Her colleagues entered, shutting the door behind them. After a few minutes of chitchat, one claimed the chair, the other leaned against the wall, and both began checking texts and voicemails while they killed twenty minutes to keep up the pretense of their visit.

That left Cate with nothing to do—except nurse her wounds, think over the ramifications of Kayla’s confirmation about the earring’s owner, and consider her roommate’s take on Zeke.

It mirrored her own eight years ago . . . until he claimed her heart, then trampled on it.

As for how her roommate’s philosophy about love and forgiveness and second chances applied to her own life—she’d borrow a rule from Scarlett O’Hara’s playbook and think about that tomorrow.

“Miguel!” Margarita grasped the edge of the counter and put a protective hand over her stomach, shock flattening her features. “What happened to you?”

As his wife asked the question, Eduardo swung toward the hall doorway—and almost lost his grip on the dinner plates he’d retrieved from the cabinet.

Despite the baseball cap pulled low on his forehead, his brother-in-law couldn’t hide the evidence of a recent violent encounter.

One black-and-blue eye was swollen shut. His nose was puffy, as if it had sustained a punch. There were also two long parallel scratches on his cheek—the kind fingernails could leave.

First drugs, now violence.

The situation got worse with every day that passed.

Miguel lowered himself gingerly into his place at the table, as if every motion hurt—but remained silent.

Eduardo set the plates on the counter and moved to the table. He didn’t have much leverage at this stage, but putting his wife and unborn child in physical danger was unacceptable.

“Margarita asked you a question.” He wrapped his fingers around the top of the chair. “We’re waiting for an answer.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Miguel picked up his glass of water and took a small sip, grimacing as he swallowed. As if his throat hurt.

“Too bad.” Eduardo glared at him. “I won’t have violence in my home.”

“The violence didn’t happen in your home.” Miguel gave a dismissive wave.

“Not this time—but it could follow you here. I won’t put my family at risk.”

The twist of Miguel’s lips didn’t qualify as a smile. “What are you going to do about it?”

They were back to that.

“Don’t push me, Miguel.”

“I’ve already pushed you, dear brother-in-law. You’re in a corner and there’s no way out. Not if you want to protect the life you’ve built in this adopted country of yours.” He put his napkin on his lap. “Thank you for the photo you provided, by the way. It will be helpful.”

Eduardo squeezed the back of the chair and fought off a wave of desolation and panic.