The Water Was Too Hot

At three in the morning, I dragged my suitcase through the front door.

After a full week at an exchange program in Germany, I was too tired to even turn on the lights. I went straight to the shower.

The hot water poured over me, and I went cold all over.

A hundred and thirteen degrees.

My temperature. The one I always use.

Ryan had always said it was scalding. In five years of marriage I must have reminded him a thousand times, but every time he showered, the dial stayed parked at his lukewarm ninety-eight. Not once had he turned it back.

Tonight, the temperature was right.

Which meant only one thing: the last person to use this shower wasn't him.

I wrapped myself in a towel and leaned against the bedroom doorframe. "So," I said, keeping my voice light. "Since when do you think about your wife?"

The man in the bed blinked, then grinned and snapped me a textbook salute. "Yes, ma'am. Won't happen again, ma'am. I'll always remember from now on."

I didn't say a word. I turned and went back into the bathroom.

As the steam slowly cleared, two pairs of handprints surfaced on the glass shower door, one over the other.

One large pair, one small. The fingertips of the small pair sat a good few inches below where mine would reach.

And caught in the drain was a single strand of hair—long, straight, black, glossy as satin.

My hair is short and honey-blond.

Credit where it's due: they'd gotten creative.

Swallowing the nausea rising in my throat, I took a photo and sent it to my cousin Riley. She was a senior at West Point, majoring in cybersecurity.

Long straight black hair. About 5'1".

Find her and I'll give you five thousand dollars.

She answered in seconds:

On it. Let's see who this little home-wrecker is.

* * *

Chapter One

I stared at those two pairs of handprints. I could almost picture exactly how they'd been standing.

For five years, Ryan Calloway had been, to everyone who knew us, the perfect husband.

West Point graduate. Army major. Thirty years old, sunny, easygoing, attentive to my every need.

I'm six years older than he is. When he was chasing me, the whole hospital joked that Dr. Pierce had gone and snagged herself a freshman.

I never imagined we'd end up here.

My phone buzzed.

It was Riley, with a photo.

It was a news photo from the Grant Military Medical College website. Ryan, in his training uniform, surrounded by a crowd of cadets. Crouched in front of him was a girl.

Petite. Long hair. A baby face, big round eyes.

Even a grainy, low-res photo couldn't hide how young she was.

Her head was tilted toward Ryan, and her eyes were shining.

I took a deep breath. The air was cold as needles, stabbing into my lungs one by one.

Riley's messages kept coming:

Your hubby's teaching combat casualty care this year. Fourth-year med student. Second Lieutenant Kayla Brooks.

Wow. Always seemed like such a stand-up guy. Never would've guessed.

I sent her the money:

Don't do anything stupid. I'll handle it myself.

By the time Ryan got up, I'd wiped every trace of it off my face.

He saw the dark circles under my eyes and looked genuinely pained. "Didn't sleep well?"

Kayla's name was on the tip of my tongue. In the end, I just smiled. "Mm. Still jet-lagged."

He eased me back onto the pillow and kissed my forehead. "Shouldn't have kept you up last night. Get some more sleep. I'll wake you when breakfast's ready."

Same perfect Ryan as always.

Until breakfast, when the way he wolfed down his food made me pause. "Aren't you off today?"

"The cadets have a field exercise. I need to supervise."

He finished in a few bites and got up to leave.

"Did you forget what today is?" I asked softly.

He froze, checked the date on his phone, and looked instantly stricken. "I forgot. Babe, I'm so sorry. I promised I'd go see your dad with you."

"But the field exercise has been on the schedule for ages..."

I laughed coldly to myself.

"Go," I said. "I wanted some time alone with my dad anyway."

Ryan left, reassured.

At the cemetery, I laid a bouquet of white chrysanthemums on my father's grave. The headstone read: Colonel Thomas Pierce, U.S. Army.

When I left the cemetery, I didn't go home. I drove to the edge of the training field at Grant Military Medical College.

A row of CPR mannequins was lined up on the grass. Fourth-year cadets in training uniforms were in the middle of a combat casualty care class.

Ryan blew his whistle. "Pairs. One of you is the casualty, the other does the assessment."

The cadets paired off quickly, leaving one girl standing alone in the middle.

The catcalls started at once:

"Sir, Kayla doesn't have a partner!"

"Like that's a question. If anybody else played her casualty, the instructor would lose it."

Through the laughter, Kayla stuck her tongue out at them. "If you're jealous, just say so. Get the instructor to give you private lessons, if you can!"