He grabbed his car keys and hurried out the door.

I slammed the tray under the broiler. Something was up with my husband, beyond writer’s block. He was pulling away from me, I could feel it. He was distant and distracted; didn’t want to eat, talk, or connect with me. His rigorous exercise routine made it clear that he would rather work on his body than his marriage. We still had sex, on schedule. It was still good—hotter than it had been when we were trying to conceive. But despite his attentiveness and vigor, my lover seemed emotionally detached.

As I cleaned the kitchen, my anger eased to a simmer. We were both under immense stress, I reminded myself. When Brian fixed his manuscript, when business picked up at the store, we’d find our way back to each other. We always did. A relationship like ours was built for the long haul. I was making too big a deal over a shared sandwich. Washing the knife and cutting board, I let my resentment run down the drain with the soapy water.

The oven timer dinged and as I turned toward it, I spotted Brian’s inhaler on the counter. My husband’s mild case of asthma was made significantly less mild with strenuous exercise. He never worked out without his inhaler, but his distraction was so complete that he’d forgotten it. If he had an asthma attack alone, in the middle of the forest, an hour from home, it could be serious.

I flicked off the oven, picked up the inhaler, and hurried to my car.

Chapter 30

30

My Mazda hurtled down the winding road toward Hyak Canyon. It was a forested stretch of highway, rarely used except by a few residents of homesteads set back in the woods and miles apart. I was slightly uneasy in this largely deserted swath of trees. There were rumors of meth labs on this part of the island, of illegal marijuana crops. The canyon and its running trails were in a national park, but the surrounding area had a dark, criminal energy.

Brian’s inhaler rattled in the console. If I didn’t catch him before he started his run, I’d be too late. My husband usually stretched his quads and hamstrings before he took off, a process that could take anywhere from five to fifteen minutes. My foot pressed down on the gas. I hoped Brian was doing an extralong warm-up today.

As I rounded a bend, a vehicle flew past me. It was white, an SUV. I caught a glimpse of light blond hair as the driver passed, her eyes focused on the winding road ahead.

Freya.

What was she doing out here? The area was almost deserted, except for the rumored meth cookers and pot growers. Freya couldn’t have been hiking the rugged canyon trails in her condition. She had no reason to be in this area. Unless . . .