In one small, fast motion, she’d just dragged the X-Acto knife over the thumbnail on her left hand. A rush of heat flushed the wound, and hot blood seeped quickly from beneath a fresh slice in the surgical glove.

She dropped the blade, wrapped her right fist around her left thumb and squeezed. She didn’t want to look at it, didn’t want to know how deep she’d cut. It didn’t feel like it would need stitches, but she knew from experience that the real pain wouldn’t come until later.

She slid back from the stool and went over to Ray’s tool bench, to where she was sure he kept a first-aid kit for work. A drumbeat of pain began in her thumb. Keeping pressure on it, she navigated around the plastic tubs and empty pots, past the cobwebby weightlifting station and rusted-out old ride-on.

She reached the bench that ran along the far wall. This was Ray’s domain. Aside from his work truck, it was the closest thing Ray had to an office. It was cluttered with various power tools. A mud-stained Stihl chainsaw sat on a plastic tub full of receipts with TAX STUFF printed down one side in thick black texta. A grass-covered Buffalo Turbine leaf blower leaned against a stack of For Dummies books.

It took her nearly a full minute of panicked searching before she finally found the first-aid kit. She was seconds from running into the house, blood spurting from the jagged hole she’d cut into the surgical glove, when she spotted it, stood on its side, wedged between the bench and the back wall. It must have fallen back there. She slipped to her knees, reached in with her good hand, then paused. The lid of the kit was ajar and inside she saw what looked like—

Is that an arse?

She pulled the kit out into the light and took it back over to her workbench. She unclipped the latch, flipped open the lid, and froze.

Abby’s first thought was that this kit didn’t have what she needed. Instead of bandages, gauze swabs and stop-itch cream, there was a stack of magazines, facedown. The splash of pink skin on the top back cover gave Abby her second thought: I’ve found Ray’s stash of porn.

She knew most men got off on pornography and couldn’t fault Ray his urges, but it was a terrible place to keep his magazines: one of the kids could easily have found them.

She flipped the top magazine over to get a better look at what her husband might be into. Was it cheerleaders, girl-on-girl action, mature women, or—

‘Mountain Stud?’

On the cover, a shirtless blond man stared lustfully back at her. His chest was toned and hairless, his lips pouting. He had one hand behind his head, while the other was unzipping the fly of his jeans.