“Nothing with you ever changes, Christian.”

“It’s going to hurt his feelings if I cut him off cold. Might mess him up even more than he already is,” he warns.

“You’re good at cutting people off. I’m sure you’ll manage.”

He puts a hand over his heart. “You’re cold, Jewelann. You know that?”

I’m unruffled.

“You want to try and pretend to me that you were getting closer to him because you thought he was yours? Don’t tell me you think I’m smart out of one side of your mouth and use the other side to spew that kind of bullshit.”

“I thought you liked what I used my mouth for,” he says.

The knock at the door turns us both toward it. He looks as surprised as I feel. I’m the one who crosses to the door. I don’t recognize either the man or the woman on the front step.

“Can I help you?”

They look at each other. The woman steps forward, not quite pushing her way through the doorway but close to it. She shows me a badge. I don’t have time to read it before she’s speaking.

“Mrs. Jordan?”

Behind me, I feel the warmth of Christian’s body as he looks out the front door. I nudge him away. “Yes. Can I help you?”

Detective … I didn’t catch her name, but I did see that much, looks past me. “Is this your husband?”

“No. This is my tenant. Can I—”

“Can we come in?” This comes from her partner, who also flashes his badge so quickly I’m not able to catch a name.

“What is this regarding?” I’m proud of sounding calm but wary.

They’re here for Christian. But why? Did Steve tell them he’d been fooling around with Beth? What if they’re here about the falsified prescriptions? Either way, I’m going to lose the edge I have on him.

I will lie, I think. I’ll lie to protect Eli. But not Christian. And if he tries to throw my son under the bus, I’ll—

“Your husband is Kenneth Paul Jordan? Is that correct?”

Ice centers in my guts. “Is he okay?”

“Mrs. Jordan,” the woman says, “would it be all right if we came inside?”

Christian nudges me forward. “The place is a wreck right now. Remodeling. I’m in the middle of something that needs my attention. Could you talk up at the main house, maybe?”

“That would be fine. If it’s all right with you?” the man says.

If they don’t want Christian, what do they want?

Is it … me?

“Sure. All right. Fine. Follow me.” Their eyes bore into my back as I lead them across the yard.

Inside my kitchen, I offer them mugs of coffee, but it’s gone cold in the pot. “I can heat it up.”

“No, thanks. I could use your powder room, though, if that’s all right?” the man asks politely.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your names. Could I look at your badges again?”

They share a glance, but both show me their badges. Detective Anderson is the woman, about my height, short dark hair, piercing blue eyes enhanced by eyeliner and mascara. Detective Phipps is the man, six foot or so, broad-shouldered, with gingery hair and chocolate-brown eyes. A faint spray of freckles across his nose gives him a very Ron Weasley vibe that I suspect he uses to his advantage. Like right now.