And cue the grief all over again. My face fell into my palms as I sobbed, waiting for Owen to wrap his arms around me in comfort. But all I felt was the cool empty air around me. I looked up, the room wavy through my tears.

Owen stormed toward his dresser where he kept his gun, and suddenly I was more afraid for Ryan than angry with him.

“Owen, stop! You can’t do this!”

“Just watch me.”

He tossed his folded boxers aside as he unearthed his gun safe. His fingers frantically tapped the password in, then he opened it, brandishing the weapon, a Glock 19. I only knew that because Owen had drilled gun safety into my head, even dragged me to the shooting range a handful of times. I knew nothing about guns otherwise, nor did I care to learn.

“Please, stop. Somebody’s gonna get killed.”

“That’s the point, Mackenzie! That little punk deserves to die. I’m going to make sure that happens.”

“Do you seriously want to go to jail for murder? You’ll never see the light of day again.”

“They’ll never find his body once I’m done with him. No body, no crime, no jail.” It struck me that Owen knew exactly what he was talking about. That thought sent an icy chill through me.

“Owen, be logical. For once in your life think about your family. Aria doesn’t even know what happened. She’s already lost so much. Losing her father too . . . please stop!”

I was becoming hysterical now. Begging, pleading, trying to reason with him. “You will go to jail for life, Owen! They’ll find out. Ryan’s a kid. You’re angry, yes, but we need to figure out what to do first. Not just freak out. Okay? This isn’t like last time.” Owen shot me a knowing glance. “Please, honey, give me the gun . . .”

I reached for the weapon, scared it might go off in the exchange. I knew what this gun was capable of; I’d seen Owen use it in anger before, seen what a man gripped by jealousy and rage could do. It was the one secret I’d hoped would eventually slink back into the depths of my memory, forever forgotten. And yet it still lived.

I had hoped to bury the past, but every once in a while, like in this exact moment, the memory would climb out of its coffin for a visit. The metallic odor of gunpowder on his hands, the distant crack of the bullet zipping out. Unfortunately, I knew Owen’s volatility firsthand, and as much as I hated Ryan for what he’d done, I couldn’t condemn him to death. If Ryan didn’t survive this, none of the rest of us would either.

“The gun,” I pleaded.

“So that you can defend him, Mac? I don’t think so.” Owen lifted the barrel, then aimed it at me.

Chapter 15

Robin