Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 105667 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105667 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Chloe rushes over to me with a puzzle she’s pulled off a shelf. “Mommy, can we do a puzzle?”
“Please?” Andi begs.
I nod and look over at Shephard. “You want to join us?” I’ll do anything to pretend I’m a good wife and mother, and not the terrible human being I’ve been since showing up here.
“You girls go ahead. I’m going to prep.”
Shephard seems at ease as he begins pulling items out of the bags. He seems to dive right into the normalcy of our routine, unaware of the chaos I’ve brought into our lives.
Chapter Thirteen
The rhythmic clatter of pans and the faint, comforting smell of garlic fill the kitchen, creating a sense of normalcy that feels so at odds with the storm brewing inside me. Shephard is at the stove, his back to me, stirring something in a gleaming skillet, humming softly under his breath. It’s a tuneless, content sound; he’s completely at ease in his role as the devoted husband and father. He’s prepping dinner while I sit at the kitchen island, hunched over a brightly colored jigsaw puzzle with the girls. Andi, my youngest, giggles beside me, her sticky fingers carefully placing a piece. Chloe murmurs instructions: “No, Andi, that’s a wing, not a tail!”
He’s so absorbed in what he’s doing, the meticulous chopping of herbs, the sizzle of oil, that he doesn’t seem to notice how distracted I am. My eyes dart from the vibrant puzzle pieces to the clock, to the window, to the back of Shephard’s broad shoulders.
But then again, why would he notice? I’ve been playing the part for years, slipping in and out of roles and characters like they were costumes I could change at will. The serene, engaged mother. The supportive, loving wife. The business-minded public speaker. I pretend to be all the things I’m supposed to be when I need to be them, while trying not to live completely in my head. I’m used to it—I’ve been this way my whole life. I dress the part for every other aspect of my life, but I’m the most me in the silence of my mind. But today, it feels less like I’m wearing a costume and more like I’ve been shoved into a suffocating straitjacket.
The humming falters. It’s almost imperceptible, just a slight catch in his breath, a break in the rhythmic stirring of the pan. My gaze, which was fixed on a bright-blue puzzle piece, flicks to Shephard. His stirring slows, becomes hesitant. His head cocks slightly, his eyes narrowing as he looks out the window, a subtle shift in his focus. There’s a pause, a beat of hesitation that stretches taut in the quiet kitchen, before he turns his attention fully to the driveway, his body stiffening almost imperceptibly.
Something about the shift in his body language sets off alarm bells in my head, a frantic jingle behind my ears. My skin prickles. My stomach clenches, a cold fist tightening. But I don’t look up right away. I can’t. Instead, I keep my eyes glued to the puzzle pieces in front of me, trying to make the disparate pieces fit into a coherent picture, even though my mind is a frantic whirlwind elsewhere.
“Mommy, found it!” Chloe crows, thrusting a yellow piece into my vision. Andi nods approvingly. The girls are giggling beside me, their little hands eagerly helping me assemble the picture of a bustling farm, their joy so innocent. Their laughter, usually a balm, feels like a distant echo in the sudden ringing in my ears.
It should be a moment of calm, of simple family bonding, the kind I tell myself I cherish. But I feel anything but calm, knowing that a car just pulled into the driveway, an uninvited, ominous presence. My hands are shaking as I place down a green piece, missing the connection slightly, my vision hazy as my thoughts spiral.
I tell myself it’s fine, that everything will be fine, that it’s just the neighbors, or a delivery, or . . . anyone but him.
But deep down, there’s a gnawing unease that I can’t shake, a cold certainty. It’s been gnawing at me since I sent Saint that text telling him my husband and children were here. He never responded. The silence from him was louder than any roar.
I’ve been on edge since I sent the text, jumpy at every shadow, waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the fragile peace I’ve constructed to shatter.
Is this it? Is this the end of my comfortable family life as I know it? Is this where everything unravels? The scent of garlic and simmering sauce, once comforting, now feels cloying, heavy, suffocating.
I finally work up the courage to follow Shephard’s unblinking gaze. My neck feels stiff, resisting the turn. When my eyes land on it, I stiffen further, every muscle locking into place. A black, unmarked car, its windows tinted, reflecting the bright afternoon like dark mirrors. It’s the kind you see in movies, the kind that signals trouble, the kind that belongs to men who operate in shadows.