“If he did what, Sarah? I’ve had the same conversations with Jared. So answer that—if he’d what? Desperate men made desperate decisions. They’re all morons. So you deal with it.”

She couldn’t stand still and stalked out of the room. “I’m angry at him.”

“Hell, me too.”

“You weren’t married to him.”

“You still are.”

She bit her lip then said, “I still am.”

Still, she couldn’t get over her angry. It was a vicious, nonsensical circle. Like a hamster running on its wheel, once her mind started spinning, she panted through mental laps, trying to find an answer. Trying to find relief or release or resolution. But the repetition didn’t help.

“Sarah,” Sugar snapped. “Did you hear me?”

“What, uh… No.”

“What’s your plan? Sit on your ass and ponder all the ways he could’ve reacted better to his family being snatched?”

Maybe she shouldn’t squirrel money away for her kids’ therapy in the future. She should spend it now and secure her sanity, because it’d been tough on her. Sarah took pride in her self-sufficiency and a rock-solid foundation at home. Maybe that had been a lie she’d told herself, and she wasn’t really strong. Maybe she was weak and pathetic but had never realized it before.

Sarah shook her head. “My plan is to move on. To protect my kids. And never feel like this again.”

CHAPTER TWO

Brock opened his eyes to the same scene, different day. Maybe. He wasn’t sure and didn’t care. But he did know that, sooner or later, he’d have to eat. Having the shakes from alcohol withdrawal wasn’t a good enough excuse to ignore the warning bells in his head. He needed to eat, and if the food stayed down, then good. If not, well then, he’d given it the old college try.

Rolling up and dangling his legs off the bed, he gathered his bearings and glared at the empty granola bar wrappers. They littered the floor. On the dresser, an empty container of peanut butter sat abandoned. A knife he’d used way too many times sat on top of an empty sleeve of bread.

Screw this. He had to eat, and with a disgusted groan, he slid off the bed and made his way to the kitchen. With each step, his stomach swished, his gag reflex jumped into action, and his ears… were now hearing sounds. Imaginary voices? Great. A new low.

There were voices in his head.

His pathetic, downward spiral was taking the scenic route. Surely, this was cosmic retribution for all of the shady work he’d done in the past, however good his intentions might have been.

Using the wall to stay upright, he pinched his eyes closed to ignore the lights and hushed away the voices.

“It’s about time, Buttercup.”