Page 29

Wrapped with Gretchen Small’s smartwatch was a red silk ribbon the same length and width as the one I wore.

ELEVEN

The house was empty. Lock texted me an hour ago saying he wouldn’t be home until close to eight. Terrence, the young man from Bennett’s Place who OD’d the other day, was being released from the hospital into a rehab facility. Lock wanted to be with him.

I tried to put the image of Gretchen Small’s tangled smartwatch out of my mind. Every part of my soul told me the ribbon wrapped around it was no coincidence. It was the same one tied around Corrine Egan’s wrist. The same one tied around my own. And none of it made any sense.

Lock wasn’t violent. He wasn’t cruel. I’d handled hundreds of domestic violence cases, date rapes, sexual assaults, stalking. There was always a sign. Always. A level of narcissism that a man like that couldn’t hide forever. Lock was kind. Caring. Devoted to me. He would never hurt me. He built his life around the guilt he felt when his little brother died.

But you’ve only known him for two years, Mina. It was my mother’s voice in my head. The cynic where my father had been the optimist. I missed them now. Their guidance. Their love. That feeling that I wasn’t alone in the world. I’d lived in that void for over a decade.

Until I met Lock.

I replayed our first meeting. Handsome, charming, patient, and kind as he stood up for that young boy in court who had no one else to speak for him. He’d been alone, just like me.

Until he met Lock.

Lock pursued me carefully, respectfully. Meeting me for coffee first. Then a walk in the park in front of the County Building. Another along the pier. It wasn’t until a month after we first met that he asked me out on a formal date.

It wasn’t until our fifth date that we kissed. He walked me to my door under the moonlight. He would have said goodbye, made plans to take me out again. But I couldn’t stand it for another second. Not touching him. Not feeling his lips on mine. So I went to my tiptoes and grasped his face in my hands. Then I pulled him to me.

And from that instant, it was as if I’d lit a match. The passion between us was combustible. Undeniable. He asked me to marry him three months after we met. With time… with marriage… our passion for each other had only burned hotter.

I knew him. And yet, I trembled as I walked into Lock’s study.

He didn’t mind when I came in here. I’d been the one to suggest this room should remain his sanctuary. If he ever wanted to be alone, undisturbed, he only had to close the door. But he never did. Not once.

Still, I felt like an intruder as I sat at his desk. His leather chair warmed beneath me. His scent was everywhere. That tantalizing mix of his aftershave, the soap he used, and him. Even now, it sparked a flicker of heat under my skin.

I opened his laptop. The screen flared to life. He never kept it password protected. I don’t know what I expected to find. A file called “Women I’ve Stalked and Killed”?

I opened his hard drive. He was neat and orderly, creating folders for foundation business, bills, receipts, tax documents, household services, and payroll. He had a single file labeled “Photos.” I clicked on it.

What I found there made me smile. Lock dutifully backed up his phone’s camera roll once a month. He kept each backup in its own separate, dated file. I chose a random month from last year and opened it.

He took nature photographs that month. He caught peak fall color on the grounds. He captured the bluff overlooking the lake. Some of them were artwork. I kept scrolling until I hit upon a picture he’d taken of me.

I was sitting in one of the Adirondack chairs on the edge of the rose garden. The golden hour at sunset. He caught me staring at the lake. There were more like that. Lock finding me in vulnerable but simple moments. In one, I had my hair pulled back as I chopped vegetables. In another, I was feeding the ducks out by the pond. Another made my breath catch. He photographed me sleeping. My hair fanned out on my pillow, my right arm stretched above my head. The sheet just covered the swell of my breasts.

“Mina?”

I froze. Lock stood in the doorway. He’d already loosened his tie and discarded his suit jacket.

I vaulted to my feet, guilt washing over me. My mouth went dry. “You’re… you said you didn’t think you’d be back for a couple of hours.”

He gave me that sinful smirk as he walked across the room and stood at the edge of his desk. From there, he could see what I was looking at.

“That one’s my favorite,” he said, unfazed. He reached over and pressed the arrow buttons on the keyboard, advancing the camera roll until he found another photo of me. In this one, I sat in our bedroom window seat brushing my hair. I wore a thin cotton nightgown, and you could see the silhouette of my naked body the way the sunlight hit me.

“Does it bother you?” he asked. “I suppose I should have told you I kept these.”

I stepped away from the desk. “No. Of course not.”

“Were you looking for one in particular? Or something else?”

There was no accusation in his tone, just mild curiosity. And yet, he’d caught me snooping through his laptop. Neither of us could pretend.

I felt unsteady on my feet. He was Lock. Of course, he sensed something was wrong. His brow furrowed and he took a step toward me.