this isn’t her number. These are numbers from all over Maine. There’s even one from LA.

I scroll through the missed calls, and then I check my texts.

There’s my agent, Amy Martin. She’s the one who got me a book deal based on the proposal.

She sent me a single message. It’s a link.

I click on it. My screen opens to a national news outlet. There’s a picture of me. I’m holding up my hand, trying to shield my face from the camera. It’s a little blurry. My hair is in motion, but you can feel my panic through the lens.

The headline is in all caps. MATEO GARZA’S HIDEAWAY BRIDE.

A knot forms in my chest. This is so much more than I thought it would be. National news? I thought we would be in the Eben Cape Herald, circulation a thousand. This is bigger and scarier. Are other people going to pick this up? Based on the missed calls, probably. This could be more than news in a crime column about a dirty cop in a small town in Maine. With Mateo Garza’s name attached, it could be massive. It could be an internet sensation. Worse than news, it could be gossip.

Fear squeezes my heart. I need to see Paige. I need to make sure she’s okay. To rest my hand on her silky curls. Maybe that feels like overkill—she’s not really in danger—but a mother’s instinct doesn’t listen to logic.

I run to the window and look out.