Page 37 of The Perfect Divorce

My heart is beating so hard and fast, it feels like it could shoot right out of my chest. Sweat gathers at my hairline, and my fingers ache from how tightly my hands are clenched. I’d love to wrap them around her pretty little neck and squeeze until her head pops off. My breaths turn shallow and quick like a bull’s snorts before it charges a matador. I slam my fist against the granite countertop in an attempt to release all the fury I’ve been holding in since she served me with those stupid divorce papers. Something in my hand cracks. But I can’t feel it. Because all I feel is rage.

“Tell me why you did it!” I yell.

“I can’t,” she says.

“Why?”

“Because I didn’t do anything. Your actions have consequences, Bob, and I’m sorry you’re incapable of accepting that.”

“Dad,” Summer calls out. I turn to find her standing in the archway of the hall. A backpack is slung over her shoulder, and she’s looking at me like she’s scared of me. “Why are you yelling at Mom?” Her voice trembles.

I let out a heavy sigh, allowing the tension in my body to melt away. My shoulders drop and my chest deflates. “We just had a little argument, honey. Sometimes grown-ups do that. But everything’s okay now, so there’s nothing to worry about.” I seal my words with a smile. “How about you run outside, and I’ll meet you in a minute.”

“Okay,” she replies apprehensively, like she’s studying me. She’s clever just like her mother. Too clever sometimes. Summer rushes past me to Sarah, giving her a hug. “Bye, Mom. I love you.”

Sarah hugs back and kisses her on the forehead. She almost looks like a real human in this embrace.

“Love you too, sweetie. Be good for your dad.” Her tone is cheerful as she sends her off.

“I will,” Summer says, and she heads for the front door. I wait for her to leave the house before I continue because I don’t need to make myself look like the bad guy any more than I’m sure Sarah already has.

“This isn’t over.” I grit my teeth.

Sarah stares at me for a moment, studying me, trying to gauge how serious I am and how much of a fight I’ll put up.

“It is, Bob,” she says, but I notice there’s very little conviction in her voice—because deep down, she knows we’re just getting started.

TWENTY-THREE

SHERIFF HUDSON

The sound of a ringing phone stirs me awake, but maybe I was already awake to begin with. Stress and anxiety will do that to you. They’ll make you feel like you haven’t slept a wink, no matter how long you’ve been lying in bed with your eyes closed. I splat my hand against the nightstand, my fingers tapping around in search of my cell. Finally, they touch the cold metal, and I hitAcceptbefore pressing the phone against my ear.

“Sheriff Hudson,” I whisper, my voice croaking. I glance over at Pam. She’s sound asleep beside me, her long hair spread across the pillow.

“Sorry to wake you, sir. It’s Deputy Morrow. But... umm... I figured you would want to hear this right away...”

“Spit it out, Morrow.”

“Stevens is dead, sir.”

My eyes widen in disbelief, and I swing my legs out of bed, planting my bare feet on the floor. I rub the side of my temple, wondering if this is a dream.

“What the hell do you mean he’s dead? His doctor told me yesterday that surgery went well, and he’d make a full recovery.”

“This isn’t from natural causes, sir.” Morrow goes quiet on the other end, save for his labored breaths. “Stevens was murdered,” he finally adds.

* * *

Less than twenty minutes later, Olson and I arrive at the hospital. As soon as she heard me getting out of bed, she was up and ready to go before I was, insisting she come with. I didn’t argue because I know once she’s made up her mind, there’s no changing it. We make our way to Ryan Stevens’s room—or is it his former room now? Does it stop being his room if his body still occupies it, even with no life inside? Deputy Morrow is standing watch. Not sure why he wasn’t doing that before Stevens was murdered. There’s police tape stretched across the doorframe behind him, so it seems he’s done one thing right, but that doesn’t make the wrong he did any better.

“Sheriff Hudson, I don’t—” he says with a look of fear.

I put my hand up, stopping him. “Save it. I’ll deal with you later.” He steps aside, and I lift the police tape for Pam to duck under first.

A doctor seated in a chair in the far corner of the room is on his feet as soon as Pam and I enter.

“Hello, Officers,” he says, walking toward us with a clipboard clutched in his hand. “I would say good evening but...” He trails off, looking to the lump lying under the blood-soaked sheet in the hospital bed.

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