Page 46 of Darkwater Lane

“Except this time, Leo is really dead,” I point out. “I asked the detective if there was any way it was self-inflicted, and he said no.”

“They showed me photos from the crime scene when they were trying to get me to talk,” Sam says solemnly. “He’s right. There’s no question Varrus was murdered.”

It just doesn’t make any sense. It’s obvious Sam is being targeted, but why? “Who hates you that much?”

His smile is rueful. “A few hours ago, that answer would havebeen easy: Leo Varrus. But now…?” He holds out his hands in surrender.

“What about Rowan?” It’s the next logical person, especially now that she’s head of the Lost Angels. We both know she’s committed to continuing Leo’s quest against Sam and me. She all but threatened us when Sam talked to her the other day. Plus, she was the one to re-edit the podcast to make Sam look guilty of killing Leo the first time around. “She works in IT. Maybe she hacked our alarm system.”

His expression turns pained. “I know she hates me, but still…murder? She’s Callie’s sister. They grew up together, and I know Callie thought the world of her. I just don’t want to believe Callie could be so wrong about her.”

I understand where he’s coming from and I appreciate the emotional complexity of their relationship. “Still, we should consider her.”

He blows out a breath. “I know. Just because I don’t want to believe she could be capable of this doesn’t mean she isn’t.”

We both sit with that for a moment, neither of us saying anything. The weight of the day’s events settles heavily around us.

“I’m worried, Gwen,” Sam eventually says. His voice is soft and low, almost defeated. “It’s already obvious the cops think I did this. They’ll be looking for evidence to confirm their suspicions instead of searching for the person who really did it.”

I take his hand in mine and squeeze it tightly. “If they won’t look for the killer, then we will,” I promise him.

“And if we can’t find them?”

I don’t want to consider that possibility, but that would only be burying my head in the sand. “Whoever is behind this is going to make mistakes,” I tell him. “Just like the preservatives in the blood at the Stillhouse Lake house.”

“Which we only figured out because it came up in Lanny’s biology class.”

“But wedidfigure it out, and we were able to clear your name because of it. We’ll do it again.”

I wake early, as usual, and for a moment, everything is unfamiliar: the scratchiness of the sheets, the smell of the room, the sound of the traffic outside. The only thing that grounds me is the warmth radiating from the other side of the bed, accompanied by deep, steady breaths.

It’s Sam. Always my anchor. I want to slide back under the sheets and curl against him, but I decide to let him sleep and take a moment to let my eyes travel over him. I realize it’s been a while since I’ve seen him like this, with his face relaxed, the tension around his mouth eased, and the wrinkles in his forehead smooth.

He’s aged since we met, and not just the normal kind of aging: the flecks of gray in his five o’clock shadow and the lines by his eyes. It’s also the kind that comes from the weight of stress. There’s a heaviness to him when he’s awake—a perennial sense of near exhaustion.

I wonder when that started or if it’s always been that way. I try to think back to a time when life might have been easier for him. Certainly not since he met me. Since we’ve been together, he’s been shot at, kidnapped twice, and nearly drowned. Though it’s not like life before then was much better. Those were the years after Callie was murdered, and he was roiling in grief and rage. Before that, he’d been a soldier in Afghanistan.

I thought earlier this year that we’d made a breakthrough of sorts. It felt like we’d turned a corner and come out of the tunnel and into the sunshine. I’d stopped Sicko Patrol (mostly) and drilling my kids on exit strategies every time we went someplace new. We’d started thinking about booking a family vacation. All the thingsthat felt so out of reach while running from our past but suddenly felt possible.

Now, it feels like that’s crumbling. It just seems like we’re always lurching from one crisis to the next, with only brief bouts of peace in between. It’s exhausting. Eventually, the weight of it all will become too much.

“I promise we’ll find a way through this,” I whisper to his sleeping back. “We’ll figure out a way to end this cycle for good.”

I watch him for a while longer, appreciating the peace of the moment, until the screen of my cell phone flashes with a notice. It’s a text from Kez.

Kez

All good here. Both kids asleep. Not in labor. Call when you have a chance.

I let out a breath, some of the weight easing from my shoulders. I can handle almost anything as long as I know my kids are safe. Though that doesn’t erase the ache that takes root in my chest every time we’re separated. I know it’s something I need to get used to, especially with Lanny planning for college next year. My brain knows that, but my heart doesn’t tend to listen.

I decide that now is as good a time as any to call Kez and slip out of bed, quietly pulling on my clothes from the day before. I quickly splash water on my face and brush my teeth before grabbing my coat and sneaking out of the room.

We’re on the second floor, overlooking the parking lot, and the first thing I do is scan my surroundings. It’s early morning, the sky just morphing from black to gray with a stripe of color easing along the horizon. There are lights positioned next to each motel room door, casting little pools of illumination with pockets of darkness between them.

I shift into the shadows, making myself less visible to anyone who might be out there. I clock my exits—two staircases equaldistances away—then I scan the parking lot for any cars that are occupied or that look out of place.

Once I’m satisfied everything is as it should be, I call Kez.