Her husband was selfish and domineering and manipulative, with a mean streak a mile wide that he hid beneath a veneer of charm when it served his purposes.

No wonder his first wife had divorced him.

Yet how did you reconcile divorce with a till-death-do-us-part vow?

Meg lifted her head and pushed her hair back, staring at the dark clouds gathering outside the kitchen window.

If the detective was wrong about his allegations, might Steve be willing to work on their relationship? Get counseling, perhaps?

That’s a pipe dream, Meg. He’s not the type to admit he has issues.

The same persistent voice that had warned her eighteen months ago to proceed with caution in this marriage once again offered a prophet-of-doom pronouncement.

Yet this go-round, she wasn’t going to ignore it.

Yes, she’d mention her idea to Steve. Give him a chance to work through this with her—assuming he wasn’t behind the threats to Eve. That was only fair.

But if he said no? If he refused to change his behavior?

This marriage was over.

“Hey, Mom.”

Sara Allen double-checked the Tupperware inventory in her trunk as her son spoke. “What?”

“There’s the delivery guy I saw the day you picked me up from school and we went to drop off the stuff you sold at that party.”

“Uh-huh.” Sara did another count of the small containers that could keep two pounds of brown sugar fresh. Always an easy sell at parties, once she demonstrated her personal piece of Tupperware filled with still-soft two-year-old sugar. If she was one container short, she’d have to schedule another trip—and who had time for that?

“He’s not wearing a uniform today either.”

“Uh-huh.”

“How come he didn’t wear a uniform at that house? Or drive a truck with the company name on it? Our FedEx guy always does.”

“What?” Yes! There it was. The small piece of Tupperware was tucked behind the grocery bags she carried for her trips to Aldi.

“That guy over there. How come he didn’t have a truck with FedEx on it?”

She pulled her head out of the recesses of her trunk and turned her attention to Jeremy. At nine years old, her son was a constant font of questions. And he noticed everything, from the color on the outside of flower petals to the number of holes in a button.

Definitely not a skill he’d inherited from her.

“What guy are you talking about?”

“Over there.” He pointed to a tall man who was striding toward a vehicle in the fast-food parking lot, a bag with arches on the side in one hand and a large paper cup in the other.

“Why do you think he’s a delivery guy?”

“’Cause of that package he left at the house across the street.”