“Ask me who put the jams in the windows.”

“What?”

“Ask me who put the jams in the windows. You keep circling around to it. You keep digging at it like it tells you something about me.”

“All right. Who put the jams in your windows?”

“Sandy did. Day after we moved in. She was nine months pregnant, we had an entire house to set up, and first thing she did was secure all the windows.”

D.D. thought about it. “All these years later, she’s still locking Daddy out?”

“You said it, not me.”

D.D. finally rose from the chair. “Well, it didn’t work, because Daddy’s back and he has more clout than you think.”

“How so?”

“Turns out he went to law school with one of our district court judges.” She flashed her paper. “Who do you think signed our warrant?”

Jason managed not to say a word, but it probably didn’t matter, as the color draining from his face gave him away.

“Still don’t know where your wife is?” D.D. asked from the doorway.

He shook his head.

“Too bad. Really would be best for everyone if we found her. Particularly considering her condition and all.”

“Her condition?”

D.D. arched a brow yet again. This time, there was no mistaking the flash of triumph in her eyes. “It’s another thing they teach you in detective school. How to seize a person’s trash and how to read a pregnancy test strip.”

“What? You mean …”

“That’s right, Jason. Sandy’s pregnant.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Fucking strangers isn’t an easy proposition for a woman. Men have it easier They pull out, wipe off, move along. For women, the entire process is different By nature, we are receptacles, meant to take a man inside of us, to receive him, to accept him, to keep him. It’s harder to wipe off It’s more difficult to move along.

I think this often on my spa nights, generally when I’m checking out of the hotel, making my way home, trying to transition from wanton floozy to respectable mom.

Have I given too much of myself away? Is that why I feel so transparent, as if a gust of wind will blow me away? I shower I lather, scrub rinse, repeat. I try to wipe the fingerprints of too many men from my body, just as I try to purge the imprint of their lust-filled faces from my mind.

I’m not bad at it. Honestly, the two kids from the first night … couldn’t even pick them out of a lineup. And the episode after that and the episode after that. I can forget them easily enough. But I can’t forgive them, and that doesn’t even make sense.