I flick on the light.
On my side of the bed, the pillow is sunken, the sheets a wreck. As if I’ve torn them out, tossing and turning.
I’ve shoved the pillows to Eve’s side of the bed.
“Eve?”
No answer.
The bathroom door is shut. I look for the thin strip of light that should be showing at the bottom of the door. Dark.
Where is she?
I grab a pair of jeans and get partially dressed, foregoing a shirt, and barrel downstairs, expecting to see her in the kitchen, maybe huddled up with a cup of coffee. She does that when she’s brooding over a case, and I remember last night how she left the house for a run, restless and perturbed over a missing teenager.
But the kitchen is empty.
I stand at the window, staring out at the backyard.
It takes me a bit, but what I’m seeing—or not seeing—is dawning on me.
The swing set I spent last weekend building for Ashley is gone. Vanished.
Just grass, wild and unkempt, needing a mow.
Huh?
Behind me, a clock chimes. 6 a.m.
Eve has to be out for a run. I think this even as my brain shouts outs an unintelligible answer. Like my dream, I look around for it, as if the answer might materialize.
The doorbell rings, and my heart restarts.
It’s Eve, and she’s forgotten her keys.
I open the door and a rush of relief swills through me at the sight of Eve standing on the stoop. Except she’s not wearing her running gear but a pair of dress pants, a crisp white shirt and she’s carrying her satchel over her shoulder. Her beautiful hair is pulled back, tight, and her eyes hold age, stress, and not a little weariness.
The image of the younger Eve flashes through my mind. Bright, her hair down and flowing through my fingers. “Did you go back to work?” I ask and shift to my right to let her come inside. “Why didn’t you text me?”
A car door slams and beyond her Silas is coming up the walk.
He has a scowl on his face, but I’ve secretly always thought that Silas wanted to kill me and bury me in a dumpster. What’s strange, however, is that usually he hides it.
“Are you working from home today?” She isn’t coming in.
“Stop it, Rem,” she says, and her tone could peel skin.
Huh? I make the sound and she sighs.
“You can’t keep dodging me. Grow up. I shouldn’t have to ambush you to get you to accept these.” While she’s talking, she’s dug out a manila envelope. She hands it to me. “Take them.”
I admit that because of the way she says this, I’m slow to reach out and take the envelope. But I do, because she’s Eve and I’ll do just about anything she asks. I look at her and she glances away.
Her eyes glisten.
Silas stands behind her, glares at me, and I have the strangest sense he’s here to protect her.
Ignoring the urge to put a hand to his chest, push hard and drag Eve off the stoop and into the house for a private chat, I open the envelope. My breath leaks out as I read the header.
“Divorce papers? What the hell, Eve?”
She wipes her hand across her cheek. “It’s time, Rem, and you know it. I’m tired of waiting for you to get better, to snap out of it. We’re both hurting, but you—I can’t watch you destroy yourself.”
Her words are like fists, each one slamming into me. “What are you talking about?”
“This.” Her jaw tightens as she waves her hand at me. “The fact you won’t admit you have a problem.” She shakes her head. “I can smell the whiskey on your breath, Rem.”
“That was hours ago.” I’m not sure why, but I’m so desperate to find the Eve I know inside all that anger that I say, “I think I finished my novel. And it’s good—really good.”
She wears a strange expression, then her face crumbles and she presses her hand to her mouth, turning away.
“What?”
Silas moves a few inches closer to Eve. “Do you work at being the jerk of the century, Rembrandt? Or does is just come naturally? Please. Stop dreaming and start living in the world you created.”
He puts a protective arm around Eve, my Eve.
I stand there, feet nailed to the cold entry way floor, bare chested and wet, the world spinning off its axis.
Especially when Eve looks up at me. “Just sign the papers, Rem, and let me go. Let Ashley go. It’s over.”
Ashley. The name rushes through me like wildfire. “Let her go? What are you talking about?”
I’m about ready to turn and sprint up the stairs to Ashley’s bedroom when Eve gives me such a horrid, broken look I freeze. She draws in a breath and for a second, looks like she might slap me, venom in her eyes.
“I really hate you, Rembrandt Stone.”
My jaw tightens, my throat raw. “Hate me all you want, but you’re not taking my daughter away from me—”
“You’re sick.”
“Where is she, Eve?” My voice is louder than I want it to be, but fear is sneaking up from my gut and I can’t help it.
“She’s dead, Rem. She’s dead, and you can’t bring her back. So wake up!”
Her words sear through me.
No. No— “What are you talking about?”
She shakes her head, turns away.
“Rembrandt,” Silas says, and his voice is oddly soft, as if I might be a hostage taker and he the friendly negotiator. “Ashley’s murder was two years ago now. It’s time to let go. I’m sorry.”
My mouth opens, but nothing emerges. The urge to hurt him is gone, leaving me with nothing at all.
“Sign the papers,” Eve says softly, tears cutting down her face. Behind her grief, I see the Eve I know, the Eve who has gone missing, the Eve I left behind last night. Strong, beautiful Eve who loves me, believes in me. Who sees exactly what this impossible news has done to me.
I stand there, mute, as Silas turns her, his arm curling around her
