Chapter 2

I called in sick the next day.

He'd mentioned an address in those messages. Mississauga. A street so quiet it was almost eerie. Two stories, attached garage, a perfectly edged lawn. I parked at the corner and stared at the house for ten minutes before I walked up and rang the bell.

The door opened a crack, and a little head poked out.

A boy, about five, with a cowlick. One hand on the doorframe, the other clutching half a cookie. He didn't hide. He turned around and yelled, "Mommy! Someone's here!"

Slippers slapped across the floor inside.

She looked softer than she did in the wedding photo. Less polished, hair in a messy knot. Her oversized loungewear couldn't hide the belly. Six or seven months at least. She was holding a handful of half-trimmed green beans.

My eyes drifted down. Something hung from her left wrist. A thin chain with a tiny letter charm. I knew that design. One of the pair was on her.

"Can I help you?" She drew the boy behind her.

For a moment I couldn't speak.

"Do you know Nathan Boyd?"

The boy answered first, loud and bright. "Nathan's my daddy! What do you want him for?"

She smiled and brushed the hair off his forehead, as casual as if she were talking about the weather. "I'm his wife. He's at work. He won't be home until after seven."

Something rang in my ears.

"How long have you two been married?"

Her brows drew together. Before she could answer, the phone in my pocket rang.

The name on the screen turned my stomach.

I declined it. It rang again. I declined it again. A third call came in.

I answered.

"Cece." His voice was low, forced through his teeth. "Get away from my house. Now."

"Why should I?" My hand was shaking around the phone. "I'm getting answers today."

"I'll tell you whatever you want to know. Just don't touch her. She's pregnant. If anything happens to her, you can't afford the consequences."

He said that last part very calmly.

The woman in the doorway kept watching me, wide-eyed and innocent.

"Are you here about my husband? Is something wrong?" She stepped aside. "Why don't you come in and wait? I made too much food anyway. You should eat with us."

Her smile was warm. The kind of warm that comes from never having to be on guard with anyone.

It felt like a knife going straight in, then twisting.

I shook my head, said, "No, thanks," and turned back to my car. At the bottom of the steps my knees gave out. I held the railing for a few seconds before I could keep walking.

I'd barely reached the sidewalk when a car swerved up to the curb. He was out before it fully stopped.

It was him. He'd run so hard his suit jacket was crooked.

"You didn't tell her, did you?" He grabbed my arm. His voice was hoarse, but his eyes kept darting to the house. "She's pregnant. Cece, I'm begging you. Don't put this on her."

"If you've got a problem, take it out on me."

Eight years, and I had never once seen that pleading look on his face. So he could bow his head after all. He just never had for me.

"Home. We'll talk there." That was all I said.

We drove back in silence.

I'd just gotten my shoes off when I heard a thud behind me.

He'd dropped to his knees. They hit the hardwood with a dull crack. I turned around. He was kneeling there, eyes red, arms hanging at his sides.

"I'm sorry," he said. "Yell at me. Hit me. Whatever you want. Just don't be angry."

I didn't move. I asked a question I already knew the answer to. "The kid's yours? And she really is your wife?"

He lowered his head.

It was barely a nod. It still felt like something yanked me straight down.

"Then between the two of us," I heard myself say, my voice thin and far away, "which one is the other woman?"

He was crying too hard to speak. In the end, he never answered.