And that, I believe, is it.

It’s that very last sentence that clinches it. Well, together with the condescending, domineering, arrogant way he talked to me in the past two minutes. I walked into this house fully ready to have a productive conversation. I gave him several options, but he shut me down and now I’m getting pissed. I have as much legal right as he does to be here, and if he refuses to acknowledge it . . .

Well. Too bad for him.

Anger bubbling up my throat, I tear the paper Liam gave me in four pieces and drop it on the coffee table for him to find later. Then I go back to the porch, retrieve my suitcase, and start looking for an unused bedroom.

Guess what? I text Sadie and Hannah. Mara Floyd, Ph.D., just moved into her new house. And it’s most definitely on fire.

Two

Five months, two weeks ago

I don’t have time for this.

I am late for work. I have a meeting in half an hour. I have yet to brush my teeth and my hair.

I really don’t have time for this.

And yet, like the fool that I have grown to be, I give in to temptation. I slam the fridge door, turn around to lean against it, cross my arms as menacingly as I can, and stare at Liam across the expanse of the open-concept kitchen.

“I know you have been using my coffee creamer.”

It’s wasted energy. Because Liam just stands on the side of the island, as impassible as the granite of the countertop, calmly spreading butter on a piece of toast. He doesn’t fight back. He doesn’t look at me. He proceeds with his buttering, unbothered, and asks, “Have I?”

“You’re not as stealthy as you think, buddy.” I give him my best glare. “And if this is some kind of intimidation tactic, it’s not working.”

He nods. Still unbothered. “Have you informed the police?”

“What?”

He shrugs his stupid, broad shoulders. He is wearing a suit, because he is always wearing a suit. A charcoal three-piece that fits him perfectly—and yet not at all, because he really doesn’t have the evil-corporate-businessman physique. Maybe during his mandatory Kill the Earth training he interned as an oil rig driller? “This alleged theft of coffee creamer appears to distress you a lot. Have you told law enforcement?”

Deep breaths. I need to take deep breaths. In D.C., murder can be punished with up to thirty years in prison. I know, because I looked it up the day after I moved in. Then again, a jury of my peers would never convict me—not if I laid out the horrors I’ve been subjected to in the past few weeks. They would surely rule Liam’s death as self-defense. They might even give me a trophy. “Liam, I’m trying here. Really trying to make this work. Do you ever stop and wonder if maybe you are being an asshole?”