Chapter 1 - The Face Behind the Wheel
Daniel froze with one foot still on the gravel.
The crunch of stone under his designer loafers sounded unnaturally loud in the midday stillness. Behind him, the engine of the white Range Rover purred, then abruptly died. The door clicked open, and Paige Mercer stepped out, sunglasses perched on her honey-blonde hair, wearing a sleeveless white linen top that looked suspiciously like a twin to the one currently hanging in my master closet.
She held an insulated picnic bag in one hand. She was laughing as she rounded the rear bumper, until her eyes traced Daniel’s paralyzed posture and landed directly on me.
The smile fell from her face like shattered glass.
""Claire?"" Daniel choked out. The color drained from his skin so fast he looked almost gray under the North Carolina sun. ""What... what are you doing here? You’re supposed to be in Charlotte until tomorrow night.""
I leaned casually against the frame of my SUV. The tailgate was open, revealing three tidy rows of luggage, plastic storage totes, and my grandmother’s handmade quilt draped carefully over Lily’s vintage easel.
""The keynote speaker took ill,"" I said evenly. My voice didn't waver. It didn't crack. It sounded cool, crisp, like a morning breeze moving across the surface of the lake. ""The symposium wrapped twenty-four hours ahead of schedule. So, I thought I’d save you the trouble of dealing with the dock contractor alone.""
Daniel swallowed hard. His eyes darted frantically toward the open door of the small guest cottage behind me, where Ben’s fishing poles were lined up on the screened porch, and then back up toward the main house.
""Claire, listen—""
""You must be Paige,"" I interrupted, shifting my gaze past him.
The younger woman flinched. She was thirty-two, maybe thirty-three. I had seen her across conference tables during Daniel’s firm’s quarterly galas, always polished, always laughing a little too loudly at his jokes. Standing here on my driveway, holding groceries meant for my kitchen, she looked entirely stripped of her corporate armor.
""Mrs. Holloway,"" Paige stammered, tucking a strand of hair behind an ear that was turning bright red. ""I... Daniel said...""
""Daniel says a great many things,"" I said. ""He told me the plumbing had burst. He told me there was toxic mildew behind the wainscoting. He told me the children’s allergies would flare up if we stepped foot on this property before August."" I looked back at my husband. ""Strange how none of the pipes smelled like sandalwood and bergamot. That is your moisturizer on the marble vanity, isn't it, Paige?""
Daniel took two rapid steps forward, his hands raised in a placating gesture he usually reserved for angry corporate clients. ""Claire, stop this. Let’s go inside. Let’s talk about this privately.""
""Inside where?"" I asked softly, tilting my head. ""The house where another woman’s silk robe is folded on the side of the mattress where I spent eleven summers nursing our babies? Or the bathroom where her contact lenses sit next to the silver monogrammed tray my parents gave us for our tenth anniversary?""
""Claire, please—""
""I’m not angry, Daniel,"" I said, and the terrifying truth was that I wasn't. The blinding rage had burned out somewhere around three in the morning while I folded my daughter's sundresses. What remained was cold, hard slate. ""I’m organized. There’s a distinct difference.""
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I closed the rear hatch of the SUV with a firm, solid thud that sounded like a gavel striking wood.
""You have the weekend you planned,"" I continued, dusting off my hands. ""Everything of mine—and everything belonging to Lily and Ben—is out of the main house. You won't have to push my sweaters aside to make room for her cocktail dresses anymore. Enjoy the lake, Daniel. Breathe in the air. Because starting Monday morning, every single breath you take is going to cost you.""
