Before Troy had left Sullivan’s office that afternoon, the detective had given him a spy camera to place in the master bedroom, the device disguised as an ordinary clock-radio that stood quietly on the nightstand. It would record video and audio footage and store the data on a micro SD card that they could later transfer to a computer.

“If you’re worried, my advice is to stay alert, and steer clear of her,” Sullivan said.

Troy muttered a thank you, and ended the call. He spent the next few hours in the basement, wasting time on the Internet and distracting himself from his anxious thoughts. Around nine o’clock, he finally went upstairs.

The ground floor of the house was silent. All of the dishes were put away in the kitchen, and the television was shut off.

Upstairs, he checked on Lexi and Junior. Both of the children had been put to bed already, and slumbered quietly in their rooms. He ground his teeth. He hated that he had missed their bedtimes, when he would always read each of them a book of their choosing, first Junior, then Lexi, since his daughter was oldest and had developed the attention span to follow longer stories. Grace’s arrival had wreaked havoc with their nightly rituals, had interrupted his treasured daily routines of fatherhood.

He approached the door to the master bedroom. It was closed, and, as he expected, locked.

He smiled to himself. Although he had located the master key, he didn’t intend to use it since he had the spy camera in place allowing him to secretly record their activities. I’ll find out soon enough what you’re doing in there.

Back downstairs, he returned to the kitchen. He had eaten his sub shop sandwich and a bag of chips, but he was still hungry—famished, actually. He hadn’t consumed enough food that day. It was late in the evening, but if he didn’t get something else on his stomach he was going to have a tough time sleeping.

A layered chocolate cake stood on the island, prominently displayed underneath a glass dome. A Post-It note had been affixed to the lid, words scrawled in Grace’s handwriting.

Troy,

Here’s the German chocolate cake I promised.

Can we call a truce?

-- Grace

He chuckled. That woman, nuts as she was, understood full well that the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach. German chocolate cake was his favorite dessert, and this one, with three layers, looked fantastic, like a concoction he might have seen in a display case at a bakery.

He couldn’t resist.

He cut a generous slice and transferred it a plate. Poured himself a glass of pinot noir and took the dessert and wine into the family room, where, settling into his leather recliner, he switched on the TV to ESPN, intending to catching up on the day’s NBA news.