This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2025 by V. Brown

All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review. No AI training or purposes.

Cover Art by Magrnarts

Edited by BLD Editing

Contents

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Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Epilogue

Epilogue 2

Runaway Girl Teaser

Medical Malpractice Teaser

Acknowledgements

Also by V. Brown

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About the Author

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Prologue

OWEN

One month before...

“Thanks again for your help, Owen,” Everly said, pressing a light hand to my thigh to express her gratitude.

Alexis, my wife, was attending a work conference in the city over the weekend and had forgotten her promise to help Everly collect and install her new dresser.

My wife had called me that morning knowing I had a free day, begging me to step in and help her friend. I was reluctant at first, not wanting to sacrifice my day off, but finally relented since I didn’t have a legitimate excuse to say no.

Everly and I knew of each other in passing—growing up in a small town, we had little other choice—but had never taken the time to get to know one another on a personal level.

I’d always thought she was vapid and self-centred. Alexis always said my assessment was harsh, and from the forced company and actually spending time with Everly, it seemed my wife was right.

As the hours passed, I found she wasn’t so bad to be around and was actually pleasant to converse with.

We were in my pickup truck on our way to Everly’s house, her dreaded flatpack furniture boxes laid in the tray behind. The afternoon was arduous, and when I had finally finished putting the dresser together, night had fallen. I was famished—proven by my grumbling stomach.

“Stay for dinner, Owen. It’s the least I can do to say thank you,” Everly said, her fingers skimming my upper arm.

She had been doing that a lot—minute touches that were so insignificant, they were over before I even processed what was happening. At first, I thought she was being inappropriate, but I quickly shut that down, knowing that some people were naturally more tactile than others. Her actions weren’t outwardly suggestive, more a subtle acknowledgement to whatever she was saying.