After tummy time with Collette on the floor and sorting the mail on the kitchen counter, which consisted mostly of weekend ads for can’t-miss furniture deals and fast-food coupons, I put the kettle on to boil. The wine on an empty stomach wasn’t sitting right. A cup of tea would help me center myself, focus on how to get the information I needed to blackmail Owen, to figure out what he was hiding. Or there was still always Grant’s plan of poisoning the bastard.

When the pot whistled, I poured a cup of green tea and let the leaves—and my brain—steep. If I thought that Mackenzie would side with me, I would have gone to her with my questions. Clearly she knew about whatever Owen did, but she’d protect her jerk of a husband even at the cost of her own soul. She was gutless and guileless, a deadly combination for a woman. Her submission made her weak, and her innocence made her passive. A woman afraid to get her hands dirty was already beaten.

I paused beneath a hanging picture of Mackenzie, Lily, and me, taken on Mount Washington, the stunning Pittsburgh panorama behind us. We had just finished riding the historic Incline car to the top, our hair whipping around our flushed faces as we stood on the observation deck admiring the three rivers that snaked under massive iron bridges, coming to meet at what locals called The Point. The Mackenzie I loved was passionate and bright, full of adventure. How could a woman so full of light let a man snuff her out?

I sipped my drink, then heard a distant sobbing. At first I thought Lucas or Willow had had an accident. I checked outside; Willow was still pushing Lucas, who exhorted her to “make me fly, Will!”

The sobbing was coming from upstairs. I tiptoed to Ryan’s room and pushed the door open a crack. Lying facedown on his bed, head buried into his pillow, Ryan shook with sobs and my heart broke. My boy was crumbling apart, and there was nothing I could do to save him from disappearing.

“Hey, Ry. May I come in?”

He whipped his head up in embarrassment, eyes rimmed in red and wet with tears.

“Yeah, sure.” He shuffled aside, making room on his bed for me.

“Are you worried about the charges?” There was no point tiptoeing around reality. Here we were, facing the ugly head-on. My son had spent the morning at the police station being picked apart like he was already guilty.

“What if I go to jail, Mom? I’ll never be able to get a decent job; I’ll have a permanent criminal record. And Aria . . . I love her, Mom. I would have never hurt her on purpose. Does she hate me?”

I stroked his hair, my fingers tangling in his chestnut curls.