As the detective ticked off her husband’s purchases, the knot in her stomach tightened and the air whooshed from her lungs. Steve had been buying women’s jewelry. And given how Lange had framed his questions, he suspected it was for Candy.

But . . . but Steve wouldn’t do that to her. They’d only been married eighteen months. They’d taken vows. Why would he wed her if he wanted to play around?

Simple. He likes to control people—and you’re easy to manipulate.

No.

She smothered the taunting voice in her head.

That wasn’t true.

Steve would have an explanation for the purchases. For his calls to Candy. They could be grief related, even. A coping mechanism. From the beginning, he’d admitted that the loss of his first wife had been devastating. You had to cut people whose hearts had been broken a little slack.

Didn’t you?

“In case you’re wondering who Candy is, she works in a local bar.” The detective named it.

The burger joint Steve visited on occasion with his buddies. Never with her.

Tentacles of suspicion began to slither through her, as insidious as the calories that crept onto her hips and undermined her good intentions to lose weight.

“Who do you think the jewelry was for, Ms. Jackson?”

The bagel she’d scarfed down this morning after dragging herself out of bed hardened into a lump.

While his question came across as casual, it was obvious this man had already reached his own conclusion about the answer.

But it couldn’t be true. Not after last night. Not after all the things she and Steve had done into the wee hours. It had been as if they were back on their honeymoon. Operating on fumes today was a small price to pay for that romantic interlude.

The detective watched her, waiting for her to comment.

She had to defend Steve—at least until she talked with him.

“I know what you’re implying.” Her interlaced fingers began to throb, and she loosened the pressure on her knuckles. “But you’re wrong. About that, and about his involvement in the situation with Eve. Why would he want to hurt her?”

“How does he feel about your job here?”

She blinked. “What?”

“Is he supportive of your career?”

Why would this man ask that?

Unless . . . had she let a comment or two slip about Steve’s reservations during one of her chats with Eve at the station or at the spinning class? Had Eve mentioned that to the detective?

“It’s a temporary job, until we have a family. He and I discussed it.”

That didn’t answer the question—and the slight narrowing of the man’s eyes indicated he knew that.

But what did this have to do with anything?

He spoke as if he’d heard her silent question. “If Eve goes away, so does her show. And your job.”