Page 11 of Forgiveness River

The early morninglight painted whispers of peach and gold across the Laurel Valley sky as Wyatt’s truck pulled into the driveway. He cut the engine, allowing silence to envelop him like a cold embrace.

For a moment, he simply sat there, staring at the Craftsman where laughter had once come easily and secrets didn’t lodge between them like splinters. The porch light still burned—Raven’s silent beacon guiding him home. She’d never stopped leaving it on, even as the distance between them had grown from inches to miles.

His body ached with a bone-deep exhaustion that sleep couldn’t cure. He rubbed his face, feeling the stubble of his beard rasp against his calloused palms. The mirror revealed shadows like bruises beneath his green eyes and lines that hadn’t been there six months ago. Undercover work aged a man, he’d been warned. What they hadn’t mentioned was how it could age a marriage just as quickly.

The front door opened with a familiar creak—one he’d promised to fix last summer but never had. The house smelled of vanilla, Raven’s signature scent that clung to every surface like a memory. He moved through the darkened living room,navigating by muscle memory past the couch where they’d once spent Sunday afternoons tangled together, past the wall of photos chronicling happier times.

He hadn’t expected her to be awake. But there she was, sitting at the kitchen island, her dark hair tumbling in loose waves around her shoulders. She wore his old DEA Academy shirt—the one she’d claimed years ago—and it swallowed her petite frame. A mug of tea steamed between her hands, the scent of chamomile threading through the air. Raven’s eyes met his, those icy blue depths that had once held nothing but warmth now guarded and uncertain. The silence between them stretched taut, fragile as spun glass.

“You’re home,” she said finally, her voice carefully neutral. Not an accusation, not quite a welcome. A simple statement of fact.

“I didn’t think you’d be up.” Wyatt set his keys in the wooden bowl by the door—a wedding gift from Duncan, hand-carved from birch. The soft clatter seemed to echo in the space between them.

“Couldn’t sleep.” She lifted the mug to her lips, her wedding ring catching the soft light from above the stove. The gold band looked almost foreign there now, as though it belonged to someone else’s life.

Wyatt moved to the refrigerator, extracting a bottle of water. His throat felt desert dry, parched from hours of careful conversation and calculated half truths. The cool liquid provided momentary relief, but nothing could wash away the taste of lies that had become his daily bread.

“Duncan saw you.” The words fell between them like stones into still water, ripples of consequence spreading outward. “On Twin Lakes Road. At dawn yesterday.”

Wyatt froze, the bottle halfway to his lips. Too exhausted to manufacture a convincing reaction, he simply waited, listeningto the steady tick of the antique clock on the wall—another family heirloom, this one from his grandmother. Counting seconds. Measuring the distance between truth and deception.

“There’s nothing up there except the old Murphy cabin,” Raven continued, her finger tracing the rim of her mug. Light reflected in the ceramic, casting rippling patterns across her face. “The one teenagers use when they don’t want their parents to know what they’re doing.” Her eyes lifted to his, sharp now, cutting through his defenses. “What were you doing up there, Wyatt?”

He set the water bottle down carefully on the granite countertop, buying precious seconds. As a DEA agent assigned to Blaze’s department, his movements should have made sense. But the operation had required him to create distance, to compartmentalize in ways that were tearing them apart.

“Work,” he said, the single word falling heavy between them.

“Work,” she repeated, the word hollow. “That’s your answer for everything these days. I know you’re DEA, Wyatt. I’ve known that since you took the job. But this consulting you’ve been doing, these overtime assignments Blaze brings you in on—” Her voice trailed off, hurt etched in every syllable.

“Because it’s the truth.” The half truth that was eating him alive.

“Is it?” She pushed away from the island, her bare feet silent against the hardwood as she moved closer. The scent of her—that intoxicating blend of jasmine and vanilla that had once driven him to distraction—wrapped around him. “Because I called the station yesterday. Carson said you weren’t on shift. So I called your field office in Boise. Want to guess what they told me?”

The knot in his gut tightened. He already knew the answer.

“The DEA office in Boise has no record of you working any active cases with them,” she said. “Imagine my surprise.”

Wyatt’s jaw tightened. Rookie mistake—not coordinating his cover story with dispatch. He’d been too focused on the operation, too consumed by the details needed to keep himself alive, to think about the details needed to keep his marriage intact.

“It’s complicated, Raven.” He reached for her, but she stepped back, arms crossing protectively over her chest. The rejection was subtle but absolute, another brick in the wall rising between them.

“That’s not good enough anymore.” Her voice trembled slightly, the first crack in her carefully maintained composure. “Do you know what it’s like? Lying awake every night, not knowing where you are? If you’re safe?” Her eyes met his, a flash of pain crossing her face. “Or whose bed you might be in?”

The accusation hit him like a physical blow. “Raven, no?—”

“What else am I supposed to think?” she said quietly. “When my husband disappears for hours, days even, and comes home smelling of someone else’s cigarettes?”

“I always come home,” he said softly, the implication wounding him more than he could show.

“Do you?” Her laugh was brittle, fragile as frost. “Your body might, but you haven’t been here in months.”

Outside, birds began their morning chorus, oblivious to the storm brewing within the cozy kitchen. The first rays of sunlight slanted through the windows, catching in Raven’s hair and illuminating the unshed tears in her eyes.

“Remember when we talked about starting a family?” She turned away, her voice smaller now. “About the nursery we’d put in the spare room? About what we’d name our children?”

The question pierced Wyatt’s armor, finding the vulnerable place beneath his ribs where he still kept those dreams, carefully preserved like pressed flowers in a book. A boy with Raven’seyes. A girl with her smile. A family built on the solid foundation of their love.

“I remember,” he managed, the words catching in his throat.

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