Steve closed the door from the garage and sniffed as he entered the kitchen. No savory aromas greeted him.

He checked the stove. Nothing was simmering on the burners.

Frowning, he swiveled toward the table. It wasn’t set.

But Meg’s car was in the alley.

The niggle of unease that had plagued him all day morphed into gut-knotting dread. Maybe his calls and texts today hadn’t gone unanswered because she was too busy to respond. Maybe the cops had gotten to her.

Muttering a curse, he tossed his keys on the table and stalked to the living room. Empty.

He tried the bedroom next. Also empty . . . but the covers were thrown back on the bed.

The toilet flushed, and a few seconds later Meg exited the bathroom, dressed in a ratty tee and baggy shorts, clutching a towel.

He furrowed his brow. “What’s going on?”

“I wish I knew.” She circled around the far side of the bed and slid under the covers. “I’ve been throwing up.”

He retreated a step. Blood, he could handle. Puke? No way.

Another reason he’d never been thrilled about having a bunch of rug rats cluttering up his life. Kids were always throwing up.

“So, uh, I guess I’m on my own for dinner.” He eased toward the door.

“Sorry.”

The sentiment was appropriate. Her tone wasn’t.

He stopped. Squinted at her. “What’s wrong?”

She punched two pillows into position and leaned back, watching him. “Detective Lange stopped by.”

His pulse picked up. “You didn’t talk to him, did you?”

“He did most of the talking.”

“About what?”

“Candy . . . jewelry purchases . . . restraining orders.”

He bit back another oath, mind racing. What could he say to mitigate the damage the cop had done? He needed his wife in his corner for the immediate future.

Meg scrutinized him in silence, fingers kneading the towel draped across her lap, her expression wary. Yet a touch of hope glimmered in the depths of her eyes.

She didn’t want to believe all the incriminating information the detective had dumped on her.

That was a positive sign.

But unless he smoothed this over fast, he could lose her.

“Whatever he told you is a bunch of garbage.” He crossed the room, trying to rein in his gag reflex. One whiff of vomit, though, and they’d both be leaning over the toilet.

As he sat on the bed and lifted a hand to touch her cheek, she recoiled and lost a few more shades of color. “Don’t jiggle the mattress. My stomach won’t be able to take it.”

He jerked his hand back and froze. “I’ll be careful.”

“Who’s Candy?”

Answer her questions fast, Jackson, or she’ll realize you’re making up most of this as you go along.