“I put his drunk ass to bed and shut the door,” I tell Marcy, exposing a little more on my life with Connor.

She knows he’s a drinker, but she probably doesn’t know how bad things have been in the past. Or what they’ve really been like lately.

“Those things don’t mean much,” she says, trying to calm me.

“I know,” I tell her. “I know Connor better than anyone too, but even he’s not sure what happened after we got to the cabin. He’s making me think that he might have done something. It’s really messing with my head.”

“I can see that,” she says. “But it’s a . . . forgive me . . . a stupid thing to have messing with you.”

I attempt to pull myself together and give her a slight smile.

“Thanks,” I say. “I know that he’d never hurt anyone. He’s not that type. Not really.”

The last two words get her attention. As I thought they would.

“‘Not really’?” she asks. “What do you mean by that?”

I turn away again. “Sorry. I just don’t want to go there. There are some things that should be kept in the marriage. I’ve forgiven him. That’s all that matters.”

My words come at her with a concrete decisiveness. She doesn’t ask anything more.

“I’m going to the kitchen,” she says. “I’m getting you some tea.”

“I have a special tea,” I say, not telling her it’s supposed to improve my odds of getting pregnant. I’m not a quitter on that quest. The tea’s a belt-and-suspenders move, as my dad, also a lawyer, would have called it. The theory being, it’s impossible to try too hard. “Just bring the hot water.”

“Will do,” she says. “Now, Kristen, please. Please stop thinking whatever you’ve been thinking. Connor is a good guy. He had no reason to hurt a complete stranger.”

I don’t mention Sophie Warner isn’t a stranger at all.

She’ll hear that soon enough.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

ADAM

Carrie LaCroix bursts into my cubicle. She’s wearing a skirt that would raise eyebrows in a shithole bar and, even more noticeable, an anxious look on her face. Sophie has been gone for more than two weeks, and Carrie has been stomping around on six-inch heels in search of ways to insert herself into my life.

Insert. That’s a favorite Carrie command for sure.

“I need to talk to you, Adam,” she says, nearly out of breath.

I look up from the mind-numbing financials on my computer screen. “What’s up?”

“Conference room,” she says.

“Got to finish up this report for your meeting,” I tell her.

She thumps my shoulder. “Forget the fucking meeting. This is more important.”