

**Copyright 2014 Loretta Lost  
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### From my rotting body, flowers shall grow and I am in them and that is eternity.

- Edvard Munch

# Chapter One

#

I am not quite sure why my husband decided to hang himself. Aren't there dozens of more fashionable methods to accomplish the same task? However, as I stand in the foyer and watch his body slowly rotating below the chandelier, I suppose it starts to make sense. There's something about the way the crystals glisten with the weight of his corpse that is slightly more enchanting than it is grotesque. Slightly.

Grayson always did have a certain elegance about the way he moved.

I stare for a moment, spellbound. My hands drift upward to gently encircle the bottom of my protruding belly, as though I am trying to shield the eyes of my unborn child. My wrist connects with the bulge of my cell phone in my sweater pocket, and I am suddenly filled with the sadistic urge to pull it out to snap a photo. There is something artistic about the way the evening light touches the chandelier; a shaft of fading sunbeams is splattered across Grayson's white shirt.

My fingers twitch with the desire to capture the moment. I am keenly aware of how strange this must seem. What would I even do with such a picture? Would I put it up on my high-traffic fashion blog with an article about how to hang yourself in style? Or should I post it to my Facebook page with a witty caption? After all, that is the protocol for all of life's important and interesting moments. Our wedding photos got so many "likes" and lovely comments from people we barely know.

This photo could be the most impressive one yet.

Staring at the rope which tethers my husband to the chandelier, I wonder if this could be a trick. Is he going to leap down and call out April Fools' or something of the sort? Is it even April?

I swallow, because my mouth has gone very dry. I can't remember.

Grayson never had a sense of humor, so it would be unlike him to plan such a complicated ruse. However, on the off chance that he has decided to scare the hell out of me for amusement, I'm glad that I'm reacting with zero emotion. I wouldn't want to give him the satisfaction of seeing me cry. Or scream. Or whatever the normal reaction might be. But as sick and cruel as Grayson could sometimes be, I know that even _he_ isn't cruel enough to play around with suicide.

I take a deep breath. Only a few hours ago, my therapist told me I was making progress. She said that I was going to have a healthy and happy baby. I was feeling great about everything. My pregnancy hasn't been going quite so smoothly; not since my sister Helen came home and tore through my life like a bull in a China shop. I never realized that my husband had such a dangerous and twisted obsession with her. I hadn't even realized that the two had met. Once I did learn this, it was too late to make any changes. I was already in too deep with Grayson. I had made promises. I was committed for life.

I just thought that a lifetime together would last longer than a pair of designer shoes.

Speaking of shoes, I hear the soft plop of a handful of shopping bags beside me. I turn to my left, and see that my father is standing in the doorway with a horrified look on his face. He has been stunned into silence. Part of me is suddenly confused as I stare at the old man. Why on earth did I decide to drag my father shopping while my husband was obviously in some kind of emotional crisis?

If only I had been at home...

Dad presses a feeble, wrinkled hand against his chest, and I suddenly remember. His heart. I took him to the shopping mall with me to trick him into getting some gentle cardio. If I leave him alone, he'll sit in his office all day and feast on snacks that are filled with cholesterol. Taking him to a nice restaurant to make sure that he has a healthy meal is both necessary and enjoyable. The only exercise or recreation he really gets is walking around the mall with me, but it also makes him feel like he is still needed in my life.

In trying to keep one man I love alive, have I neglected and killed the other?

"Sweetheart," my father says hoarsely. "Don't look."

Even as he says this, I am turning back to stare at Grayson. It's too late _not_ to look. I'm fairly certain that this image will be seared into my mind for at least a dozen lifetimes.

"Carmen, I—I just..." My father stammers in an attempt to make sense of the situation. He clears his throat and steps forward, placing his head directly in my line of sight so that he blocks the swaying form of my dead husband. "Honey," he says firmly, putting his hands on my shoulders. "Go lie down and get some rest. I'll call 911 and deal with this. Just get some rest, okay?"

My head nods without my permission.

"Honey," my father says again. He hesitates, and I can see the fear dancing in his eyes. "God, Carmen. I just—I don't know what to say. I'm so sorry, sweetheart."

My head nods again, almost mechanically.

"Don't despair, darling," he tells me gently. "Sometimes things happen for a reason. When I lost your mother, I thought that it was the end of everything. Meredith was my whole world. But sometimes, these dark moments that we consider endings are actually our greatest beginnings."

I am aware that my father is talking, and I can hear the words filtering through my brain, but all I can see is Grayson's limp hand, peeking out just under my dad's ear. I stare at my husband's lifeless limb, still waiting for him to jump down from the fake noose and shout, _"Surprise!"_ Any moment now. Any moment.

"Carmen," my dad says, shaking me gently. "Carmen!"

I blink to try and draw myself back to reality. "Yes," I whisper. "I should get some rest."

"Everything's going to be okay," my dad assures me, reaching out to lay a hand against the side of my head. He gently ruffles my hair. "You're strong, sweetheart. Now you need to be stronger than ever, for the baby."

My head drifts up and down again in that familiar and meaningless motion.

"I'm going to call the cops," Dad says quietly. He leans forward to kiss my forehead. "Please go lie down, sweetheart. Don't think about this now. Just try to relax." He turns away and moves briskly toward the library, heading for the phone that rests on his mahogany desk.

As soon as my father is gone, I find myself moving forward until I am standing directly below my husband's body, and my eyes are at the level with his shoes. They are rather nice shoes; slightly too pointed, in the style of two years ago, but they are freshly polished and he wears them well. I reach out to touch the elegant leather designs that encase his toes. Something that always stunned me about Grayson is the prettiness of his feet. Most of my ex-boyfriends had absolutely hideous feet; hairy, with gnarly toenails that smelled putrid if you accidentally got too close to them. But by some miracle, even though Grayson was a football player when I met him, his feet were never revolting. It might have been due to excellent personal grooming, or perhaps he just won the genetic lottery.

The sad truth is that in addition to kindness, devotion, and all those various inner qualities, a woman really does choose her husband based on the tiny important physical traits that she admires or despises. I could never have married a man with off-putting feet. I couldn't stomach the thought that my children might inherit those monstrosities, or bear the thought of having them intertwined with mine every night for hours of cuddling. But Grayson—Grayson's body was entirely tolerable and even pleasant to me. I knew that our children would be beautiful.

I will never meet another man with feet as charming as Grayson's.

But upon careful reflection, I probably should have valued strength of character more. At this moment, I'm quite sure that I would rather have come home to a fat, balding, smelly husband who was actually healthy and alive. Grayson's physical beauty meant nothing if it couldn't protect him from the powerful mental illnesses that plagued him. Another grim thought seizes me, and my stomach clenches in fear.

Will my unborn child suffer from the same suicidal tendencies as her father?

I wrap my hands around my stomach and step away from Grayson's body hastily, as though whatever emotions led him to doing this might be contagious. As I stare up at him brokenly, the reality starts to hit me.

I have made a grave mistake.

There's no coming back from this. No way to turn back time and save the day. I knew that my husband had a lot of darkness in his past, but I thought I could take care of him and help him feel better. I knew that Grayson was deeply flawed, but he was _mine_. I was happy with him. I loved him. I was willing to suffer through anything with him. Why couldn't he suffer through one more day to be with me? Couldn't he have just waited a few hours to let me see him one last time? To say goodbye? Didn't he love me? Didn't he want to spend even a few more minutes with me? I need him now, more than ever. I need him to mend the pain he's caused. How could he do this to me? The selfish bastard.

I need him. My baby needs him. My sick and aging father needs him.

Still, I can't help thinking how attractive Grayson looks, even as a pallid corpse. I curse myself for my own foolish, fickle mind. I really do need to get some rest. Moving away slightly, I head for the large, winding marble staircase that leads to the second floor.

These stairs have never seemed steeper than they do in this moment. I feebly grasp the railing, feeling like I am about to scale the side of Olympus Mons. I take a deep breath and cast my eyes downward, trying to focus on taking one step at a time. Something colorful catches my attention on the ivory floor. I move over to stoop and pick up the object—ignoring the shaking of my knees and the heaviness of my stomach and heart—and my fingers close around a photograph.

It is an old Polaroid picture of me and my sister Helen, from when I was nine and she was five. It was taken at the family winery in Michigan. We used to spend summers there, running around and playing in the sun, without a care in the world. I would give anything to go back to those blissful days of our childhood. My nose wrinkles a little in thought. Grasping the railing of the staircase, I begin to pull my cumbersome pregnant body up the stairs. What was the photograph doing there on the ground? Had Grayson been looking through the photo albums?

I pause in the middle of the staircase and glance back over my shoulder at him. I know that he had some kind of sick fetish for my sister, but it's a little disturbing and unlike him to be looking at photos of her as a young girl. His body is still rotating slowly below the chandelier, and it's kind of creepy how his corpse seems to be turning to face me. I continue moving up the staircase, trying to push this thought from my mind. When I reach the top of the staircase, there is another photo lying there. It depicts our beautiful mother, shortly before she died. My brow creases, as a thought suddenly occurs to me.

Did Helen visit the house while we were out?

Although I love my sister, I know how heartless and callous she can sometimes be. If Helen was here, and she had some kind of confrontation with Grayson, she could have easily pushed him over the edge with a few well-crafted insults and some skillful guilt tripping. Helen is a writer, and she can sharpen her words to the point where she is basically throwing emotional knives at your gut when she speaks.

Is this what happened? Was my sister somehow responsible for my husband's suicide?

I lean weakly against the wall as I turn back and stare down at Grayson's body. I can hear my father's voice echoing slightly from his office, where he is still talking to the police. If I know my father, he probably poured himself a drink first, to steady his nerves. He's not healthy enough to be drinking, but I don't have the energy to climb back down this precipice and yell at him right now.

All I have left is my father, and I know he won't be around forever. When he's gone, I'm going to be all alone. All alone with an infant daughter, in an empty fifteen-room mansion. The logical thing would be to sell it and move somewhere smaller, but I can't bear to part with the house where I grew up. I wanted to see it filled with family and happiness, and the sounds of children's laughter. But it looks like that's not going to happen anymore.

Everyone is being slowly stolen from me, one person at a time. I have had so many good memories in this house. Until today. My eyes drift down over the sharp edges of the marble staircase, and I momentarily consider what it would feel like if I were to let myself "slip" accidentally. I lift my foot, clad in a classic pump with a low heel, and place it at a lopsided angle on the stair below, as though I am about to trip and fall down the vast tumble to the foyer. I imagine my body rolling rapidly down, bouncing unattractively until it rests, sprawled and broken beneath Grayson's perfect feet.

My head tilts to the side slightly as I replay the fantasy over and over in my mind. Grayson has made death look like a seductive and peaceful solution, and perhaps I should join him.

The sound of my father's voice filtering up from the office snaps me back to reality. I realize that I don't have the luxury of thinking about suicide. I have to take care of Dad. He doesn't have anyone else. He lost mom, my sister Helen abandoned us, and now he's lost his son-in-law. I know that even though I'm not his favorite daughter, or his smartest daughter, he still needs me to take care of him. He's still looking forward to meeting his first grandchild—when my body is finally ready to expel her—in less than three months.

I can't take that away from him now. I'm just going to have to suffer through this.

Somehow.

Grayson's body has now swiveled until it stares directly at me. Before I can stop myself from doing the unthinkable, my hand reaches into the pocket of my sweater and I am unlocking my phone to use its camera. I angle the lens toward my dead husband, and wait until there is a small white box around his head to indicate that the camera recognizes a person. The technology manages to magically autofocus on his face, but it is not sophisticated enough to determine whether that face belongs to a man or merely to a man's lifeless shell.

I snap the photo.

Feeling very guilty, I hastily shove my camera back into my pocket, along with the two Polaroid photographs, and shuffle into the corridor toward my bedroom. I waste no time in entering the room, removing my shoes, tossing my purse aside, and burying myself beneath my fluffy duvet. I lie there for several minutes, holding my breath as though I have just done something unspeakable, like desecrating a grave. After a moment, I pull the phone out of my pocket and hug it against my chest. This photo is the last thing I have to connect me to him. Soon, his body will be taken away, and all I'll be left with are memories.

I can't believe this is happening.

A cold shiver runs through me, and I roll onto my left side with a grunt. With shaking hands, I place a small pillow between my legs and another under my large belly in an attempt to get comfortable enough to sleep. It's so cold in here. I really should have put on a warm pair of pajamas or something, but I don't seem to have the energy to move.

This is the part where Grayson's hands would usually slide around my waist, gently cradling me against him. His large, warm chest pressed against my back would bring me comfort and ease my worries away, until my mind and body were both at peace.

But now, there is only empty space in the bed beside me. Just cold and vacant air.

I press my hands against my stomach, trying to remind myself that I'm not alone. Soon, I'll have another person to love. She will be warm, loving, and full of life and joy. She'll be so wonderful that it will make all this heartache worthwhile.

It's just hard to believe anything this moment.

_Where in god's name are you, Gray?_ I find myself listening carefully, as though trying to find a whisper of my husband's spirit in the wind. Instead, there are only police sirens approaching in the distance. _Dammit, you can't leave me like this. You asshole! You promised. You can't ditch me here to go through this alone! You said vows. Why do you get to jump ship and drown, while I have to keep on steering? It's not fair._ My mind strains itself, as though I might be able to telepathically talk to the dead if I try hard enough. I reach down to finger my wedding ring and twist it around my finger as though it were an inter-dimensional communication device. I must have seen one too many scary movies, because I am nearly convinced that I can feel a bit of his soul lingering around the mansion. _Gray? Please, Gray. Don't leave me here alone. I can't bear to be alone, you know that. I need you to find a way to be close to me somehow. I don't care if you don't have a body. I just need to feel you._

There is only silence.

I continue to lie here, with my hands pressed against my baby bump, feeling like a fool. I shut my eyes together tightly, knowing that I will never hear Grayson speak again. I'll never feel the safety of his warmth and love encircling me. He's gone. Completely and utterly gone. But it doesn't make sense! I saw him just this morning. How can he be gone? I can't seem to stop grasping around mentally, in hopes of finding some residue of his soul.

A person can't ever truly be gone, can they? Doesn't something stay behind?

Something. Anything.

_Please,_ I silently beg, _if you ever loved me, Gray. Find a way to reach me. Find a way to stay with me. I can't cope with this. I'm not as strong as you were. I need you._

I lie motionlessly for several moments, and I try to hold my breath.

Finally, the words trickle into my mind, like dewdrops sliding off a blade of grass. I don't know if it's my husband's spirit or my own imagination, and frankly, I don't care.

I'm right here, Carmen. I'll always be with you, my love. For eternity.

# Chapter Two

#

"Carmen, honey?" Dad says softly. "The police are here. They need to ask you a few questions."

My face is smashed into my pillow. My entire body feels like lead.

"Sweetheart," he says again, with a gentle shake of my shoulder. "Just a few minutes and this will be over. They need a statement."

I wince, for even the tiny shake causes my tender breasts to be jostled against my fortress of pillows. The infernal mounds of flesh are so sensitive that it hurts even to wear clothes. It doesn't help that I dozed off wearing my bra, and the underwire is digging into my chest like a metal cage. I feel trapped in my own uncomfortable body, like a gigantic pregnant cow.

_Don't think like that, Carm,_ Grayson's disembodied voice whispers into my ear. I can almost feel his hand trailing along my side. _You're more beautiful than ever. Your skin is as soft as silk, and your hair smells like strawberries._

"Carmen," my dad says firmly. "Can you please get up? I'm going to grab your purse to show the detective your identification."

I take a deep breath. I try to force myself to move, but I can't seem to find the willpower. Even though I was freezing cold when I came to bed, I now feel too hot. A thin film of sweat covers my neck, and I squirm in my cocoon, stuffy and overheated. I think I vaguely recall that Grayson wanted to be cremated. It's unfortunate; we never had a chance to pick out matching decorative urns or a fancy couples' headstone. It's not something you really talk about when you get married in your twenties.

How soon until I have to shove my husband's body into an oven? Is he already being toasted and simmered in the fires of hell? Maybe I can feel some of his pain, and that's why I'm burning up. My therapist told me that our male partners can experience a sympathetic pregnancy, and that might explain some of Grayson's strange health issues and insomnia. Is it possible for me to experience a sympathetic death? I do feel like I am being cooked alive in a furnace.

My father returns to my bedside. "Sweetheart, can you come talk to the detective?" he prods again. I can tell that there is a little anxiety in his voice.

My feet ache. My back aches. I'm just a mess on the inside and out. "I can't," I finally manage to croak.

"You have to," he informs me. "It's standard procedure. The detective just needs to rule out any possibilities other than suicide."

Prying my eyes open, I squint up at my father. "What other possibilities?" I snap. "Did they not see the rope around his neck and the ladder kicked onto the ground? It sure as hell wasn't natural causes."

"Carmen," my father says hesitantly. He looks caught somewhere between reprimanding me and backing away in fear from my hormonal fury. He sighs. "Let me see what I can do."

I stare after him as he walks away. The detective is standing by my bedroom door, and I can hear their muffled voices traveling back to me.

"This has all been a serious ordeal for her," Dad tells the detective in apology. "My daughter has already been having a difficult pregnancy due to stress. Can she give her statement another time?"

"She could, but it might be easier to get this over with now," the detective says kindly. "If you don't mind, sir, I'll be fast. I just need have a few words with her alone."

My father nods reluctantly and moves away from the door, and the detective begins walking into my bedroom. At first, his face is obscured by the shadows of the doorway, but soon I can make out his dark hair and broad shoulders. For a moment, I can swear that I see Grayson's eyes staring back at me from this man's skull.

I hug my pillow against me tightly, crushing my already sore breasts. "Gray?" I whisper in confusion.

"I'm Detective Peterson, miss. Can I ask you to tell me a little about your husband's behavior over the past few days?"

I stare up at the detective blankly, and I find that I'm having difficulty remembering anything. All I can picture is Grayson's peaceful smile. "He was fine," I mumble hoarsely. "He was fine."

The detective hesitates and moves closer. He reaches out and places a hand on my shoulder. "I'm sorry for your loss," he says in a compassionate voice. His dark and bushy eyebrows knit together thoughtfully. "Do you mind telling me about your day today, miss? What did your husband say he was going to do?"

I close my eyes, and it takes me a moment to respond. "I went to the doctor. My husband stayed home to do some chores." My heart sinks as I recall the last thing Grayson said to me. I swallow, and when I try to speak, my voice comes out as a whisper: "He said... he said he was going to paint the nursery."

The detective stares down at me with deep pity. "I'm so sorry, miss. Can you tell me exactly what you saw when you came home?"

"Other than my husband hanging from the chandelier?"

The man winces. "Anything that might have been out of place? Doors open, or things on the floor to suggest there might have been a struggle?"

I shake my head. Had the door been open? "No," I tell him. My hand drifts down to my pocket where I placed those two photographs that had been on the ground. I still can't shake the feeling that my sister was somehow involved, but I don't want to mention this to the police. I want to talk to her myself—even though she's been giving me the silent treatment lately.

_That was only because she hated me, love,_ Grayson's voice reminds me. _Now that I'm out of the picture, I'm sure that little sis will be happy to be best friends again._

I am startled by the voice inside my head—but he's right. I really don't like the idea that I needed to lose my husband to regain a sister. Why couldn't Helen just be there for me? Maybe if we could have worked things out as a family, Grayson would still be alive. These thoughts cause my brain to ache with a deep pulsing pain.

The detective has placed his pen against his notepad, but his hand isn't moving. He is just staring down at me with a concerned look on his face. "Can you tell me if anything upsetting might have happened lately to trigger your husband's suicide?"

Biting down on my lip, I nod slightly. "Grayson was unwell a few months ago. I'm sure that Dad told you all this. My husband was diagnosed with schizophrenia and a few other disorders. He got violent and... he tried to hurt my sister. He was sent to a psychiatric facility. I had to quit my job so that I could visit him regularly and give him the attention he needed to get better. He's been on antipsychotic meds ever since. I just... I didn't take care of him well enough, I guess."

"Please don't blame yourself for this, miss," the detective tells me. His dark eyes are filled with sympathy. His hand reaches out and touches some of my hair that has spilled over the duvet. "You're such a sweet girl, and anyone would be lucky to call you his wife. Your husband sounds like he was a very sick man. I can't think of any other reason someone would be unhappy with a girl like you."

I glance up at the detective suspiciously.

_Wow,_ Grayson's voice says inside my head. _My body isn't even cold yet, and this guy is already hitting on you. If I were still capable, I would punch him in the face._

_But you're not, are you?_ I ask Grayson angrily. _If you were still here, I wouldn't have to go through any of this. In fact, my dear dead husband, I think I will flirt with the detective just to piss you off and spite your memory._

"I don't know what I'm going to do now that he's gone," I tell the detective in a soft voice, lifting myself up onto my elbow. The duvet falls away a little, and I am conscious of the fact that it's exposing my ample cleavage. "I needed his help with so many things. Being pregnant makes me so weak... I couldn't even take a bath without him around to help me get out of the tub."

The detective gulps visibly, and I can see that he's picturing me naked. "Well, once I wrap up this investigation, maybe I can come back and help you paint the nursery," the detective offers.

Victory. Even though I haven't been married for that long, it must be years since I've flirted with anyone other than my husband. It's reassuring to know that I've still got it. Somehow, the little bit of power I've gained from this exchange has taken the edge off my sadness.

_You whore,_ Grayson says inside my head. _You haven't even washed my sweat off your bed sheets._

_If you were a living man instead of a figment of my imagination, I wouldn't have to,_ I retort. _If you're going to kill yourself and turn your wife into a desperate, miserable widow, fucking up the entire rest of her life, you need to be ready to deal with the consequences._

"What color did you choose?" the detective asks.

"Color?" I say in confusion.

"The walls," he reminds me, as he gently fingers my wispy blonde hair. "Is it going to be a boy or a girl? I'd still love to help you paint the nursery."

"There will be no need for that," says a young, masculine voice from the doorway.

I look up, trying to peer around the detective to determine who else is intruding into my bedroom. The voice is familiar, but it is not my father. My mind is a fuzzy, chaotic mess, and I can't seem to remember any men I've ever known—other than Grayson.

"Detective Peterson, can't you see that Carmen isn't in any state to answer questions right now?" the man says sharply "I get that you have a really boring job, and talking to a pretty girl is the highlight of your day—but she's going through something right now. She just lost her husband. So get the fuck out of here, detective."

I am a little stunned by the man's aggressive manner, but I am more surprised at the fact that the detective is intimidated, and is apologizing profusely as he scurries away. It seems like the men are colleagues, or that they have met before.

"Excuse me," the detective says to my rescuer as he passes him on the way to exit my room.

Normally, I would be angered at the thought that he really didn't need to ask me all those questions. He was just stalling for the enjoyment of staring at me. But at the moment, I can't bring myself to feel much of anything. I do have a mild curiosity about the identity of my mystery guest.

"Fucking uneducated law enforcement pricks," says the man as he approaches me. As he steps into the dim lighting of my bedroom, I recognize the sandy brown hair of Grayson's best friend, Bradford West. His elitist comment is also a dead giveaway; he has grown rather arrogant since becoming a fancy Manhattan lawyer.

"Brad," I murmur softly.

"I came as soon as I heard," he tells me, moving across the room so quickly that it might as well have been one stride. He wastes no time in gathering me up in his arms. "Your dad called me. Carm, I'm so sorry."

I am conscious of the fact that his large hands have encircled my back, and he is holding me against his chest. His spicy, musky cologne reaches my nostrils, and it hits me like a stab to the chest; it is the same cologne Grayson wears. For a moment, if I close my eyes, I can pretend that the arms wrapped around me belong to my husband. I wonder if I could pretend for years.

"Grayson told me that there was a chance that this could happen," Brad tells me quietly. "I didn't want to believe him. A lot of people say that they're going to do things like this, but they never go through with it. I should have known that Gray was serious."

"My husband was a lot of things... but he was never a liar."

"I know," Brad says, running his hand over my back soothingly. "I loved him too, Carm."

Part of me wonders whether Brad is being a bit too familiar with me, but I don't care; I need the affection. I gingerly grasp his shirt, as I feel the tears pricking the back of my eyes. I tremble slightly, trying my best to build emotional dams to shut down the impending onslaught. I am too afraid to cry. I am afraid that if I start, I'll never stop.

"Brad," I say brokenly. "What the hell am I going to do?"

"Shh," he says, kissing my cheek tenderly. "Grayson made me promise that if anything ever happened to him, that I would take care of you. I loved that man like a brother, and I would never break a promise to him. So don't worry for even a minute, Carm. I'm here for you, and we're going to get through this together."

His words are reassuring, and my heart soaks them up like a sponge. However, the cautious parts of me are ablaze with alarms and sirens; I can't help wondering whether he is really just being a good friend and honoring my husband's memory, or whether he's taking advantage of the opportunity due to a personal agenda. He's always been inappropriately flirtatious with me, every time Grayson stepped out of the room. He also might be just another crafty suitor, trying to capitalize on my current vulnerability in order to attempt to get a piece of my family's money.

I have only been single for a few minutes, or hours—I am not quite sure how long Grayson had been hanging before we got home, or how long I napped since—but two men have already been way too forward with me. I must have the words _VULNERABLE_ and _EASY PREY_ tattooed across my forehead in big red letters. The ink must be sending out some kind of beacon, attracting all the eager predators for miles around.

I hate being single.

Bradford West is extraordinarily handsome, smells amazing, and I'm fairly certain that the Armani suit he is wearing costs as much as a decent used car. But I just need a friend right now, and I'm worried that he wants more than that. He touches me like he wants more than that, but I haven't even had a chance to grieve. My pregnancy is not a baseball game, and you can't just send in a relief pitcher to take over the final two innings when things are getting difficult around the seventh-inning stretch.

Holding me against his chest, Brad combs his fingers through my hair and whispers reassuring words to me in the dark. My own body betrays me by responding to his touch and leaning closer into his warmth. Although my mind is appalled by this, and rejecting every word he speaks as a lie, my body is thirstily trying to absorb his strength. He is merely a man-sized battery to me; a reservoir of emotional fuel in a moment when I am running on empty. But it's not right.

I would almost rather spend time alone with the voices in my head than with any men made from flesh and blood. Real men have only ever disappointed me. But with enough persuasion, you grow to love the imperfect, disappointing pieces of shit anyway.

And then they die.

# Chapter Three

#

I feel like I've been asleep for a week, but it must have only been a few hours. My suffocating bladder refuses to let me rest any longer than that. Dragging myself from the bed, I stagger over my hardwood floors with the neurological skills of a zombie. My zigzagging takes me stumbling toward the bathroom, but not before I notice lights underneath my bedroom door. It is strange for anyone to be awake at this hour; are the police still here? Is my dad okay?

_You'd better check, Carmen,_ Grayson's voice whispers. _There are a lot of evil things that go bump in the night. Better make sure that dear ol' dad isn't offing himself, too. I never was much of a trendsetter, but it's never too late to start. Wouldn't that be sad? If you lost everyone?_

The pangs of sharp pain in my bladder won't allow me to investigate, and I am forced to empty the screaming organ before I can do anything else. Moving hastily toward the toilet, I reach down and grasp the hem of my nightgown so that I can lift it to sit on the toilet bowl. A thought suddenly strikes me: I do not remember putting on my nightgown. This makes me uneasy, because I know that Brad must have taken the liberty of changing my clothes while I slept. I should be grateful that my uncomfortable bra is gone, but I only feel anxious. How was I so deeply asleep that I did not notice? I don't even remember dozing off. Did I say or do anything unsavory with Brad? I feel like I'm waking up from a mind-numbing drunken stupor.

Luckily, the physical pain is too distracting for me to dwell on this.

With the cold plastic of the toilet seat pressed against my ass, I cup my hands around my belly in an attempt to soothe the stabbing cramps. My muscles are clenched so tightly that it takes a few seconds before I can relax enough to start the stream of urine. Somehow, this causes a stream of tears to leak out of my eyes at the same time, and the hot saltwater splashes over the lace trim of my nightgown's bodice. I hug my arms around my middle, bending over slightly to try and ease the ache in my abdomen.

I feel so pathetic; sitting on the toilet, peeing and crying.

At least I can take this private moment to be honest with myself and feel the impact of the day. Once my urine stops flowing, I abruptly command my tears to stop as well. I use generous servings of toilet paper to wipe the droplets of moisture away from both sources, before grasping the marble vanity to help myself to my feet. Turning around to flush the toilet, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and I am appalled at how ashen my face looks. The light makeup I had been wearing all day is now smeared into creases that were previously nonexistent. I look like I've aged twenty years in one night.

I hastily wash my hands, and splash some cold water over my face, trying to convince myself that I don't belong in the morgue next to my husband. Once I turn off the faucet, I am startled by a loud noise from downstairs. A gunshot? I barely have time to dry my face and hands off on a towel before I turn to rush out of the room.

"Dad?" I call out frantically as I exit my bedroom. My bare feet patter softly against the floor—I can't move as quickly as usual. A million frightened thoughts run through my mind. Does Dad own a gun? Would he use it on himself? No. Grayson only did what he did because he was sick. My dad wouldn't leave me. But what if Grayson didn't kill himself? Months ago, he shot my sister's boyfriend, Liam, in some kind of psychotic jealous rage. What if Liam was the type of guy to hold a grudge and come back for vengeance?

_But your sister isn't like you, Carmen,_ my husband's voice echoes inside my mind. _She isn't attracted to deranged lunatics like you are. She actually has half a brain._

_Thanks,_ I say inwardly as I walk down the stairs. I flinch as the chandelier comes into view. I can still picture Grayson's body hanging from it. I grip the railing tightly as I descend the staircase, mechanically swallowing the saliva that's pooling around my tongue.

_You should have that chandelier replaced,_ Grayson advises me. _Now that I've used it to murder myself, it might be considered unlucky. I always thought that it was a bit ostentatious; a simplistic modern design might suit that space better. Something understated._

_Shut the fuck up,_ I tell the disembodied voice in my head as I reach the landing. It doesn't even sound exactly like Grayson. I am confused when I turn the corner and see my father sitting with Brad and another man in the family room, and pouring sparkling liquid into crystal flutes. Champagne. Our most expensive champagne. One of the bottles we hid at the back of the wine cellar, and saved for only extremely special occasions. I realize that the sound I thought was a gunshot must have been the cork being popped.

A wave of fury washes over me, and I cross my arms over my chest. "I didn't realize that there was something to celebrate tonight," I inform the men in a dark voice.

"Carmen," Brad says, standing up with a filled flute in his hand. "We're having a drink in memory of Grayson—to honor his life."

"Is that so?" I ask him skeptically, glaring at the bubbly amber liquid. I also notice a pile of papers and folders on the coffee table, in front of the strange man I don't recognize.

"Come and join us," Brad says to me, leaning forward to grasp the champagne bottle. "Let me pour you a drink."

I wince at his words. "Are you kidding?"

"Bradford, son. She's pregnant," my father says in a low voice.

"Damn!" Brad says in surprise. "I totally forgot. It's too bad, because this is some good stuff."

"Thanks for rubbing it in," I say miserably. The glorious bubbly liquid is tantalizing and nearly irresistible; it doesn't help that I need a drink more than I ever have in my entire life. I run my tongue over my lips to moisten them as I try to fight against the craving. I move to sit beside my father on the sofa, lowering my chin in despair.

"Sweetheart, we were just sharing our favorite Grayson stories," Dad explains to me as he places a hand on my back. "Your husband was a remarkable man. I was just talking about how he single-handedly saved our house with his wizardly investing skills."

"He was the best friend anyone could ask for," Brad added. "I was telling your dad what it was like to grow up with Grayson. That kid was always getting me into some kind of trouble."

A gentle smile touches my lips. I'm not sure about the identity of the quiet third man in the room, but it is nice to hear my father and Brad sharing their love for my husband. I am a little curious as to why the third man is flipping through a folder of papers; he strikes me like he might be here for some professional purpose, and that sets me on edge.

"Do you have any favorite Grayson stories you want to share?" Brad asks me.

I lift my shoulders in a tired shrug. I feel a bit uncomfortable wearing my thin nightgown and talking about such personal matters in front of a complete stranger, but I am too miserable to really care. "When I found out I was pregnant," I say softly. "It was autumn last year, and I had just gotten off work at the station."

"Oh, that's right. You were a weather girl, weren't you?" Brad asks.

"Meteorologist," I correct snappishly. I take a deep breath. "Gray was waiting outside to drive me home in his old Chevy truck—it was nearly crumbling from rust and most of the paint was scratched completely off." My smile begins to blossom across my face. "He adamantly refused to get rid of that thing, even when we had more than enough income to get something better."

"I loved that truck," Brad said fondly. "He actually bought it way back in high school, with money saved up from part-time landscaping. We lived out of it for an entire summer. We drove it to New York when we started college, with all of our belongings stuffed in the trunk, and we never looked back. Those were good times."

Staring at Brad in puzzlement, I wonder why he suddenly seems like a real person. I was in a philosophy class with him once, years ago, and he struck me as a fierce and ambitious man without trace of human emotion. I didn't know that he had so much history with Grayson. I didn't know he had a heart. I hope I'll get a chance to talk to him more in private just so I can learn about who my husband was. I see that the men are expecting me to continue with my story, and I bite my lip before resuming.

"When I told Gray that I was feeling like crap, and feared I was pregnant, he called Dad at once. He asked for permission to marry me, and promptly drove to the nearest jewelry shop—it was a little place in the Diamond District. He made me try on the biggest rock we could find, and got down on one knee and proposed right there in the middle of the store." I smile, and my fingers drift down to trace the princess-cut stone on my finger. "He even had it customized. I know it sounds stupid and impulsive, but it was just what I needed. He knew that. He often had a sort of uncanny instinct in knowing exactly what I needed."

I pause, staring at the champagne glasses longingly, and imagining the cool liquid washing down my throat. I can almost taste the bittersweet bubbles enveloping my tongue. "I would not have kept the baby if Gray didn't step up like that. But he did. He said that he would do anything it took to make sure that our child had a good life. He said we were going to be a family, and that we'd be happy. He said he wanted to marry me as soon as possible." I wrinkle up my face a little, trying to fend off the emotion. "Anyway, after the jewelry shop, he immediately drove us to a dealership, and he got rid of his old truck and bought a safe and spacious new SUV so that we could prepare for being parents."

The men in the room are silent for a few seconds after I tell my story. The silence is very difficult to bear. I reach out timidly to grasp the bottle of champagne, and close my fist around the neck with yearning.

"A little bit won't hurt, right?" I ask them softly.

Dad hesitates. "Carmen, you really shouldn't..."

I close my eyes and nod miserably.

"Let her have a drink for god's sake," Brad says angrily. "The girl just lost her husband. Women were drinking while pregnant for centuries before we ever knew that it was unhealthy."

"Maybe just one," Dad says weakly.

Grateful for permission, I lift the cold bottle to my lips.

_Go on, Carmen,_ says Grayson's voice inside my head. _Do it. Drink the fancy champagne so that our child is born with brain damage and birth defects. That will make things better._

I hesitate just as the bottle touches my lips. I can smell the divine liquid inside, and it feels like the answer to everything.

_Do it,_ Grayson urges again. _Poison our daughter so that her little body grows warped and disfigured._

_Go to hell,_ I mentally hiss. _You said you would be here_. _You said that you always would do the best thing for our child. Why does it matter if I have a single drink when you've already fucked up everything?_

Killing myself was the best thing I could do for her. I'm a monster, and you'll both be better off without me. But do you really want to give our baby learning disabilities? Depression and various debilitating disorders like mine?

With a shaking hand, I reach out and place the bottle back down on the coffee table. "I guess I'm not that thirsty," I say softly.

The quiet third man in the room finally clears his throat and turns to Brad. "It looks like everything is in order, Mr. West. The company should honor the policy and pay out the benefits in full. The suicide clause has expired."

"That's wonderful news, John," Brad says with a sigh of relief. He looks to my dad with a small smile. "I told you it would be okay, Mr. Winters. You should go ahead and file the claim whenever you can—or you can let me take care of it."

"Thank you for looking into this, Bradford," my father says with a small nod, and a sip of his champagne.

A frown settles deep into my face, and I lean forward angrily. "Are you talking about my husband's life insurance policy?" I ask Brad in a disbelieving voice.

"Yes," Brad says, giving me a reassuring smile. "Grayson held his policy for over three years, and he was smart enough to disclose his recent diagnosis of mental illness, so there shouldn't be any issues. You should stand to receive the full two million dollars, Carmen."

I stare at Brad for a moment, speechless in astonishment. Finally, I reach for my dad's champagne glass and toss the expensive liquid into Bradford West's chiseled face. "Grayson is dead," I whisper shakily. "What kind of a friend are you? Only a filthy lawyer would immediately think of how to profit from this."

"Carmen," Dad says softly. "Calm down, honey. I asked him to help me sort out Grayson's affairs, because I'm in no condition to do so right now."

Brad sputters and wipes the champagne out of his eyelashes before sending me a pitying look. He licks a few droplets off his lips. "It's quite alright, Mr. Winters. I understand that Carmen's upset. Dealing with money is never pleasant."

"That reminds me," Dad says. "Bradford, son. I was hoping you could help me get in touch with Grayson's parents. I actually don't have their contact information."

I turn to look at my father with a grimace. It bothers me that he is calling Brad "son" already—it seems that he is far too eager to replace Grayson. I hope they both know that _I_ am not quite so eager to trade my husband in for the next best candidate.

Brad clears his throat. "Well, Mr. Winters, about that..."

He is interrupted by the ringing of my father's cell phone. Dad frowns as he moves his hand down to his pocket to retrieve the device. "Who would be calling at this hour?" he wonders out loud before standing up and excusing himself to take the call.

"What were you going to say about Gray's parents?" I ask Brad.

He clears his throat nervously. "Well, remember the lovely elderly couple that attended your wedding?"

"Yes," I say suspiciously. "His parents flew in from Seattle."

Brad shakes his head. "Those weren't Grayson's parents. They were actors we hired. We've never even been to Seattle."

"What?"

"Grayson and I grew up in Detroit," Brad explains with a shrug.

"Detroit?" I say with a perplexed look on my face.

"Yes. Imagine the slums of India—now add more piss, drugs, and prostitutes. That was our neighborhood."

I stare at Brad nervously. "Why would he lie?" I ask.

"We came from nothing, sugar. Now take a look at where we are. Grayson and I always lied about our origins so that people wouldn't look down on us. His dad walked out on his mom when he was very young—after beating the poor woman close to death, right in front of Grayson. The kid was neglected and always hungry; he didn't even learn to read until he was ten years old." Brad's lips turn up into a sinister grimace as he recalls these details. "Grayson's mother treated him like shit, and it weighed heavily on him. She blamed him for ruining her body and scaring away his father. He didn't know why his mother hated him, but he grew up thinking he was evil and worthless deep down inside. He used to run away to my house and sleep under my bed just to feel safe; I'd sneak him some food so that he wouldn't starve." Bradford West leans forward, and there is a dark look in his eyes. "You've always been a privileged, high-society girl, Carmen. Would you even have considered marrying Grayson if you knew that he was such a poor, pathetic bastard?"

"Yes," I say with a tiny shiver. It takes me a moment to process this information. I can't believe he's talking about _my_ husband—the man I lived with and slept beside every day for years. Grayson never said anything negative about his past. I could see it in his eyes though—a haunted look I could never fully understand.

The things you learn about a man after his blood runs cold.

As I stare at Bradford's expensive suit and cufflinks, I am suddenly aware of how difficult it must have been for him to go from extreme poverty in Detroit to being a fancy Manhattan lawyer. How did he even pay for college and living expenses? I know that Grayson was on a football scholarship, but what about Brad? He must have done something illegal to get by. I wonder what it was. Stealing? Drugs? Street racing? No wonder he has been pretending to be such an arrogant elitist lately—he is just trying to fit in with his peers.

Somehow, knowing that he isn't merely a bloodsucking lawyer has made him slightly more attractive to me. He has more substance than I previously thought. I feel a little guilty for tossing the drink in his face. It's true that I've usually been attracted to a lesser element, but that's because I prefer men with character and gravity. Too many of the people who run in wealthier circles are giddy, brainless thrill-seekers. I have spent a lot of time pretending to be a ditzy heiress to camouflage myself amongst them. It's who I feel I'm expected to be—and maybe Brad feels the same in his law firm.

The stories of Grayson's childhood are horrible, but they might explain why I fell in love with him; I could see the emotional scars of everything he'd been through, and his immeasurable loneliness. I could see his need for love and family, and I wanted to give that to him. There was always a strange aggressiveness about him that I didn't understand, but I knew it had to come from some kind of pain. Sometimes he took it out on me, but I knew he never meant to. Grayson was always on my side. Even when he hurt me, I knew that I could trust him underneath it all. I felt like I could be myself around him.

Actually myself. Not the perfect picture of a rich girl that my parents wanted me to be, but someone raw and wild. Someone fun. Someone free.

Now who am I? What am I, other than a house for another tiny human being?

I know that my sister ran away from home all those years ago so that she could be herself, and avoid the suffocating pressures of our lifestyle. I always envied her for that; the fact that she was brave enough to leave all this behind and seek freedom. I know her blindness made her more confined and dependent than I ever was, so she probably reached her breaking point a lot faster.

But I know that Helen also had some sort of critical conflict with Grayson. I know that whatever it was, it really destroyed her—and him. It might have _actually_ destroyed him. I was afraid to hear the details of what had happened between them when my sister tried to tell me, but now I regret not listening. This is all my fault. I wasn't listening to anyone.

_You never listened,_ Grayson agrees inside my head.

In retrospect, my husband seemed to have lost some of his fire over the past few months. I'm not sure if it was due to the situation with Helen, or possibly the antipsychotic drugs he was given—maybe they were causing his depression to get worse. Grayson had been withering away before my eyes, and I hadn't even realized it. I should have paid more attention to him. I should have done something.

_You should have done something,_ Grayson repeats in disappointment.

The quiet third man in the room—John or whatever—suddenly speaks up. "Ms. Winters, are you aware of your husband's final wishes for his body?" He is holding up yet another document.

"I guess. Can you refresh my memory?" I ask him tiredly. "He wanted to be cremated, right?"

"Yes. He also wanted his ashes to be delivered home to his mother and siblings in Detroit."

My heart leaps into my chest with a sudden panic. "Why?" I ask fearfully. I feel like I am losing him all over again. "Why wouldn't he want _me_ to keep his ashes?"

"It's an insult to them," Brad explains through gritted teeth. "Grayson once told his mother that she would never see him again, unless he returned home as a pile of ashes. And then she would know that she had failed him. Grayson felt that all the shit in his life was due to his mother's cruelty. He wants them to have his ashes so that they know that they were responsible for killing him."

"But I want to keep him," I say in a small voice. "His ashes should stay with me."

Brad stands up and moves around the coffee table to sit beside me. He places a hand gently on my knee. "You gave his life meaning, Carmen. You made him happy, for the first and only time in his miserable existence. Grayson didn't want to leave you with a pile of useless dirt. He wanted to leave you with life, and joy. That's why he asked me to take care of you. He wanted to leave you with his undying love; something that can never be reduced to ashes."

I close my eyes and lower my chin.

"Once he's cremated, I'll take his ashes home to Detroit," Brad says quietly. "I think it would be better than simply mailing them there."

"No," I tell him in refusal. "I'll do it. I want to meet my husband's mother. I want to see where he grew up. I want to soak up every bit of information about him, before it's all gone forever." I hug my stomach gently. "I want to be able to give my daughter answers when she wonders who her father was."

"I really wouldn't recommend it," Brad responds, squeezing my knee. "The old neighborhood is not a place for a girl like you. But if you insist, maybe we can go together. I think Gray would have liked that." He reaches across the table and grabs his champagne glass. "To Grayson," he says softly, before lifting it to his lips for a drink.

John pauses in scanning over his documents for a moment to join the toast.

I can't resist, and I reach for the bottle to take my own long swig of the bubbly beverage. It is totally worth it. The taste is immaculate, and so much more decadent for being forbidden. Just as I finish my gulp and wipe my lips, my father comes back into the room.

When I see the look on his face, I immediately put the bottle down and rise to my feet. He has more shock and pain on his face than when he first beheld Grayson's body a few hours ago. My initial thought is that he might be having another heart attack.

"Dad?" I say frantically, moving to his side. I touch his hand, and it's as cold as ice.

"Get dressed," he tells me in a shaky voice. "That was Liam. Your sister's been in a car accident. She's in a hospital in Pennsylvania. Liam says... he says she might not make it through the night."

# Chapter Four

#

My hand skims over the vast variety of clothing in my closet.

The news about Helen has left me slightly shaken, but not because of her injuries. I am too numb to be afraid for her life at the moment. Having already seen the dead body of someone I love in the past twenty-four hours, I don't think I could feel any more if we were to get to Pennsylvania and find that my sister had died. Our mother also died in a car accident a few years ago, so I've been through this once before. It tore apart my family, but now there isn't anything left to tear apart. I am mostly terrified that I won't be able to speak to her one last time. We didn't leave things on good terms, and I never got a chance to apologize for being a bitch. I know that she was just trying to protect me from Grayson.

She was trying to protect me from this.

_You should have listened to little sis,_ the dead man whispers. _Why don't you ever listen to anyone, Carmen? My pretty little airhead isn't capable of doing her own thinking. You might have gotten all the beauty, but Helen got the brains._

I flinch at his insults, but I try not to acknowledge them.

That's why I adored her, Carmen. That's why I desired her. That's why I spent my final moments saying goodbye to her instead of you.

I feel sick. I need to see my sister. I need to know what happened. My theory is that she stopped by the house because she finally wanted to talk to me again, and she must have gotten into a huge fight with Grayson. It made them both so emotional that she went running off into the middle of nowhere—like she sometimes does—and ended up accidentally crashing her car. Helen has been blind for most of her life, and she would only have learned to drive a few weeks ago. Being distraught and inexperienced on the rainy road could have easily caused her to crash. What did Grayson say to her? What did she say to him? It must have been the most spiteful, malicious thing possible, if the guilt and pain of her insults drove him to hang himself.

I won't be angry at her—I just need to know.

My hand is frozen over a pair of maternity jeans, and I realize that I am having difficulty performing this simple task of choosing what to wear. I take a deep breath and glance toward the full-length mirror. I am completely naked at the moment; it is a tradition of mine to remove all my clothes before selecting an outfit, in the same manner that an artist stares at a blank canvas, or a writer at a blank page. With enough effort and consideration, one can use articles of clothing expertly arranged over their figure to communicate or conceal a wealth of information. Confident colors and emotional textures can speak volumes even when you are silent, so that you never have to worry about going unheard or unnoticed. Usually, my empty skin can give me some sort of inspiration—but today I just look fat and miserable. I decide to just grab the jeans and get it over with, but once my hand collides with the fabric, I pause.

Don't I have to start wearing black now?

My lips pull into a grim line. I know that I am expected to behave modestly and announce to the world that I am now a widow in mourning. But I'm not mourning. I'm mostly pissed. I should choose a bright pink miniskirt and a cheerful flowery blouse just to rebel against Grayson's attempt to drag me down into gloom and melancholy.

_Sure. That would be real convincing, Carm,_ says his mocking voice inside my head. _You're not handling this very well, love. You're losing all your marbles. How are you going to be a mother when you get locked up in the psych ward with the other crazies? Like me?_

Trying to ignore the soundless whispers, I swivel and grab a black maxi dress off a hangar. The truth is that I do feel like utter crap, and it would be easiest to throw on something comfortable and baggy that will cover me all the way down to my toes. I could also wrap a big shawl around my shoulders to drown myself in even more fabric, and just disappear into a warm cocoon. Maybe when I finally emerge, my life will be normal again. With a sigh, I fumble to find the entrance to my black dress. A sound startles me just as I am lifting my arms to slide it over my head.

"Carmen," says a quiet voice.

For a moment, I can't tell if the sound is inside my head or real. I turn to the doorway of my closet in confusion, and I gasp at the shadowy figure of Bradford West. I hold the black dress up against my body to cover all my exposed skin, and a blush quickly stains my cheek. "What?" I croak in surprise.

He stares at me for a moment, and I can feel his eyes burning through the cotton shield.

"I need you," he says softly.

I take a step back nervously as I assess the strange look in his eyes. "Brad?"

His throat moves as though he is swallowing. His fists clench. "It just hit me. It really hit me. He's gone."

My face is a bit blank, and I don't know what to do. I lift my shoulders in an awkward shrug. "Yeah," I mumble.

"He's the only friend I ever had," Brad says quietly. His features are contorted in pain. "I didn't even realize that until a few minutes ago when John finished looking over his will. My _only_ friend. It hit me like a sack of bricks slamming into my gut. This is my fault. I made him do this. I'm so sorry, Carmen. If I had been a better man... a better friend..."

"Don't," I say firmly. "We could play the blame game all night, and compete to see who fucked up more and pushed him over the edge. But it doesn't solve anything. It won't solve this."

"You don't know jack shit," Brad whispers, taking a step forward into the closet. "Grayson wasn't the man you thought he was, Carmen. You have no clue."

I step back again cautiously. "What don't I know, Brad?"

"Everything," he says with a clenched jaw, taking another step toward me. "Everything!"

I retreat until my naked back collides with the rack of shoes against the wall. I can't help but feel a bit intimidated when Bradford West moves to stand directly in front of me, his massive body only inches away from mine. He must be at least 6'2", and it hurts my neck to stare up at him from this angle. Considering my state of undress, this is wildly inappropriate, and I am confused and alarmed—but too frozen to do or say much of anything in my own defense.

"You're beautiful," he says softly.

My heartbeat quickens, and the world around me seems suddenly very silent. What is he doing? What is going on? He wouldn't dare try something at a time like this... and what would I do if he did?

Bradford reaches out and grasps the black dress I am holding up to cover myself, and he rips it from my hand to expose my chest. He stares down at me for a moment, drinking in the sight of my full and rounded breasts. I can feel my nipples hardening under his gaze in the cool open air, and my breathing becomes shallow and fast.

"Beautiful," he says again, reaching out to tuck a wisp of blonde curls behind my ear. "Just beautiful."

My hot blush spreads to my neck and chest. It feels so wrong for him to be looking at me like this right now. His brazenness sends a kind of feverish burning through my veins, setting my skin on fire. It is extra unsettling because of the fact that he is fully clothed in an elegant three-piece suit while I am wearing nothing at all. Against my deepest wishes, I can feel my body responding with a tickle of arousal between my thighs. I try to clench them together to shut it down, and tell my foolish womanly parts that they simply aren't allowed to do this to me right now.

Bradford leans closer still, and I can feel his breath caressing my cheek as his lips approach my ear. "I could never figure it out," he says in a low voice, "why Grayson worshipped your boring blind sister instead of a goddess like you."

These words cause a sudden sinking feeling in my gut. I know that he probably meant this as a compliment, but the words tear me apart more than a little. I feel sick, and I abruptly shove my palm into his chest to force him away. "You knew about that?" I ask him bitterly. "About Helen?"

"Of course," he responds. "Grayson told me everything."

I gulp down a lump of emotion. "You should go, Brad."

"Carmen..."

"Get out of my damn closet," I tell him harshly, reaching out to retrieve my black dress and tugging it down over my body. "Don't you have any manners? Pouncing on your best friend's widow before the ink is even dry on his death certificate?" Even with the dress on, I still feel naked under his gaze, and I become conscious of the fact that I did not put on any underwear. Lately, all the panties that I wear seem to roll down my belly anyway, and bunch up under my baby bump, so I have mostly given up on them.

"I'm sorry," Brad says, stepping away from me in dismay. His face softens with remorse. "I just don't know what to do. He's gone and... I just wanted to be close to you. I wanted to... forget."

Maybe it's my feminine stupidity, but I actually feel sorry for him. I suppose that I sympathize with the urge to do something crazy, and also wonder whether throwing myself at Brad to help me forget would work. I turn around and scan my shoe rack for simple black flats, and toss a pair to the ground. Glancing over my shoulder at Brad's profile, I slide my feet into the shoes slowly, one at a time. I am torn between a flurry of emotions; anger, curiosity, and nothing at all. I want to yell at him to release my frustrations, and I want to badger him for a bit of wisdom. Being with him is like getting to squeeze a few more drops of life out of my husband.

We do keep little pieces of the people we love inside of us, don't we? Maybe I can steal all of Brad's pieces, so that I will have more of Grayson left inside my heart, and I won't feel so empty and drained.

"Brad," I say softly. I pause, unsure of how to continue. The questions threaten to erupt like an avalanche from my mouth, and they sting the insides of my throat. It's difficult to keep my voice steady. "Did he really care about me? Or was it always about her? Was it all a lie?"

He turns to look at me in surprise, and his eyebrows knit together in a frown. "He said Helen was the love of his life; his destiny. He said that he only started dating you to get close to her. He said a lot of really strange things."

I bite down into my lip, hoping he'll say something more reassuring.

Brad hesitates. "I don't know, Carm. Grayson was a man who was sometimes ruled by madness, but he also had moments of clarity—and in those moments, he only saw you. He understood commitment. You were the thing that kept him sane and grounded. You gave him reason."

"What does that mean?" I ask blankly.

"You were his responsibility... but she was his passion." Brad turns away and begins picking imaginary lint off the tweed suits in my closet. "Passion is a dangerous and complex thing, Carmen. Life is meaningless without it, but too much of it will almost always get you killed."

I consider his words for a moment, but they give me a throbbing headache and escalate the gnawing pain in my chest. "Thanks," I mumble quietly.

He moves back over to me and places a hand on my arm. "I can tell you anything you need to know. And if I don't have the answers, I'll help you hunt them down. I want you to know that I'm here for you."

"That means a lot," I tell him, lowering my gaze, "but this isn't the time for me to ask questions. It's selfish. I need to just push this aside and focus on my sister. Maybe I failed as a wife, but there still might be time for me to be a good sister."

"Helen is going to need you if she wakes up," Bradford agrees.

" _When_ she wakes up," I say with determination. "She can be really prideful and stubborn, and push everyone away, but I know that she still loves me. Even though I fucked up. She's still my sister." I stare at Brad for a moment, and realize that I'm thankful that he's here, even if he's been a little weird. It's nice to not be alone right now. "Will you come to Pennsylvania with us?" I ask him softly.

He hesitates. "I would, Carm, but I've got a meeting with an important client tomorrow. I can't reschedule and risk losing them. But I'll be right here when you get home."

"Okay," I say in disappointment, reaching for my shawl. I wrap it snugly around my shoulders, before moving to exit the closet, but Brad blocks my path.

He rests a hand on my shoulder and leans down to place a tender kiss against my cheek. "Hang in there, Carm. Once a little time passes, it won't hurt so much."

"Doubtful," I respond.

# Chapter Five

#

My head rolls sleepily against the car's leather seats as my dad makes a sharp turn. With my eyes closed, I can hear Grayson's voice whispering soft words to me. He feels so close that I can touch him.

I know you wanted it to be gender neutral, but I decided to paint the nursery the color of seashells. A very delicate, pale pink, to match the bassinet we got two weeks ago.

I can feel him kissing my shoulder and wrapping his arms around my stomach. Everything that happened last night must have been a nightmare. Grayson would never leave me. Not now, when we have so much to look forward to, and so much to do. But then Grayson's gentle face morphs into Brad's agonized one, and the creases betray despair.

A goddess like you.

His voice joins Grayson's inside me, blending together in a warped sort of melody. All I need is a few more disembodied men inside my head, and I'll have a whole symphony of chaos in here.

Honey. Honey, I can't do this.

This is a third voice, and it confuses me for a moment. _Dad?_

"Honey," he says again, and I realize he is speaking out loud. His voice is weak and labored. "I can't drive right now. Just thinking about your sister... and Grayson..."

I force my eyes open and squint at our surroundings. My dad has pulled up to a small motel on the side of the interstate.

"I can't make it," he says, pressing a hand against his chest. I can see that he is struggling to breathe and having difficulty calming down. "She's my little girl, Carmen."

Even after all this time, it grates at my insides to see how much my dad loves Helen. Sometimes it makes me angry that she abandoned him like this in his old age, but most of the time, I just feel jealous and wish that I could be enough to make him happy.

"I thought I was taking care of her," my dad says between gasping breaths. His fingers are clawing at his chest as though something is eating him from the inside. "I was trying to protect her from everything and give her the world—but look at what I've done. Look at the mess I've made."

"Dad, you didn't do anything wrong," I tell him in confusion.

"I did, sweetheart. I did. I lied to her and pushed her away. If your mother knew..." He leans back weakly in his chair, and closes his eyes in pain. "Meredith would never forgive me."

I don't have time to process his rambling. I reach down to my purse and fumble around in it to retrieve his emergency heart pills. I peel one of the nitroglycerine tablets out of the packaging and push it toward my father. "Under the tongue, remember? Dr. Howard said you have to wait for it to dissolve. No swallowing."

"I hate these pills, darling..."

"I don't care," I say firmly. "Open your mouth, dad."

He is too tired to refuse, and I place the nitroglycerin between his lips. His mouth moves for a second as he adjusts the pill into position, and he winces at the burning sensation as it begins to dissolve. I watch him like a hawk to make sure that he does not cheat and swallow the medication.

"Thank you, sweetheart," he murmurs after a minute. He reaches over to grasp my hand, squeezing it feebly. "Will you go inside and get us a room? I will follow you in a few minutes once I feel better."

"No," I respond quietly. His face registers surprise, and I place some reassuring pressure on his hand while sending him a strong smile. "We're going to switch seats, and I'm going to drive the rest of the way."

"But Carmen, you aren't in any condition..."

"I'm pregnant, not a paraplegic!" I inform him, tossing my purse into the backseat and opening my car door to step out and move around the vehicle. When I get to the driver's side and open my dad's door, I am startled to find that he is too weak and dizzy to move on his own. He can't even undo his seatbelt. Seeing him like this makes me afraid, but I push the fear aside and reach over to unbuckle his belt.

"I didn't mean your pregnancy, Carmen," he says when he is capable of speaking again. "I meant about Grayson. Last night was rough, and we barely slept. We should really just take a break and get something to eat before..."

"No," I tell him firmly. "Helen's badly hurt, right? Well, I'm not going to delay getting to her because I'm a little tired and sad. The GPS says it's only two hours away—I've driven longer for a good spa retreat!" I place my hands on my hips and give my dad a stern look. "I want to see my sister. If she only lives for a few more hours, I want to spend that time with her. I haven't talked to her in months, and it will haunt me forever if I don't get there in time. I know that you'll feel the same."

Dad nods slowly. "I just don't want to sacrifice your health, sweetheart. You were already dealing with so much stress..."

"Screw the stress," I tell him in a tone of forced cheerfulness as I guide him out and around to the passenger seat. "So what, my husband died? I can have another in five minutes." After making sure that my dad is comfortably tucked into the car, I glance around until I notice a considerably overweight, middle-aged trucker a few dozen feet away. He is leaning against the motel and smoking a blunt while eating a sandwich. "Hey, you!" I call out to him in a friendly tone. I remove my shawl from my shoulders and fluff up my blonde hair before presenting him with my best, dazzling on-air smile. "Wanna get married?"

"Fuck, yeah!" he says eagerly.

"See?" I tell my dad with a grin. "Less than five minutes." I hastily shut his car door and race around to the other side.

"Just name the time and place, princess!" the trucker shouts at me.

I laugh as I dive into the driver's seat and put the car into gear, peeling away from the motel and back onto the highway. I am already doing the limit before I have a chance to grab my seatbelt and fasten it near my hip.

My dad chuckles softly. "Carmen, I have no idea how you can have a sense of humor at a time like this."

I dig my foot deeper into the gas pedal as I adjust the rearview mirror. "Well, if I don't have that," I tell him softly, "I really do have nothing at all."

# Chapter Six

#

The hospital's elevator doors open, and we are greeted by the eerily quiet halls. A wave of déjà vu washes over me as I am hit by the dizzying fluorescent light. It was less than four years ago that we rushed to the hospital after my mother's fatal car accident, just in time for her final few breaths. I am seized with fear as I imagine this happening again with Helen. Maybe driving all this way was a waste. Maybe I should have just stayed at home in bed, safe under the blankets, and waited for it all to be over.

_At least you made it here in one piece,_ Grayson's voice says inside my head. _It seems like all the women in your family are grossly incompetent behind the wheel. I half expected you to drive yourself and dear ol' dad into a ditch._

"Carmen," my father says with concern as he holds open the elevator doors. "Honey?"

"Sorry," I mumble as I move forward, taking his arm to help him walk. "Just thinking about Mom."

"It won't be like that today," my dad informs me. "Remember? You said we've already reached the quota of bad things that are allowed to happen in a twenty-four hour period." He tries to send me a weak smile.

I try to return the smile as we exit onto the second floor, and follow the signs that guide us toward the intensive care area. I am thankful that I was able to lift Dad's spirits with light conversation on the way here, but now I feel nearly drained of my ability to be positive.

"Are we going in the right direction?" I ask as we come to an intersecting hallway, and I'm unsure of where to turn.

"It should be just over there," my dad says, lifting his hand with a sigh. "Can you hear that? It's Liam's voice; he sounds upset."

I squint and crane my head to listen. I've only met my sister's boyfriend a couple times, and spoken to him on the phone briefly, so I have trouble recognizing the angry, masculine tone. We begin moving toward his location, and I am stunned to see a large man leaning over the nurses' desk in an intimidating way, and practically roaring at a small woman.

"No! I won't wait a second longer. I'm a fucking doctor!" he yells at the terrified-looking nurse. "You can't keep me out of her room. I'm more qualified to be in there than you are!"

"Sir, I'm so sorry," she squeaks in a mouse-like way. "It's family-only unless the patient gives permission."

Liam lifts his hands to run them through his dark hair. "She can't fucking give permission if she's unconscious!"

"Sir, if you don't settle down I'll have security remove you from this hospital."

"Calm down, buddy," says a tall man, approaching Liam's side. He is wearing a vivid pink scarf that draws my eyes directly to his clean-shaven face, contrasting sharply with Liam's stubble. "She's almost been stabilized, and that's all that matters. The little lady will wake up and ask for you soon. She's going to be okay."

"She didn't even want to be taken to the hospital," Liam says miserably. "I should have listened to her. I should have taken care of her myself."

"You did the best you could," says the man in the pink scarf. "Let's just try to relax and trust the other professionals to handle things."

"In this backward-ass _shack_ they call a hospital, in the middle of nowhere?" Liam asks in disgust. "I should have just driven her home to civilization. But when she fell asleep and wouldn't wake up..." His massive shoulders droop heavily, and he looks like the saddest man on the planet.

Clearing his throat, my father steps forward. "Liam," he says gently. "Thank you for calling me, son."

Liam and his friend turn toward us. There is a flash of something in Liam's eyes before he shakes his head with remorse. "Richard," he says to my father miserably. "This is all my fault. She found out about our deal and she was so angry..."

"There's nothing we can do now, son," my father tells him, reaching out to give Liam a hug. "It's my fault as much as it is yours."

"What deal?" I ask the men curiously. "What's going on here?"

They both turn to look at me with shame and sorrow on their faces.

"Honey," Dad says softly, "I promised Liam that if he found your sister and brought her home, I'd help him with his career. I paid him to date her so that he could convince her to have the new surgery for her eyes. I just wanted to make her life better, sweetheart."

I stare at them in disbelief. "So you were faking it, Liam? You never really cared about her?"

"I did!" Liam says fiercely as he glares at me. " _I do!_ It started off as a job, but I grew to have real feelings for Helen. We lived together for months, for god's sake." He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small navy-blue velvet box. "I was going to ask her to marry me! I was just waiting for the right moment. Everything was perfect, and then..." His deep voice breaks as tears begin to slide down his cheeks.

The sight of a grown man crying has always been unsettling to me, but this is unbearable. I am suddenly grateful that Grayson's death was so swift, painless, and complete. I don't think I could survive this terrible state of limbo that Liam is in, unsure of whether or not his lover will survive. His eyes look so wretched that I am almost sure that he is hurting far more than I am. I wish that I could offer him a dose of my emotional numbness to give him some relief. I think I have plenty of numbness to spare.

_When did you become a heartless ice-bitch?_ Grayson asks me inwardly. _You've barely shed a tear. This is what love actually looks like. Did I even mean anything to you?_

I am distracted from the voices in my head as I watch the man with the pink scarf move to Liam's side. He smiles and wraps his arm around his friend's shoulders for a sympathetic squeeze. "Hey, chin up, buddy," he says in a tender tone. "Our girl's a fighter, and she wouldn't want you worrying like this and falling to pieces. They said she's breathing on her own now, and her vitals are strong. Winter will pull through."

I wonder briefly about the identity of this charming stranger. His compassion for Liam warms my heart a little, and the feeling reassures me that I am not completely frozen. It also sounds like he was good friends with my sister if he's calling her by her nickname—she used _Winter Rose_ as her pseudonym on all the books she authored. "Did Helen say anything about my husband?" I ask the men softly, biting my lip to try and restrain the difficult words. "Does she know why Grayson killed himself?"

All three men turn to look at me with pity on their faces.

It takes Liam a moment to gather his composure enough to respond. "Yes," he says quietly. "I'm sorry, Carmen. I don't know what happened exactly, but Helen told me that she exchanged words with your husband right before he hung himself. She was really broken up about it, and I think it was part of the reason she crashed her car. She hated the idea that it was going to hurt you."

I close my eyes for a moment and allow my mind to weigh and process this information. "She was coming to see me, right?" I ask the men. "She wouldn't have wanted to talk to Dad after what he did. So she came over to the house for some sisterly advice after she found out that you two had been playing her, because she knows that I have tons of experience with shitty men like you, Liam..."

"Hey," says the man with the pink scarf defensively. "That's not..."

"Shut up," I tell him sharply before turning back to glare at Liam. "So, because of you jerks, Helen accidentally ran into my husband and they had a fight so big that he ended up dead? And she ended up nearly dead?"

Liam and my father are silent and unable to respond.

"That pretty much sums it up," says the man in the pink scarf.

He is beginning to annoy me. He just seems so damn chipper, and this is not the time to be perky and upbeat. I know, because I am usually the _queen_ of perky and upbeat. It's also the flamboyant color of the fuchsia scarf around his neck. It's offending my carefully-honed fashion senses, and causing me to be nauseous and fascinated at the same time. I can't tell if I despise the scarf as an accessory, so much that I want to tear it from the man's neck and stomp on it, or if I actually admire the bold and eclectic style. I think it's a little of both.

I don't even know his name, but I want to direct all my hate toward him and his damn scarf.

I find myself glaring at him, and he sends me a smile and a wink that causes my blood to boil.

"I need to see my sister," I tell the men furiously. My fists are clenched and my heart is pounding. I can't even look at my father, because I do feel like he is responsible for everything. If he hadn't schemed with Liam and pissed off Helen, she wouldn't have come over to the house and taken out her anger on my husband. If not for their lack of consideration, I would still have my husband, and my sister would be in perfect health. All of this pain was unnecessary.

I march around the men and move to the nurse's desk, pulling my purse off my shoulder so that I can prove that I am a blood relative. "I'm here to see Helen Winters," I tell the nurse as I grab my wallet to retrieve my ID. I hand her my driver's license with a clenched jaw. "She's my sister."

# Chapter Seven

#

"She looks so pale," my father says softly.

I study Helen's unconscious body curiously. I try to ignore all the confusing cables and tubes that are attached to her, and focus on her face. There is a bloody bandage over her forehead, but I can see traces of mascara clinging to her lashes, along with bits of deep red lipstick staining the creases of her lips.

_She's so beautiful,_ Grayson whispers to me. _Far more beautiful than you will ever be, Carmen. And she doesn't have to try half as hard!_

This sick voice inside my head is beginning to torture me. It sounds exactly like Grayson, but it's saying things that he would _never_ say to me. I think I started imagining him so that I would feel less lonely, but it's somehow mixing and mingling with the darkness in my brain and becoming something terrible. Is it still my imagination? Am I still in control of this? Am I torturing myself?

_Did you know that I kissed her lips right before I killed myself?_ Grayson asks me softly. _I just wanted to touch her one last time. Because she meant more to me than you ever will._

I find myself staring at Helen's lips in horror. I reach out to touch her cheek, and I'm surprised to find that she is still warm. I almost expect her to be as cold and dead as my husband. As my hand traces the curve of her cheek, a million memories of a happy childhood come rushing back to me. The sweet sisterly love that we used to share stings my eyes bitterly.

"Was there some special occasion yesterday?" I ask my father.

"Yes," he responds dismally. "It was Liam's birthday."

"That explains it," I murmur. My little sister was never the type to wear makeup; partly because she was blind and unable to apply it herself back when we were still on speaking terms, but also partly because she could rarely be bothered to allow me to do it for her. I reach into my purse and fish around for some makeup wipes, and pull a moist sheet out of the pack. Leaning forward, I begin to gently clean the residue off my sister's face, even though I realize the insignificance of my actions.

Any woman who has fallen unconscious in their makeup will understand how disgusting it feels to wake up with itchy reminders of a night gone horribly wrong. Of course, Helen will have a vicious headache and other serious injuries to contend with when she awakes—not a pool of her own vomit and a naked stranger—but I do understand her pain. The least I can do is remove the smudged mascara from around her eyes to give her some dignity.

When I use the wipes to dab the traces of color away from her lips, I shudder to think that Grayson might have given her his last kiss instead of me. I somehow know in my heart that it is true.

_You bastard,_ I inwardly hiss. _What have you done to my sister? You drove her to this, didn't you? Wasn't it enough just to hurt yourself? You've taken everything away from me._

You never had anything to begin with, Carm.

I try to push the voice aside and focus on the girl lying in the hospital bed before me. "It looks like she was really looking forward to whatever they had planned yesterday," I muse out loud as I turn to toss the soiled wipe into the trash. "It must have been a big disappointment when she found out that Liam was lying to her."

My dad is standing on the other side of the bed, holding Helen's limp hand. "It was me, Carmen. Liam wasn't the one who orchestrated all those lies. I did. I knew that she was sad and alone, and I couldn't bear the thought of her wasting her life away. I knew that Helen would have been healthy and loved if your mother was still around—I was failing as a parent. I wanted to give her a little happiness, but I ended up completely destroying her." My dad reaches up to brush some of Helen's messy auburn hair off her cheek, before turning to look at me. "Whatever happened between her and Grayson—I inadvertently caused that too. I'm the reason you lost your husband, Carmen." There is such misery shining in his dark eyes. "Can you ever forgive me?"

Gazing at my father's old and wrinkled face, I wish that I could blame him.

_It is his fault, you know,_ Grayson tells me. _He has no life of his own, so he interferes in the lives of his daughters. He's the one who fucked up your sister's life. He's part of the reason I'm dead._

I feel the anger stirring in my chest, but it's gone as soon as it rises. I notice that my father's hand is shaking against Helen's shoulder, and I swallow down my unnecessary outburst. I may not be able to control the disembodied voices in my head, but I sure as hell can keep from being turned into an emotional mess by pregnancy hormones.

Swallowing to gather my composure, I move around the bed to stand beside my father. "The doctor said that in the best case scenario, Helen could wake up in a few hours—or days. We should find a hotel nearby and get some rest."

"I don't want to leave her alone," my father says in a trembling voice. "What if she wakes up and there's no one here?"

Not wanting to mention that it would probably be better if she didn't wake up to the faces of those who had lied to her, I shrug lightly. "We can take shifts. I can stay with her for now—and you can come back later after you've gotten some rest."

"You're pregnant," my dad reminds me. "You need your rest more than I do. Maybe I can talk to the nurses about allowing Liam and Owen to keep an eye on her, so that we can both sleep."

"Owen?" I ask in confusion.

"Yes, the other doctor—Liam's friend. Oh, darn. With everything that was happening, I forgot to introduce you to him."

"The man in the ugly pink scarf?" I wrinkle my face in distaste. "There's no need for introductions. His scarf was screaming loudly enough."

"Not everyone is a skilled dresser like you are, my dear," my father says with a chuckle. He leans down over my sister to press a kiss upon her bandaged forehead. "Get better, little bird," he says quietly before straightening and turning to me. "You're right, Carmen. I'm ashamed to admit it, but I am exhausted. I hope I can even make it to the nearest hotel before passing out like a pathetic old man."

"You'll be fine, Dad," I tell him as I help him to the door. We are stepping out of the hospital room when a soft sound distracts me. I glance back toward the bed, wondering if it was Helen. I am disappointed to find that she is just as lifeless and serene as before. Once I turn away again and take another step, I am almost sure that I hear the creaking of the bed. I look back to see my sister moaning softly as she tries to move her bandaged leg.

"Get a doctor!" I tell my dad anxiously. "She's waking up."

I rush to her bedside and grasp the injured girl's arm. "Come on, sis," I beg her softly. "I need you to be okay. I need you to tell me what the hell happened to my husband."

The muscles in her face twitch, but her eyes remained closed.

"Hellie," I whisper desperately, tightening my grip on her arm. "Hellie! Wake up."

I feel her arm trembling under my hand, like she is in a bad dream and fighting to wake up. Flashes of ancient lightning cross my mind as I recall huddling together with her during thunderstorms when we were small children. For the first time, a bit of pain manages to cross all my protective barriers, and it tears at my heart. I can clearly see that Helen is the same scared, innocent girl that she always was. I can clearly remember exactly who she is and what she means to me; the years we spent apart mean nothing at all. We have a deeply ingrained, unshakable genetic connection that no misunderstanding or separation can extinguish.

I love my little sister and I just want her to be okay.

My head falls against her shoulder. "Please," I murmur against her hospital gown. "Wake up. Just wake up."

# Chapter Eight

#

My heavy eyelids refuse to stay open. I have been sitting at my sister's bedside for several hours, but there has been no change in her condition. We were able to grant Liam and Owen access to the room, and Liam has been keeping watch with me. The doctors said there was nothing they could do, and that Helen's recovery would depend on her own willpower from this point onward. The nurses have been checking in frequently, but they haven't been very talkative.

"I don't understand," I mumble as I stare at her empty face. "I felt her move and heard her make a sound earlier. Why isn't she awake yet?"

"When a patient wakes up from a coma, it's not immediate like it is on television," Liam informs me, with a glance to the monitors attached to my sister. "They start to recover slowly, a little bit at a time. The brain is a brilliant computer that can shut down all unnecessary functions to save resources when the body is in desperate need of healing. When she can afford them, her brain will allow her to regain various motor functions and consciousness intermittently."

"So she's going to be okay?" I demand shakily. "She's not going to be in a coma for weeks or months, or anything like that?"

He looks over at me, and realizes that I am lost and confused. "No," he says with a shake of his head. "She's going to be fine. I mean, I was terrified when I first brought her to the hospital, but she's doing a lot better now. They gave her medications to reduce the swelling and pressure in her head, along with a blood transfusion. They also said the CT scans looked promising, so she shouldn't have any permanent brain damage. They'll probably move her out of the ICU soon. Your sister's a tough girl."

I feel a little bit intimidated by the grim look on Liam's face, and the severity in his voice. Even though he's saying positive things, he looks like he's in the middle of a battlefield and about to chop someone's head off with an axe.

_He did break both of my arms a few months ago,_ Grayson reminds me. _This man is a beast, Carm. Don't let yourself relax around him._

I shift uncomfortably in my chair. That fight between the two men was the one that had landed Grayson in the hospital, needing psychiatric care and medication. Even though I know that my husband was the instigator, going after my sister and her boyfriend with his gun, it had been shocking to discover that Helen's mild-mannered doctor boyfriend was able to beat the stuffing out of my armed football-player husband. It's always the quiet ones that have the most dangerous dark sides.

_It's too bad that I only shot him in the leg,_ Grayson tells me. _I knew he was bad news the moment I met him. I knew he was going to hurt your sister someday._

I stare at Liam curiously, taking in the thickness of his neck and the visible strength of his chest and biceps. He is extremely tense, and it looks like his shirt is struggling to keep together at the seams due to his bulk. A little smile touches my lips to think that this is my _sister's_ boyfriend. Sometimes, when we were younger, Helen would be attracted to hideous-looking men that were scrawny, short, or otherwise physically substandard—mainly because they had pleasant voices and sounded like nice people. Not being able to see has caused her to judge men quite differently from most women, so I am still stunned that she ended up with someone as handsome as Liam.

Of course, she didn't choose him, did she? Dad handpicked him for her, like he was breeding cattle. This makes a lot more sense. He sent over a fine specimen with both a stellar physique and an impressive intellect to woo my sister. Knowing Dad, he probably interviewed candidates and checked their grades, extracurricular activities, and community involvement to make sure that the man he chose was well-rounded.

Only the best for his little Helen.

_Aren't you lucky?_ Grayson whispers in my ear. _You got the freedom to love the person you wanted._

_That went really well, didn't it?_ Maybe there is some logic in my father's strategy. He probably checked for mental illnesses. I probably should have asked for his help in screening men so that I didn't end up with one who couldn't survive the stress of being married to me for more than six months. In fact, Dad has probably already begun trying to set me up with a better candidate: Bradford West.

Should I trust my father's judgment and give Brad a chance? My baby is going to need a father, and I'm too tired to go looking. Who would want to be with a miserable pregnant widow anyway?

_Brad is a good man,_ Grayson assures me. _He has always been a loyal friend. But you're acting a little desperate, Carm._

I just want to be okay. You've destroyed everything, Grayson, and I don't know if I'm going to be okay. I wish I had what my sister has. Someone strong like Liam, who will be there when the shit hits the fan. Even with all his mistakes, Liam is here. He's here and you're not. He's ten times the man you ever were, Gray.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" Liam asks me with a puzzled expression.

"I'm just contemplating my father's taste in men," I respond. "I wonder what his criteria was for choosing you?"

Liam sighs and lowers his head into his hands. "Can we not do this right now, Carmen? I feel bad enough as it is."

"I'm just curious," I say sweetly. "How much did he pay you? Did you feel like a prostitute when you were sleeping with my sister and getting checks from my dad? I just want to know if you're a cheap whore or an expensive one."

The shocked expression on Liam's face is priceless and satisfying, but before he can respond, there is a low whistle from the door.

"She doesn't hold back, does she?" Owen asks as he steps into the room. His offensive pink scarf is still secured snugly around his neck as he moves over to his friend. "I brought extra-strong coffee for you, Liam, and chamomile tea for blonde-fury over here."

"Chamomile tea?" I say in disappointment. "I could have used a coffee."

"It's not good for your baby," Owen says as he moves over to hand me the paper cup. "Your dad mentioned that you were already having a difficult pregnancy, so you should be extra careful."

Begrudgingly, I accept the tea and grumble, "Thanks."

"I also brought some sandwiches," Owen says, handing me one. "Good nutrition is really important for you right now."

"Can you please stop fussing over me?" I tell him with annoyance. "I'm perfectly fine."

"Sure," he says with a smile, pushing the sandwich into my hands anyway. He then moves over to Liam and forces a sandwich at his friend. "You too, man. Eat."

Liam bats his hand away in frustration. "Not now, Owen. I'll eat when Winter's awake."

"Staring at her isn't going to make her wake up any faster," Owen points out as he tosses the sandwich at his friend, forcing Liam to catch it. "Don't you want to be strong enough to take care of her when she needs you?"

Growling softly, Liam puts the sandwich aside. "Thanks for the coffee, man," he says, before taking a generous gulp. He drags the back of his fist over his lips and frowns. "I'm not going to sleep until Winter wakes up. I don't care about the fucking visiting hours. I need to apologize to her—and yell at her for being stupid enough to drive her car off a cliff."

"It happens to the best of us," Owen says lightly. "Maybe if you hadn't been such a dick, and had just been honest from the start, to both her _and_ me..."

Liam's head snaps toward his friend sharply. "I'm not ready to have this conversation right now. You know why I did what I did."

"I don't know anything about you, sometimes," Owen responds quietly. "You knew how badly Winter had been hurt in the past. You knew this was going to crush her."

Liam clenches his jaw. "Look, man. You know that she might be able to hear us even though she's unconscious. Can we avoid talking about this for now? Can we just keep things light and positive? I'll have this conversation with her privately later, and I'll explain everything."

"Whatever," Owen says, turning to me with a helpless shrug. "I guess he's determined to keep brushing it under the rug. I imagine that if Winter could hear us, she would love to know the truth. Anyhoo—onto lighter topics: Carmen, is it a boy or a girl?"

I take a sip from my tea as I study Owen carefully. I do appreciate how he's defending my sister and speaking on her behalf. I would personally like to learn more about what happened between Helen and her boyfriend, but I can see that Liam is too emotional to handle the subject. His current vulnerability gives me the nearly irresistible urge to poke fun at him and make him sweat, but I can tell that even though he is physically strong, he is all softness and mush underneath that hard exterior. Maybe I should spare him for the moment, and focus on his friend.

Letting my eyes drift over Owen's features, I allow myself a smile. "It's a girl," I tell him finally. I bite my tongue to keep from adding that this is correct gender for his scarf.

"Do you have a name yet?" Owen asks.

The question catches me a bit off guard, and my smile disappears. "We hadn't decided. I liked Elizabeth, but... Grayson wanted Lillian."

"Lizzie versus Lily," Owen interprets with a sage nod. "That sounds like it caused many mighty battles between you two."

"No," I respond, lowering my chin to stare down at my stomach. It's a bit disconcerting how my bellybutton is popping outward and creating a visible impression in my clothing. I don't think I'll ever get used to this, and I try to focus on how weird it is instead of thinking about Grayson being gone. "We didn't really fight too often."

"Well, that's your problem," Owen responds. "Fighting is healthy and necessary in a relationship. It keeps your blood pumping. It keeps your love alive."

I glance up slightly, and notice that Owen is placing both of his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket. There is a hint of sadness in his eyes, and I wonder if he's speaking from experience.

"Helen and I didn't fight much either," Liam adds, staring at the comatose girl. "And then, last night... we did."

"That's an understatement," Owen says under his breath. "If a couple doesn't fight, it's usually because their whole relationship is built on lies and pretense. We all experience discomfort and dissatisfaction on a daily basis, and when all of that tension and minor conflict gets repressed, it builds up to an explosion—then when you fight, it's the end of the world."

I try to avoid looking directly at Owen or Liam for a few seconds as I consider these ideas. When I do look at the men, I can see that Liam is still gazing at my sister with regret, while Owen is looking at his friend with a concerned frown.

"I thought you guys were eye doctors," I tell them quizzically. "What's with all the philosophy and psychology?"

"A fella's gotta have hobbies," Owen tells me with a grin. "Porn is great, but once your collection begins taking over your apartment, you know that it's time to start stimulating your big head."

This coaxes a real smile out of me. I almost can't believe that I am still capable of feeling genuine amusement. "What kind of porn?" I ask Owen teasingly.

"Well..." he begins, but we are interrupted by a groan from the bed.

"Hellie?" I ask hopefully as I rise to my feet. "Can you hear us?"

My sister's lips part slowly, and move soundlessly before she is able to form words. Her breathing is short and shallow. "Carm?" she finally croaks out.

"Hellie!" I exclaim moving to her bedside swiftly. "Thank god you're awake."

Liam leaps out of his chair and he is instantly at Helen's side, gently touching her shoulder and face. "Winter," Liam whispers. "You scared the hell out of me. Don't ever do that again."

"What happened?" she asks without opening her eyes. "Where am I?"

"You were in a car accident," Liam tells her. "We're in Pennsylvania."

"What?" she comments in surprise, frowning in confusion. "Who are you?"

Liam flinches at this question, and looks at me with fear in his face.

"Carm?" Helen says again as she tries to move, feeling the rails of the bed. She groans with pain as she discovers her injuries. "Where's Mom and Dad?"

I wrinkle my brow in surprise. "Dad's across the street in a hotel... but Mom's dead."

"Dead?" she repeats in shock. She reaches out to grab my hand. "How?"

"She died in an accident..."

"With me?" Helen says haltingly. "Today?"

"No," I tell her quietly. "She died three years ago, Helen."

A stark silence floods the hospital room.

Helen tightens her grip on my hand until it hurts. "No. No. Mom can't be gone. Carm, I don't remember. I don't remember anything."

"Winter," Liam says gently, and I can see that he is swallowing nervously. "Can you open your eyes? I want you to look at me."

Hesitantly, she turns her head toward the sound of his voice. "Are you calling _me_ Winter? My name is Helen. Who are you?"

A deep frown creases Liam's forehead. "Please try opening your eyes, Helen. It'll all make sense in a minute. You just need to look at me, and I'm sure you'll remember."

"But I'm blind," Helen points out weakly. Her grip on my hand loosens, and it seems like her consciousness is fading again. Her head rolls slowly from side to side, and she breathes heavily. Finally, she manages to follow Liam's instruction, and pries her eyes open with a tiny squint. Once she does this, her eyes widen abruptly and a look of terror takes over her features.

"I can see," she whispers in astonishment. She looks from me to Liam in frightened bewilderment. "Carm," she says in a small voice, "how the hell can I see?"

Helen's confusion is scaring me, and I look to Liam for help. Since my sister and I were not on speaking terms, I have never actually been in the same room with her since she has gained her vision. She has never actually ever seen me—other than those photographs she might have been looking at before my husband died...

"I'm your eye doctor," Liam explains to her slowly. "My partner and I performed a surgery to help you see a few months ago. He's here, too. Do you remember Owen?"

"Hey there, little lady," Owen says lightly, offering her a wave and a worried smile. "Surely you remember this handsome face of mine?"

"No," Helen says, with panic in her voice. "I don't—I don't know. Your faces are blurry. I just... I don't know."

Liam touches my sister's shoulder carefully. He breathes deeply as he stares into her vacant eyes. "Are you sure you don't know me, Helen? I'm also your boyfriend."

"My boyfriend?" she repeats in disbelief. She looks to me for confirmation, and I nod to assure her that this is true.

"Hellie," I say, reaching out to squeeze her shoulder gently. "I need you to focus for a moment. It's about Grayson. I just... I just need to know what happened last night." Tears gather in my eyes as I send her a smile. "I won't be upset, I swear. I just really need to know. Did he say or do anything? I don't care how messed up it is. Do you have any clue _why_ he did what he did? What were his last words? Please. It's killing me."

"Grayson?" she repeats drowsily as she squints her eyes in confusion. She stares up at the ceiling blankly for a moment before her eyelids begin to droop. "Sorry, Carm," she says tiredly as her head rolls to the side. "I don't know anyone named Grayson."

# Chapter Nine

#

"It's retrograde amnesia," the doctor explains to us as we stand in the waiting area. He is short, bald, and elderly, with a serious expression. "Specifically PTA, or post-traumatic amnesia—it's quite common after a brain injury like hers. The only unusual aspect of the situation is that most patients have difficulty remembering the events right before their accident. In addition to this, Helen seems to have lost a few years' worth of memories."

Liam has a furious look on his face while Owen seems worried and pensive. I wring my hands as I study their faces for information. Neither of them seems very impressed with the diagnosis.

"But it's not permanent?" I ask the doctor. "She will regain them?"

"Yes, Carmen. It's very likely," he responds reassuringly. "Considering how brief her coma was, the PTA shouldn't last too long. I estimate that she should be confused and disoriented for no longer than 24 hours, but she should start to remember important episodes and people quite soon."

_It's probably for the best that she doesn't remember last night,_ Grayson tells me. _If she could remember all the things I did to her, she'd probably want to kill herself too._

I gulp anxiously. "Thank you, Doctor. Can you—can you tell me if there are any defensive wounds on her, or anything that would suggest a violent encounter?"

Liam's head snaps toward me, and he fixes me with a piercing glare. I fight the urge to flinch or look away.

The doctor shakes his bald head. "She's pretty banged up from the accident, so it's hard to tell for sure, but I highly doubt it. Is there any reason you're asking?"

"It's nothing," I mumble with embarrassment. "Just a hunch."

_Even if the doctors can't find evidence of what I did to Helen, you know that I left permanent scars on her soul. The same way that she left scars on mine. Our fates were supposed to be intertwined. She was supposed to die with me._ Grayson's voice is so chilling that it sends shivers through my spine. I am beginning to wish his voice would stop. _Maybe she did try to die with me, Carmen. Maybe that's why she crashed her car. She was trying to be with me._

"We're moving her out of the ICU now," the doctor tells me. "The nurse will let you know her new location in the hospital so that you can visit her again soon. If all goes well, we should be able to discharge her in a few days. We just need to run a few more tests and determine if she's going to need any therapy or rehabilitation. Until then, we'll keep you updated of any changes to her condition."

"Thank you," I say shakily, moving over to the nearest chair to take a seat. I am feeling a bit woozy from tiredness, but I am too disturbed by Grayson's eerie voice, and desperate to talk to my sister, to even think about sleeping.

"If you have any personal items of hers that might jog her memory, it would be a good idea to collect them so that you can walk her through her confusion," the doctor suggests. "Just be patient with her, and don't get upset if she's a bit slow for the next little while. Also, in the case of her boyfriend, Dr. Larson, please try to resist the urge to show too much physical affection toward her until she remembers you. It might make her uncomfortable."

"I know," Liam says with annoyance. "I would never do that to someone." He lifts a hand to run his fingers through his hair as he turns back to look at me angrily once again.

I pull my shawl closer around my shoulders for comfort. I think I know what Liam must be thinking. A nurse approaches Helen's doctor and tells him that he's needed elsewhere, and he nods and excuses himself swiftly. Liam moves over to where I am sitting, and he towers over me, managing to cast a dark shadow even in the brightly lit hospital waiting room.

"I think we both know why Winter's mind chose to forget the past three years," Liam says in a deep and unsettling tone.

"Why is that?" I ask him quietly.

"Because of Grayson," he responds with a growl. "What your husband did three years ago was the most traumatic experience of Winter's life. Whatever happened last night dug all of that up for her... she needed to forget that monster completely before she could even hope to get better. And because of that bastard, she ended up forgetting me, too."

I feel a lump of fear growing in my throat and I struggle to swallow it down. I find myself rising to my feet as I look at Liam squarely in the face. "Are you sure it's what my husband did? Because she seemed perfectly fine until _you_ walked into her world. She was safe, secure, and happy. She was being productive and writing books. Then _you_ seduced her and broke her heart for a few dollars. My husband might have been a schizophrenic, violent freak—but it wasn't _his_ lies that caused my sister to drive herself off a cliff." I shove my finger fiercely into his rock-hard chest. "Who's the real monster here, Liam?"

"Whoa," Owen says softly, putting a hand firmly on each of our shoulders and separating us. "Both of you need to relax. This isn't anyone's fault, and Winter's going to be perfectly fine. You heard the small-town doctor. She's going to regain all her memories soon." Owen turns and looks at me calmly, with kindness in his expression. I hadn't noticed how masculine his face was, and that he's actually a bit taller than Liam. The strength and warmth in chiseled visage causes my heart to almost skip a beat. "Carmen, I'm so sorry for Liam's behavior. While I can assure you that my friend would never hurt your sister intentionally, he has made some pretty terrible mistakes. Still, I do believe that Liam truly loves Winter, and that he will find a way to make this right." He holds my gaze for a moment longer before looking back to Liam. "Buddy, you need to focus on what we can do now. Didn't you say that Winter had some family photo albums with her when she crashed? Maybe we could go to the car and grab those to try and jog her memory."

"Photo albums?" I repeat, remembering the pictures I found under Grayson's body. This confirms my suspicions.

"I don't think it will work," Liam says gruffly. "She only saw those photographs briefly. She's not used to encoding information through sight. I don't think any visual stimulation will jog her memory."

"What about her books?" Owen suggests. "I think I have a copy of _Blind Rage_ in my hotel room across the street. Maybe if you read one of her own books back to her, Liam—she might be able to remember writing them in the past three years."

"That's... actually a pretty good idea," Liam admits. "She might respond well to information that was encoded by acoustic or semantic pathways in her brain. I can also grab our puppy from the room and see if Helen remembers Snowball."

"Great," Owen says with a nod. "Hopefully the hospital will allow you to bring Snowball in to visit her. I think that some fresh air could do you some good and help you de-stress, man. Want to come with me to grab the book and the dog?"

Liam hesitates. "I don't know. I think I should stay here..."

"You're kind of high-strung and tense," Owen tells him gently. "If Winter wakes up and sees you scowling like that, she's not going to want to bother getting to know you again. Come on, man. Join me for a walk and try to relax."

"Okay," Liam says finally. He turns to me with an apologetic look. "I'm sorry for what I said about your husband, Carmen. I just..."

"It's okay." I shrug and cast my eyes down to the floor. "You're right. Grayson was a monster."

The men are silent, but I can feel them looking at each other and communicating with their eyes. I can tell their friendship runs deep, the same way that Grayson and Brad loved each other like brothers.

"Go outside, Liam," Owen tells his friend softly. "I'll catch up in a sec."

I am still looking down at the linoleum when I feel Owen sitting down beside me. He does not speak, so I simply continue staring down into my lap. We sit in comfortable silence for a minute. Somehow, I do appreciate his nearness—even though he is a total stranger. It is nice that he has the wisdom to just let me be.

After growing tired of staring at my hands, I turn to look at Owen directly in the eyes. He looks back at me, and I am startled to behold an enchanting shade of crystal-clear blue. I hadn't noticed the striking color earlier, as I had been too distracted by his outrageously bright scarf. I find myself suddenly staring and lost in these mesmerizing pools of delicate icy blue. His irises are dusted with flecks of cloudy grey, like stray wisps in a clear summer sky.

"Carmen," he says softly, "I need you to do me a favor."

My face contorts into a questioning expression.

"This isn't my place, so forgive me for interfering, but I have to," he says, taking a deep breath. "What is the thing you love most? What do you enjoy doing? Whatever it is, I need you to do that. Right now. If you can't find a way to do it here and now, at least think about doing it."

"I don't understand..."

"Right now, you can't focus on your sister. You can't focus on your husband. You need to focus on yourself." His Adam's apple expands as he swallows and rises to his feet. He moves to leave, but turns back to send me one final powerful gaze with his gunmetal eyes. "Trust me, Carmen. Search inside yourself for that thing that gives you peace. Find a quiet island in your mind and go there. If you don't, you'll drive yourself insane."

He walks away, and I am left staring after him curiously. I wonder if it was grossly apparent that I was having conversations with my dead husband inside my head. Do I look as loopy and unhinged as I feel? Pushing aside the urge to pull my makeup out of my purse and make sure that my face is presentable, I take a deep breath and close my eyes. _What is the thing I love most? What do I enjoy doing?_ I try to follow Owen's instructions and find a peaceful island inside myself.

It's too late, Carm. You already have one foot in the grave with me, my darling.

# Chapter Ten

#

I am pacing back and forth in my sister's hospital room, but the walls are beginning to spin. I am half-asleep on my feet, and terrified to be alone with the voices in my head. If only Helen would wake up again and talk to me, I feel like she could chase my demons away. My thirst for information has kept me awake and wired, and I am desperate to hear even a few words from her. If she could just regain consciousness for one minute and tell me what I need to hear... but could I even handle knowing?

_You already know,_ Grayson's voice tells me. _I killed myself because I couldn't have her. You weren't enough for me, Carm. She was the one I always truly wanted._

Turning on my heel, I pace briskly back and forth in the room. _No. You're just a figment of my imagination. You're not real, and you don't know anything about me or my husband. Get out of my head!_

Figment or not, I'm here to stay. I'll be here every day until I get what I want, Carmen.

_And what do you want?_ I ask wretchedly.

_You know,_ Grayson hisses into my mind. _I want her. I want Helen. I'll do anything to have her. Only when she joins me will I finally be at rest. Only then will I leave you alone and be silent._

I look toward the unconscious girl on the hospital bed. She looks so tranquil and pure. I move to stand next to her, and feel a heaviness settle in my heart. Not so long ago, I used to call my sister my best friend. We had a happy childhood together, and the blissful freedom of being tomboys perpetually covered in mud. Then, once we were teenagers, we managed to maintain our closeness by sharing long conversations about our troubles into the wee hours of the morning. Of course, with my vast penchant for mistakes, I always had far more troubles than Helen did; they were only ever neutralized by her ability to offer the best advice.

"What do I do now, Hellie?" I whisper softly. "I can't fix this. You always knew how to fix everything, but there's no coming back from this."

You were a greedy bitch, Carmen. You wanted too much. The perfect family, the perfect life. You were just a spoiled little rich girl who couldn't accept that no one loved her.

"No. Shut up," I snap angrily. Then I realize how ridiculous it is that I am talking to my dead husband. My face contorts in disgust as I grip the sides of my sister's hospital bed. "I needed you, Hellie," I say in a shaking voice. "Why did you go away? You could have prevented all of this. If only you could have told me sooner that Grayson was dangerous and unstable... I would have listened."

_Your sister never loved you,_ Grayson says mockingly. _Don't you understand that? She never would have disappeared for years on end if she really cared. She was just sick of you and your shallow, slutty ways as you went from one bad boyfriend to the next. You were so stupid, Carmen. You wouldn't stop screwing up. Helen just wanted to get on with her life and stop having to listen to your pathetic whining and babbling._

"That's not true," I say quietly. "Once she wakes up, she'll tell me everything. She'll tell me what happened last night. She'll tell me why you're gone. Then, everything will make sense."

But can you really handle knowing?

I swallow nervously. I am scared of finding out the answers, but I need to know anyway. It also frightens me that Helen is the only one who knows, and the knowledge is locked up tightly inside her mind.

_It's her fault that I'm gone,_ Grayson tells me. _You know that it is. She said terrible things to me that I couldn't bear. You know how she hated me with such passion. That's why she tried to kill herself too. In the end, she wanted to be with me._

I bite down on my lip, trying to ignore the voice. I'm not sure why Liam hasn't returned yet with Helen's book. My father also hasn't woken up yet and returned to the hospital. I am beginning to grow worried, and I might have to call him or go across the street to check on him if I don't hear from him soon. Most of all, I don't want to be alone anymore. The voices are getting louder, and drowning out all my reason.

_Look at how vulnerable and fragile she is as she lies there,_ Grayson muses. _It would be so easy just to end this all, Carmen. Why don't you put the poor girl out of her misery? You'd be doing her a favor. She wants to die anyway._

I can't believe this is happening. I feel sick, and I wonder if this is what it was like for Grayson. Is this what his schizophrenia felt like? Is this what drove him to do what he did? Cruel, invisible voices in his mind, urging him to madness?

Please help me, Carmen. I need her. Helen is the reason I'm still here. I can't move on unless she comes with me. Please. I'll do anything. Will you help me?

"No," I whisper out loud. I lift my hands to cover my ears, but it doesn't have the desired effect. I can't block out the voices when they're so deep inside my head.

It would be so easy, Carm. It won't take any time or effort. Do it for me? Just cover her mouth and nose. Press down for a few seconds, and this will all be over. She and I can be together, and I'll leave you alone.

I am not sure why, but my hands are moving of their own accord. I find myself grabbing one of the pillows from behind my sister's head, and holding it a few inches above her face. I am about to lower the pillow to cover her airways when I manage to gain control of my body and stop. My hands shake and I feel tears slip down my cheeks. _What the hell am I doing?_

Just do it, Carm. Trust me, love. The doctors will just think she's slipped back into a coma and lost her ability to breathe on her own. You won't get into trouble. Just do it, and you can be at peace. It's my final wish. Give me your sister, so we can be together in death, and I'll stop tormenting you.

Once again, I find that my hands are slowly lowering the pillow to cover Helen's face. I can tell that her breathing is so weak that it wouldn't take much strength to stifle her airways. I can see her chest gently rising and falling, and it terrifies me to think I could put an end to her precious life. The whole hospital room seems to be spinning around me, and my knees go very weak.

Don't be afraid. Press the pillow down, Carm. Do it for me. It will only take a moment.

I want to rip my hands away, but I can't seem to make my body do as it's told. Tears pour down my face, as I lower the pillow, struggling against myself to try and stop this horrifying act. I am suffocating my sister. My sweet, brilliant, adorable little sister. Why am I doing this? _I can't hurt her. I need to be strong. This isn't me. I would rather kill myself than Helen!_ I try desperately to yank my hands away, but I feel like my body is encased in steel.

Just a few more seconds, Carm. This will all be over soon. She'll be at peace, and so will you.

Helen seems frighteningly still under the pillow. I feel like I am going to throw up. I hear the creaking noise of a door being opened, and a startled male voice.

"Hey, what are you doing?"

I look up to see Owen standing there and looking at me in surprise, and I rip the pillow away from my sister's face. I stumble back against the window as the pillow falls to the ground, and I draw a shuddering breath. I press both of my hands against my moistened cheeks. "I don't know," I whisper. "I don't know."

"Carmen?" he says softly as he steps into the room and closes the door behind him. "Were you..."

My knees begin to tremble and they seem to collapse beneath me. I find my body sliding down against the window until I am sitting on the floor. I cover my face with my hands to hide my shame and tears.

Owen is instantly at my side, pressing a hand against my shoulder. "It's okay," he tells me. "Helen's fine. Are you okay?"

"No," I say between sobs. "I'm really messed up. You should tell someone what you saw. I should be locked up or something. I think I'm going mad."

"I told you that you would," Owen says tenderly as he sits on the ground beside me. "With everything that's happening to you, even the strongest of people would crack. But you were just going around acting like it wasn't bothering you at all. Liam was letting it all out in angry outbursts, but you were trying to appear perfectly fine. I could tell that it was building up to an explosion in that head of yours."

I remove my hands from my face and stare into this stranger's kind eyes. The light aquamarine color is surreal and soothing to my soul. I don't know why, but I feel like I can trust him.

"I keep hearing my husband's voice," I confess. "He's saying such awful things to me. I just don't understand. I don't understand anything. Why he's gone. Why Helen was at the house. Why he was so obsessed with her. It doesn't make sense to me."

Owen does not respond, and sits in silence for a moment, resting his hand on his knee and looking up at Helen thoughtfully. "I know what happened to your sister three years ago," Owen tells me softly. "I don't know everything that's happened since then, but I know a little. I'll explain what I can. But first, Carmen, you really need to get some sleep."

"Tell me what happened," I demand, looking into Owen's face searchingly. "Please. Helen tried to tell me once, but..."

"If you don't get some rest soon, I'm going to throw you over my shoulder and carry you out of here," Owen says seriously.

"You're going to throw me over your shoulder?" I ask him in disbelief. "Like a continental soldier?"

"Come on, Carmen," he says with impatience. "You really need to sleep. Unfortunately, because you're pregnant, I can't just slip something into your drink like I did to Liam."

"You did _what?"_

"I drugged him," Owen says with a shrug. "The poor guy worked a twenty-hour shift yesterday, and has been awake all night. He was starting to act crazy, so I had to resort to drastic measures."

"How?"

"His coffee," Owen explains with a smile. "I lured him back to the hotel to get Winter's book—which I actually didn't have—but by the time we got to my room, the drugs were kicking in, and he was barely able to stand. Now he's sleeping like a baby."

I stare at the innocent-looking man in amazement. "Where did you get the drugs?"

"We're in a hospital," Owen said, gesturing around. "Obviously, I just needed to flirt with a nurse."

This gives me a weak smile. "She couldn't tell that you were gay from the flaming pink scarf?"

"Gay?" Owen asks in surprise, with a wounded look on his face. "I'm offended. A man stands by his bro during his time of need, and you assume that a few manly pats on the back mean I'm secretly lusting after Liam?"

"It wasn't that," I inform him. "I actually thought that it was really sweet that you were comforting your friend. It was the scarf that gave it away."

"My grandmother knitted me this scarf," Owen says, touching it with dismay. "She has severe arthritis in her hands and it took her three years."

"Oh," I say shamefully. "I'm sorry."

Owen grins at me. "I'm just shitting you. My grandma is a gun enthusiast who would probably also think I was taking the sausage if she saw me in this scarf."

The corners of my lips turn upward in a genuine smirk. "So why are you wearing it? It's hideous."

Owen shrugs. "Everyone hates this scarf. Liam wishes he could kill it with fire. I figured that it might be appalling enough to distract everyone else from the crappiness of their day for a few seconds." He looks at me knowingly. "Is it working?"

"Yes," I say softly, reaching out to finger the woolen monstrosity. Even though the color leaves much to be desired, the texture is surprisingly supple. "Thank you."

"Now do I need to carry you across the street to the hotel, or will you come willingly?" Owen asks me lightly.

"In case you didn't notice, I'm a gigantic blimp," I say, gripping the wall to help me stand. Owen offers me his arm and I gratefully take it and use him for support. "There's no way you can carry me."

"I'll look for a forklift," he says teasingly, with a twinkle in his eye.

# Chapter Eleven

#

"We'll need two rooms," Owen tells the hotel clerk. "Preferably facing away from the sun so that we can get some solid beauty rest. As you can see, my lady friend is so worn out that she decided to go to sleep standing up."

I yank open my eyes in surprise, and realize that they had been closing involuntarily. A faint blush stains my cheeks as the hotel clerk giggles at me. "Pregnancy fatigue," I explain quickly.

The woman smiles at me with understanding before turning back to Owen. "Sorry, sir," she says, "but don't you already have a room here with us?"

"Yeah," Owen says, scratching his head. "Sadly, my friend passed out in my room earlier, and I don't want to bother him. He's not in the greatest mood, and he can be really grumpy when he wakes up. It's best if I just get my own."

The clerk pushes some hair back behind her ear and types into her computer. "Unfortunately, it seems like there's only one room available."

"Oh," Owen says in disappointment. "Well, that's fine. Is there another hotel around here?"

"About an hour's drive away," she explains. "This is a really small town, sir. No one really comes through here except locals."

"Alrighty," Owen says, wrinkling his nose. "I'll just sleep in the car."

"No," I tell him gently, placing a hand on his arm. I step forward to look at the hotel clerk. "One room is fine. Does it have two beds?"

"Um," she says nervously. "Nope. It doesn't."

My shoulders slump with disappointment. I realize that this "hotel" is smaller than some bed-and-breakfasts that I've stayed at, and two of their rooms have already been taken up by Liam and my father. Still, I am not in the mood to sort out this conflict right now.

"Honey, can I make a recommendation?" the clerk asks, leaning forward with a warm smile. "Are you fighting with your husband? Because sleeping apart isn't going to bring you any closer together."

"My husband?" I repeat dumbly.

"Sorry, I just saw the huge rock on your finger. How long have you two been married?"

I stare blankly at the clerk before lifting my hand to look down at my ring. Heat and panic begins to spread through my chest as I remember the sight of my husband's lifeless body swaying in the foyer. My hand begins to tremble. "I..."

Owen moves over to my side quickly and puts an arm around my shoulders. "She really hates being asked that question. You see, we got married way too young and she regrets it as the greatest mistake of her life. She can barely stand to be in the same room with me. But we'll take that room anyway, and I'll sleep in the bathtub."

"Oh, dear," says the hotel clerk eyeing my stomach suspiciously. "Is this your first child?"

"Our seventh," says Owen with a deep sigh. "It's part of the reason she hates me so much. I just keep getting her pregnant, and then I don't help out with changing the diapers. Can you blame me? Have you ever smelled a dirty diaper?"

A smile tugs at my lips again, and I feel the need to contribute to this story. "Actually, the problem with our marriage is that my husband here is _really gay_ and just using me to convince himself and his family otherwise. I'm almost certain that he only gets me pregnant to assert his masculinity." I lean forward and speak to the clerk in a whisper. "See that scarf he's wearing? Not even the tip of the iceberg. One time I came home to find him trying on my frilly pink underwear. The worst part? It looked better on him than it did on me."

"Hey!" Owen says with hurt in his voice. "Sometimes I have to borrow your clothes for my show at the local drag queen club. How else am I going to support our growing family unless I shake what my momma gave me?"

The hotel clerk and I simply stare at Owen in amazement. I have to bite down hard on my lip to keep from bursting out in laughter, but I'm sure that it's visible on my face. "One room please," I manage to say to the clerk while restraining my amusement. I feel a particularly strong kick in my stomach, and press my hand against my baby bump in surprise. My unborn daughter has been rather mellow over the past day or so, but it seems like she finds Owen just as hilarious as I do. I reach into my purse to pay for the room, but Owen touches my wrist to halt my hand.

He smiles at me and flips his leather wallet out onto the clerk's desk, before pulling out his credit card. The clerk accepts it and goes through the transaction quite quickly.

"Here are two keys to room 104," she says, handing us the cards with a lopsided grin. "Please enjoy yourselves."

"Oh, we will," Owen says with a wink at the clerk. "If my wife weren't so tired, I'd ask you to join us. She loves threesomes. Throw in a little whipped cream and..."

"He's just kidding," I assure the poor hotel clerk, but she seems to be enjoying the entertainment. "Come on, _sweetie pie_ ," I tell Owen, grabbing his arm and leading him away from the front desk. The hotel room we got isn't too far down the hallway, and I shove my key card into the slot. "Let's put you to bed before you get yourself into trouble."

When we move into the room, Owen chuckles softly. "You're a lot more fun than your sister," he tells me. "Helen would have been begging me to shut up if I joked around like that. It's still incredibly fun to annoy her, but I like it better when you play along."

"You're like a twelve-year-old boy," I tell Owen as I cross the room to put my purse down on the night table. I let my body collapse down on the bed. I am too tired to even remove my shoes. Although I might have sounded derogatory in calling Owen childish, I was actually giving him a compliment. I have so many fun memories of hanging out with the guys when I was that age, and making harmless dirty jokes and laughing ourselves silly. Things were so innocent back then, and Owen strikes me as similarly childlike and harmless. I feel like boys only become cruel and develop sinister intent as they get older.

There is still a smile lingering on my lips, and my baby seems to be stretching and nestling comfortably in my stomach. I wrap my arms around my middle, enjoying the relaxation. Finally being horizontal is nice.

"I suppose I am a prepubescent boy in a grown man's body," Owen says thoughtfully. "Nothing wrong with being young at heart! Do you mind if I steal a pillow and a blanket for the bathtub?"

"Sure." I shift my legs so he can grab the blanket from the foot of the bed. "You don't really have to sleep in the bathtub, Owen. Why don't you just take the couch?"

"Are you sure you're comfortable with me being in the same room with you? I could always go crash with Liam."

"I don't mind," I tell him with a smile. "It's actually nice to have some company. I could have gone to my dad's room... but I just need a break from all the doom and gloom."

"I feel the same way," Owen tells me as he fluffs his pillow and arranges his blanket. He plops down on the couch with a big yawn and stretches both of his arms behind his head as he gazes at my stomach. "So, how far along are you? Let me guess! Twenty-six weeks."

Narrowing my eyes, I look at him suspiciously. "Yes. How did you know that? My dad mentioned it?"

"Nope," he says cheerfully. "It's an educated guess. To tell you the truth, I nearly became a gynecologist. The female body is my greatest passion."

I roll my eyes. "Great. More dirty jokes. This is going to be a fun night."

"No, no, no!" he says, waving his hands. "Not like that. Jesus! Well, sometimes like that, but not right now. I mean to say that I always thought the most exciting part of being a doctor would be helping women give birth. I wanted to spend every day bringing new life into the world and seeing the joy on my patients' faces. But it ended up not working out that way."

"Why not?"

"A few things. Liam was going into ophthalmology, and I always work better when I have a friend in my classes who can force me to study. I also liked the thought of working side by side with him once we graduated and maybe opening up our own practice someday. Also... my girlfriend Caroline didn't like the idea of me sticking my hands into other women's vajayjays all day. She thought it might kill our sex life."

A small frown settles on my features. "That's a shitty reason to give up your passion."

Owen looks up at the ceiling and his voice becomes hushed. "Sadly, I spend a lot of my life just going with the flow and trying to make other people happy. My friends are really important to me, and I try not to make big life choices that could alienate them or make them upset. I really hate being alone."

I stare at him in surprise. It is a bit unexpected how the conversation has turned honest and sincere now that we are behind closed doors. I appreciate that Owen is sharing himself with me and being so open. That's something that Grayson had a lot of difficulty doing...

Owen clears his throat in embarrassment. "Anyway, I'll stop talking your ear off. I know that I just go on and on sometimes. You probably just want to pass out..."

"No," I tell him softly. "I understand what you mean, about being alone. That's pretty much why I married my husband." Turning to also stare at the ceiling, I idly study the patterns in the stucco. "It was probably the dumbest decision I ever made. I just wanted to feel like I was moving forward with my life; like I was rebuilding my family. Helen was gone, and I guess... I just can't make smart choices without her. I never do anything right."

"You're having a _baby,_ Carmen," Owen says with wonder in his voice. "You _are_ building a family! There is literally another person inside your body, and I'm totally jealous. You're not even close to being alone. There's going to be so much love and excitement in your life once your little one is born, that you won't even notice that Grayson is gone."

"Thanks," I say sleepily, letting my eyelids drift closed. My hands gently caress my swollen belly. "I hope so."

"And you have plenty of family that's already here for you," Owen adds. "I'm pretty sure Liam's going to marry your sister, so you're going to gain a brother. I know he might seem like a jerk today, but Liam is really the best guy that I know. And me! While your sister's unconscious, you can just consider me your annoying older brother. I promise to try to irritate you as much as I can so you can be sure that I secretly care."

Cracking one eye open, I peek at Owen curiously. My smile grows a little larger. "Thanks," I tell him again softly. My judgment might be severely clouded from sleep deprivation, but Owen could be the sweetest guy I've ever met. Being around him eases the pain of my loss, and it even makes the frightening voices in my head go quiet. For the first time all day, I feel calm.

"But I will stop annoying you for now," Owen adds, "because you need to sleep."

"Talking is nice too," I say with a yawn. "Keep telling me things. I like the sound of your voice. Just forgive me if I stop responding, because I might pass out."

"Okay," he says happily. "Maybe just a few more sentences..."

# Chapter Twelve

#

A shrill ringing pierces my eardrums, and I snap awake.

Sitting up, I groan and place my palm against my forehead as I try to get a feel for my surroundings. I am startled to discover that I'm not at home, and I have no clue where my phone is. Seeing a man lying a few feet away on a couch, I am able to gather my senses. Reaching toward the night table, I madly fumble in my purse for my phone. I don't know what time it is, and whether it's appropriate to call at this hour, so I'm not sure if I have a right to be upset at the disturbance. I manage to be annoyed anyway.

It's impossible to find my phone in the cavernous void that is my handbag, and I growl at the designer accessory in frustration. It is probably my dad calling to let me know that Helen is awake again. Or it could be Liam. Or the hospital. When my hand closes around the cool exterior of my phone, I sigh in relief and quickly answer before I have even pulled it out of my purse.

"Hello?" I say groggily into the little box.

"Carmen," says the voice on the other end of the line. The connection sounds strangely filled with static. "Thank God, I finally got a signal."

"Who is this?" I ask as I brush my hand through my hair. "Liam?"

"No, Carm. Don't you recognize my voice? It's Grayson."

I pause. My body stiffens.

"Hello? Can you hear me? I think the call is breaking up. Hello? Carm?"

I wonder if this is some kind of sick joke. I feel frozen and immobilized by dread. I close my eyes tightly before responding. "Yes... I—I'm here."

"Good. I've been trying to get a hold of you for hours. I'm a little disappointed in you, Carm."

"Disappointed?"

"You were supposed to deliver your sister to me. It was the only thing I asked of you."

"I would never do that," I hiss. "My husband would never ask me to. I don't know who or what you are, but you're not Grayson."

"I am, Carm. And I can't leave you alone until my need is fulfilled. I needed her to be complete. Now I'm going to have to take someone else you care about. I'm going to have to punish you."

"This isn't happening," I say shakily. I look over to Owen who's still soundly asleep. "You're not real."

"I am real. And if I can't have Helen, I'm going to take our baby instead. I'm going to take the soul of our unborn child. You won't miss her, will you? How can you miss someone you've never even met?"

Cupping my stomach protectively, I shudder. "You can't take her. You'll never take her."

"I already have. I have taken her fragile little spirit. She's here with me now."

"What?" I press my hand harder against my stomach, trying to feel the baby moving. There is nothing, and I find my heart pumping fiercely. "No. Where is she? Gray! Don't you dare hurt my baby. Where are you calling me from?"

"Isn't it obvious?" he whispers. "I'm calling from hell."

Flames and heat suddenly engulf the room, and I find myself screaming and holding my stomach in terror. I lower my head and shield my baby from the fire, gasping and crying. Smoke fills my nostrils as I breathe, singeing my nose hairs and scalding my lungs. I feel like I am being smothered.

"Carmen!" Owen says in surprise. "Hey! What's wrong?"

The blazing inferno instantly subsides with the sound of his voice, and I open my eyes. I had been dreaming. My hands are still wrapped around my stomach, and I tighten them defensively. I take several deep breaths to try and soothe the pounding of my heart.

"My husband," I whisper breathlessly. "He said he was going to hurt my baby."

"It's not real," Owen says soothingly, getting off the couch and moving over to sit on the side of the bed. "Just a nightmare. Your baby is perfectly fine."

"Is she?" I demand as I frantically feel my belly. "I can't feel her moving. I can't feel her! What if she's gone? What if she's just dead inside me?" I lower my head and my voice breaks. "Everyone close to me just dies or disappears."

"She's fine, Carmen," Owen says, putting a hand on my arm to calm me down. "She's probably just sleeping."

"Something isn't right," I say tearfully. "I can feel it. She's not okay."

"Sure she is," Owen says gently. "You just had a really bad dream. Your baby is probably just as exhausted as you are. She can feel all your emotions, you know? You've been through some pretty rough ones. She spends around 95% of her day sleeping anyway, and you won't be able to feel her moving during that time. I guarantee that she's also having better dreams than you are."

"Are you sure?" I ask hoarsely.

"Yep. We're close to the hospital, so we can always get you checked out to make sure. But I'm a doctor, remember? I know some things."

I run both of my hands over my forehead anxiously, combing back my blonde hair. My wrists collect a bit of dampness that has gathered at my temples from the upsetting dream. "I can't do this," I whisper. "I can't be a mother. I'm just a mess. I can't do this alone. My baby deserves better than me."

"You're going to be fine," Owen tells me softly. His hand rests tenderly on my stomach, and he caresses the curve. "Lily is excited to meet you. She thinks her mom is one super cool lady."

"Lizzie," I correct with a sniffle.

"She also thinks that goofy doctor guy you've been hanging out with is awesome," Owen says with his signature carefree smile. "She thinks you should spend more time with him."

A laugh escapes my throat. "Does she now?"

"Definitely," Owen says with a solemn nod. "You've got a really great kid growing inside you, Carmen. She's also an excellent judge of character. You should be proud! Soon, you'll be able to do all kinds of fun things with her. Take her out for ice cream, amusement parks, Disneyland..."

"Shopping," I add with a smile.

"Absolutely," Owen says. "Or if she ends up hating all of that stuff, she could always just play laser tag with Uncle Owen instead. I think Lily's going to enjoy crushing everyone in laser tag."

" _Lizzie_ is going to enjoy reading and competitive sports," I inform him. "Probably gymnastics or ballet."

"Then she could always have Uncle Liam teach her judo—or hang out with Auntie Helen the writer. See? She's going to grow up with tons of people who love her!" Owen sends me a mischievous little grin. "But trust me, above everything, she's going to love laser tag best."

"I've never actually played laser tag," I tell Owen softly.

"Then we'll have to go sometime!" he says with enthusiasm. "After Lily is born, of course. You're not going to be able to escape my rapid-fire death rays with that huge baby bump. You're a colossal target that even an eight-year-old could hit."

"Thanks," I tell Owen glumly, but there is a smile in my eyes. I lift a hand to conceal a yawn. "What time is it?"

"Not time for you to get up yet," he responds. "You only slept for about an hour. By the way, Liam called me just before you woke up. He said that Helen was awake and he was going over to talk to her. I didn't expect the drugs to wear off so soon, but I guess he was fighting them pretty hard. I should have used a stronger dose."

I realize that the ringing of Liam calling was what I had heard in my dream. "We should go check on Helen, too," I say, struggling to get up. "I have to talk to her about Grayson."

"Not yet, you don't," Owen scolds me. "You need to sleep. Your sister probably hasn't regained her memories yet, so there's no use in standing around and waiting until she does. Liam will look after her, and your dad should be awake soon, if he isn't already."

"Okay," I say hesitantly. I am still really tired, so I don't need much convincing to lay my head back down on the pillow. I release a sigh. "Thanks for cheering me up, Owen. I'm glad you're here."

"Glad to be of service, my lady," he says gallantly, before standing up and moving back over to the couch.

I close my eyes and listen to the peaceful silence of the hotel room.

_Are you really going to listen to that fool?_ Grayson asks me derisively. _You know deep in your heart that something's wrong._

My eyes snap open again. That goddamned voice won't leave me alone! I prop myself up onto my elbows and look over to the couch anxiously. "Owen?" I ask timidly. I am surprised at the shyness in my own voice. I am usually beyond bold when speaking to men.

"Yep?" he responds in his chipper way.

"Do you want to come sleep on the bed with me?" I ask softly.

He seems reluctant for a moment and like he is about to say something, but then he thinks better of it and closes his lips tightly. A flutter of indecision and worry dances across his face.

"You don't have to," I tell him quickly. "Don't worry about it."

"No, no," he says, slowly standing up from the couch. "I just... are you sure?"

I lower myself back onto the bed and close my eyes tightly, taking a deep breath to assuage my humiliation. I shouldn't have asked. I barely know this man, and it's totally inappropriate. Up until yesterday, I was married, and it seems like I have lost all concept of how to interact with men.

I feel the bed sink, and I am surprised to find Owen lowering himself down beside me. He nestles against my side comfortably, and wraps an arm around me. I relax against him, and exhale in relief. Somehow, I know that Grayson's voice and the nightmares won't dare to bother me when Owen is close. I breathe in, and inhale the subtle scent of his skin. It's nothing like Grayson's cologne. He smells like antique wood and pine needles—freshly cut grass in the morning. I am transported in my mind to the little river near my house, and I feel peaceful. I can remember the soft green carpet between my toes as I walk barefoot through the thick fog.

Owen's fingers gently interlace with mine, and I feel his lips press against my forehead.

For the first time since seeing my husband's body, I have hope that everything's going to be okay. Maybe even better than okay. I don't remember feeling this safe even when my husband was alive. I loved Grayson, but he was not always as sensitive or kind as he could have been. I also feel like I have smiled more in the past few hours with Owen than I have in the last few months. Maybe I can actually move past this tragedy, and step out of the wreckage unscathed.

Maybe the worst of disasters only happen to us so that we can grow and make room for better people and experiences to enter our hearts.

# Chapter Thirteen

#

I am woken up by the divine and unmistakable smell of bacon. Cracking one eye open, I observe Owen holding a neatly arranged plate of food quite close to me, and wafting the aroma toward my nose.

Smiling sleepily, I shift in bed and stretch. "How long was I out?"

"Fourteen hours," Owen says with a grin. "Looks like your body really needed that. You know what else it needs? Some thick, juicy sausage. But they only had bacon downstairs."

A smile quirks at my lips. "That does look delicious," I say, hungrily gazing at the plate. My mouth begins to water, and I can taste my stale morning breath. Lifting a hand to my lips in embarrassment, I try to conceal the foul aroma. "I just wish I could brush my teeth first."

Owen stuffs his hand into the pocket of his jacket and pulls out a small travel-sized toothbrush and tube of toothpaste. "Anything the lady wishes," he says cheerfully.

I look up at him in surprise. "You're kind of wonderful, Owen. Did you know that?" I reach out to accept the package gratefully as I look into his blue eyes. "Somehow, you manage to be caring, charming, and comical all at the same time."

"I aim to please," he responds with an exaggerated bow. "Now hurry up and brush those pearly whites before the bacon gets cold. Or I might eat it all myself."

"Yes, sir," I say playfully as I toss the blankets off my legs. I don't recall getting under the blankets, as I was too tired to even manage that. Owen must have covered me at some point during the night. This brings a sentimental smile to my lips. He is still wearing that infernal pink scarf, but I'm actually growing quite fond of the sight, against my better judgment. I hold my stomach as I slowly rise to my feet, and Owen offers me a helping hand. Pain shoots through my abdomen and makes me wince.

"Do you have any news about my sister?" I ask him as I move to the hotel bathroom. I need to pee fiercely, and I feel like my bladder is about to burst. I hadn't noticed this when I was lying down, but now that I am standing, the discomfort is unbearable. Still, I need information more than I need to relieve myself. I am also determined not to seem like a desperate pregnant woman constantly rushing for the toilet. I had to go so many times earlier at the hospital, and it was embarrassing.

"She's slowly waking up and getting stronger, but she hasn't regained any of her memories yet," Owen tells me sadly. "I'm sorry, Carmen. It's been over 24 hours; the doctors were wrong about the timeframe for her confusion to go away. She doesn't even remember her dog! Liam has been reading _Blind Rage_ to her from his Kindle and she doesn't know the story. She did praise the quality of writing though," Owen says with a chuckle. "Anyway, your dad and Liam are with her and they're trying to gently chat with her to jog her memory."

"I'm sure they're thrilled that she doesn't remember what they did," I say as I squeeze some toothpaste onto my toothbrush. "That's convenient."

"They're not like that—" Owen begins, but he is interrupted by a ringing sound. "Hey, Carmen? I think that's your phone."

I pause with the toothbrush halfway toward my lips. Placing it down, I move back into the room and retrieve my phone from my purse. It is an unknown number, and I am a little nervous to answer it after my nightmare. The last thing I need is another creepy conversation with my undead husband. However, it could be something urgent about Helen, so I bite the bullet and answer the call.

"Hello?" I say hesitantly into the phone.

"Good morning, Carm. It's Brad."

"Oh," I mumble, relieved that it's an actual person and not my mind playing tricks on me. "What's up?"

"I wanted you to know that I've been making phone calls and carrying out Grayson's final wishes. I got some time off work this weekend and I intend to fly to Detroit on Saturday to bring the ashes to his mother."

"Saturday?" I repeat in confusion. My bladder is still nagging at me, and it's hard to concentrate.

"It was difficult to find a funeral home that would perform the cremation on such short notice," Brad explains. "They're really booked solid. Apparently, a lot of people are dying all the time in New York City. You never really think about it until you need their services, but those places make a _ton_ of money. Anyway, I have the cremation scheduled for Friday."

"Friday?" I say anxiously, pulling the phone away from my face to check date on my phone. "No! Are you kidding me? That's tomorrow, Brad. It's too soon. Aren't we going to have a funeral for him first?"

"They offered to arrange a viewing for the body tonight, but I didn't think that it was really important. Who would we even invite to a funeral? Grayson didn't have many friends."

"It's important to _me,_ " I say in frustration. "He's my husband. Didn't you think I'd want to say goodbye and see his body one last time before you burnt him to ashes?"

"I'm sorry, Carm. Look, I'll call them right back and tell them to arrange the viewing for 6 p.m. tonight. Do you think you can get home by that time?"

"No," I tell him miserably. "My sister is in the hospital, remember? I need to stay close by so I can be here for her. Can you just push it back by a few days?"

"I can't take the time off work," Brad says sadly. "Dammit, Carm. My boss drives me like a workhorse, and it's super competitive. Getting my promotion is directly related to my billable hours. I usually even work on the weekends."

"Then just let me take the ashes to Detroit," I tell him desperately. "You don't need to take the time off work at all. Just let me."

"I can't do that. You know that Grayson entrusted me with this task. It's my duty," Brad says firmly. "Besides, the body won't stay in perfect condition for a viewing for very much longer. If you want to see Grayson still looking and smelling like Grayson, then tonight is your best chance."

"Fine," I say, lowering my head in defeat. "Arrange the viewing for 6 p.m. tonight. Text me the address. I'll be there. Invite all of his friends, family, and co-workers that you knew, and I'll invite the ones that I know."

"Great," Brad says with confidence. "I'll see you then. Maybe we can go for drinks afterward?"

A deep sigh escapes my lips. "I'm still pregnant, Brad. I can't drink, remember?"

"Dinner, then. I've got to go now, Carm. My boss is screaming at me. See you later!"

The line goes dead.

I am left staring at my cell phone in disbelief, my eyes flashing with anger. "How could he do this to me? Fucking asshole!"

"What's going on?" Owen asks with concern.

I draw in a shuddering breath and my chest heaves furiously. I still need to pee badly, but I am so angry now that I can easily ignore the pain. "My husband's best friend—he decided that he's having Grayson cremated _tomorrow_."

"It's nice of him to help with making arrangements," Owen points out. "He lost a friend, too. It's probably really difficult for him to do this."

Shaking my head, I look at Owen hopelessly. "But he took over all the planning and screwed me over. I have to get home tonight if I want to see my husband's body one last time."

"I'll drive you," Owen says instantly. "Let's leave now. You can take your breakfast along and eat it in the car while we head back."

"Really?" I ask skeptically. "But what about Liam and Helen? Don't you want to stick around to be here for your friend? And I need to talk to my sister once she regains her memories. And my dad needs me..."

"Just relax," Owen says gently. "They'll all be fine without us. Liam thinks that Helen losing her memories is only partially related to the brain trauma. He believes it's emotional or psychological, so it could take a while for her to remember everything. Weeks, even. He has a plan to be extra sensitive and nurturing to her until she's in perfect health again."

"But she doesn't remember him. Wouldn't it be better if she was surrounded by people she knows? Like me?"

"She has your father," Owen assures me. "And we could come back to see her right after the funeral. At any rate, I should probably get back to the city so I can cover Liam's shifts at work. That way, he can stay here with Helen and not worry. We should definitely drive back. It's no problem at all."

"Are you sure?" I say hesitantly. My decision making is clouded by the pain in my abdomen, and I'm having a difficult time being logical.

"Yep," Owen says with a decisive nod. "On the day I met your sister, I ended up having to do a much longer impromptu road trip with her. I guess it's just something about you Winters women. Always somewhere to be!"

"That's right," I murmur holding my stomach. "You drove her home to my wedding."

Owen nods sadly.

I look down at the hotel carpet for a moment before shaking my head. "Sorry for wasting your time," I say bitterly. "Once she saw who I was marrying, she didn't even attend the ceremony. I guess she knew the marriage was going to be a joke."

"It wasn't a joke," Owen tells me. "It was a really brave thing to do. You were trying to make a life for yourself."

"Sure," I mumble, grabbing my purse and stumbling back to the bathroom. "I'm going to freshen up."

"Once you're finished, we'll pop over to the hospital and check on Helen one last time, say goodbye to the men, and head back to New York."

"Alright," I say with a sigh, moving into the bathroom and shutting the door. I lean against the wall and wrap my arms around my stomach. For a moment, I just stand here. I am shaking slightly and unsure of why; is it the physical discomfort? The emotional stress? I push it aside and try to move forward, throwing my purse onto the countertop beside the sink.

I just need to get on with my day.

# Chapter Fourteen

#

"I am sorry that I'm going to miss Grayson's funeral," Dad says to me as we stand outside Helen's hospital room. "I just really don't want to leave your sister right now."

"Of course," I say quietly, crossing my arms under my chest. "I still can't believe Brad scheduled it for _today._ This was such short notice that _I_ nearly missed it."

"He's just trying to do the best he can, sweetheart. None of us expected this to happen." My father sighs, and his face looks worn and weary. "I do wish he'd waited a few days until Helen was discharged so that we could all drive home together."

"No," Liam says firmly. "I don't think she should return to New York right away. She was never really comfortable in the busy city. Helen had just purchased a small cabin in the mountains nearby, and she was in the process of driving there to escape for some peace and quiet when she crashed. Maybe I should take her there for a few days, so we can unwind and relax with Snowball. Just until she feels better and gets her memories back?"

My dad looks concerned. "I don't know, Liam. She doesn't even know who you are. Shouldn't she be home with me and Carmen right now? I feel like I shouldn't let her out of my sight again."

"Liam has a point, Mr. Winters," Owen chimes in. "Helen always seemed happier in solitude, surrounded by nature. Maybe the cabin, and a simple, rustic life could be just what she needs for the time being. Besides, if she regains her memories while at home, she might become upset and try to run away again. That wouldn't be good for her health."

I place my hand gently on my father's arm. "They might be right, Dad," I tell him quietly. "As much as I want my sister to come home, it might be better for her to stay in the countryside with Liam."

Liam looks at my father pleadingly. "It would mean a lot to me, sir. There is a chance that Helen could never remember me, and if not—it's important that I spend time with her now so that she gets to know me again. And our dog."

"Okay, Liam," my dad says with a sigh. "I'll let you keep looking after my little girl once they release her. But until then, I'm staying here and watching her like a hawk."

"Thank you so much, sir," Liam says with relief. "I promise I'll take care of her and bring her home soon."

Stepping away from the men, I move to grasp the doorknob of Helen's hospital room. "If you'll all excuse me, I want to have a few minutes alone with my sister," I tell them. Moving into the room, I am pleased to see that Helen is sitting up in bed and cuddling with an adorable white puppy. Her eyes are closed and she is using her hands to comb the puppy's fur. A smile takes over my features. "This must be the infamous Snowball," I murmur. "How are you doing, Hellie?"

"Carm," Helen says, looking up toward my voice. "I'm great. Have the men finished deciding my fate?"

"Yes. Liam's going to take you to relax in the mountains until you recover."

"That sounds nice," she says softly. "I must have a pretty awesome boyfriend, right? He got me this wonderful little dog, and even lied about her so they would let her into the hospital. He said Snowball was a certified therapy dog, but she isn't. Wasn't that sweet of him? And Snowball is doing a great job of going undercover!"

Moving over to the bed to pet the puppy, I am met with an excited wet tongue that makes me giggle. "Liam does seem like a really great guy," I tell my sister. "He's also incredibly hot."

"Is he?" Helen says in wonder. "He did an operation to help me see, but my vision isn't quite so clear, so he's going to have to do another. Then I can determine how hot he is! I can see the bright lights of the hospital and the general shapes of people and things—which was shocking enough—but Liam said I don't have any vision at night or in dim lighting conditions. That's apparently why I crashed my car. I feel like an idiot, but it's nice to know that I was able to drive at all."

"It really is wonderful," I tell her, sitting down on the side of her bed. She seems so happy and excited. I don't think I've seen her like this in years. Maybe forgetting really was just what she needed.

"I can't believe I even wrote a few novels, Carm! I mean, I've always wanted to, but to know that I have... and they're actually pretty good!" Helen sighs with contentment. "I think I'm even glad that I lost my memory. I get to read my books from a fresh point of view, and be surprised at the endings all over again. How many authors can ever say that?"

"Not many," I respond gently. "I'm glad that you're so cheerful, Hellie."

She smiles brightly at me. "It just seems like so many amazing things have happened in the past three years. A few terrible things too, but mostly it appears that my life is great. I graduated from college, have the job I always wanted, an amazing boyfriend, and the sweetest little puppy ever. What more could anyone ask for?"

I bite my lip to keep from telling her that she never actually graduated from college. Looking down at Snowball, I feel a bit of melancholy creep up on me. "It's funny," I say softly. "This is the most that you and I have actually talked in years. Maybe it's my fault. Maybe I was never really willing to listen."

"We haven't been talking?" Helen asks in confusion. "Why not?

"I don't know, sis. Life got in the way. My husband was—"

"Your husband!?" Helen exclaims, and her face lights up. "I didn't know you had gotten married! That's so wonderful, Carm. God, I'm so happy for you! What's he like?"

I am frozen and unable to respond. My mouth moves, but no sound comes out. I stare at my sister's cheerful face, unsure of what to tell her. I don't want to lie, but...

"Who did you marry? Was it Daniel? He was such a gentleman." Helen sighs happily, hugging her puppy closer against her chest. "Gosh, Carm. I was always worried you wouldn't find someone worthy. You deserve the best after all those douchebags you dated."

"It wasn't Daniel," I say softly.

"Oh, I'm so sorry. My missing years are making me sound like a moron. Is he nice? I can't wait to meet him. What's his name?"

"Grayson," I whisper softly. Turning away from her, I find myself staring into space. I can't bear to look at the naivety on Helen's face.

"That's right—you were asking me some questions about someone named Grayson before. I don't remember..." Helen trails off thoughtfully. "I'm sorry I don't know more, Carm. I must seem so useless. But maybe you can help me fill in the gaps. Are there any other important events I'm missing?"

I turn back to her sadly. She seems like an entirely different person. If only she knew all the things she'd forgotten, she wouldn't be quite so upbeat. "Yes," I tell her, reaching out to take her wrist. I guide her hand toward my stomach and place it on the convex surface. "You're going to be an aunt in a few months."

Helen's eyes snap open wide. "Oh my god, Carm!" she says in amazement. Tears instantly gather at her lashes. "You're going to have a baby," she whispers. Her expression darkens and her face grows distorted. "How could I be missing all of this? And you said we're not even talking? That doesn't make sense. We've always been so close. What the hell is wrong with me? What could have happened to drive us apart? Please promise me we won't be distant anymore. I couldn't bear it. You're my best friend."

I tighten my grip on Helen's hand, and my own eyes are prickled by tears. It's been so long since she's called me that. Hearing her say it warms my heart in a way that I couldn't have expected. I didn't even realize how desperately I'd missed her. Leaning forward and throwing my arms around my sister's shoulders, I gently gather her into a tight hug. "I promise," I tell her earnestly. "From now on, we'll be as close as we used to be. We'll tell each other everything. I have to rush home for an emergency, but I'll be back as soon as I can. Until then, please feel free to text or call me anytime, okay?"

"Okay," Helen says with a sniffle. "I'm so proud of you, Carm. I'm so happy for you."

"I'm proud of you, little sis," I tell her lightly. I have an urge to ruffle her hair with a major noogie, but the bandage over her head and the severity of her injury stops me. I must be content with simply squeezing her shoulder. Snowball yips happily, sending me friendly, canine smile of approval. Strangely, the sparkling energy of the pup reminds me a little of Owen.

I stand up and move to leave, but then I hesitate. "Hellie? Just one more thing. Even though Liam is a super-stud and totally gorgeous, can you please be careful around him? There may be some things he's not telling you. I don't know the whole story, so I won't interfere, but it seems like he's made some massive mistakes recently. Mistakes you don't remember. I think he's going to try to take advantage of that. Men always do."

"We all make mistakes," Helen says quietly, circling her fingers in Snowball's fur. "Whatever it is, I'm prepared to forgive him. Nearly dying will do that to you," she says with a sad smile. "I've only been around Liam for a few hours, but I know that he cares. I know that he knows me. I've never had that before, and it's kind of crazy to just wake up one day and find the perfect guy by your side, confessing his undying love. But I'm not going to ruin this with being skeptical and suspicious, Carm. I want a family, too. I want to be happy, like you are."

I flinch at her assumption. Lifting a hand to my hair, I comb back the limp blonde tendrils. "I hope it all works out for you, Hellie, but please be careful. It's really important to choose the right man. Trust me! You need time to get to know Liam; you can't jump right in to something like this without having _all_ the necessary information."

"I know," Helen says, sending me a kind smile, "but trust _me,_ Carm. Whatever he's done, I'll accept and understand. I've always wanted someone to call my own, and I can't believe I have that. Life is too short to hold a grudge, and we need to treasure all the love we can find."

I swallow down a lump of emotion. She sounds as foolishly trusting as I did when she tried to warn me on my wedding day. Her innocence is like a slap in my face. "Okay, sweetie. Just be wise. Don't make a commitment to a future with him before you can fully understand your past."

# Chapter Fifteen

#

"Helen seemed really positive," Owen comments as he drives out of the hospital parking lot. "Like, unusually positive. I think she's going to make a full recovery."

"That girl wasn't my sister," I murmur as I gaze out the window of Owen's beat-up old car. "She wasn't bitter or sarcastic or anything. I hope the brain damage won't change who she is."

"Hey, that's not fair. Maybe Helen would be cheerful like that more often if such bad things hadn't happened to her," Owen says as he accelerates to the maximum speed of the road.

I frown at this. "I knew Helen before anything bad had ever happened to her. She was always a really sharp and serious girl. She was never so blindly optimistic."

Owen shrugs. "But things were missing from her life back then. Her vision, a boyfriend, a furry friend. Now she's woken up to a whole new world where she suddenly has these things. And they've been dumped on her. She didn't have to go through the slow struggle of acquiring them one by one. Can you blame her for being a little overwhelmed with happiness?"

"I guess not," I say softly, running my hands over the worn seat cushions of the car. It reminds me of Grayson's old Chevy truck, right down to the smell. The nostalgia and longing hit me so hard that it hurts my chest.

"Anyway, she'll be back to her old self in no time," Owen says with a smile. "Liam's idea of taking her to the cabin to recuperate was perfect. He's such a big softie."

"It is rather romantic," I agree with frustration. "I just wish I could have talked to her about Grayson. Or dad's declining health. Or anything serious at all." I comb my hands over my thighs anxiously.

"Look here, Carmelita. Little sis is jacked up on painkillers. You're just lucky she wasn't seeing purple elephants."

This time, his flippant manner isn't enough to make me smile. I turn to Owen, gazing at his profile. He has an aristocratic nose and powerful chin. Something about his proud facial structure reminds me of a raptor on the hunt. Even when he is being lighthearted, I am aware that there is something heavy lingering just below the surface. "Owen?" I ask softly. "Please tell me about the bad things that happened to my sister."

He clears his throat. "I usually prefer to talk about more pleasant subjects on long drives," he says, swiftly changing the subject. "For example, porn. I truly believe that internet porn is the greatest thing to happen to mankind since the industrial revolution."

"Owen, I'm not in the mood for jokes right now," I tell him firmly. "I just need to know. I drove all this way to see my sister, looking for answers, but I only have more questions. My husband just killed himself, out of the blue, and I don't even know why." Tears sting my eyes, and I take a deep breath. "Will you please be the first person who treats me like an adult, and just tell me what you know?"

He turns to look at me with an unreadable expression. "Are you sure you can handle this, Carmen?"

"Yes," I say with conviction. "Please?"

"Okay," he says hesitantly, with an erratic nod, "but it's not really my story to tell..."

"No one else will tell me, Owen. It has to be you."

"Fine," he says, with steel in his voice. "Three years ago, your husband cornered Helen on her school campus. He brutally raped her, beat her, and left her for dead. Is that what you wanted to know?"

I stare at him, unblinking.

"Grayson did that?" I ask when I can finally speak. I already know the answer, but I need to hear it again. "My Grayson?"

"Yes."

I am unable to breathe.

Images rush through my mind of my sister coming home with two black eyes, a bloody nose, and bruises all over her body. I remember trying to touch her arm and console her, but she had been utterly inconsolable. I thought it was a mugging. I remember Helen rushing to her room and locking herself inside for days, unwilling to talk about it. I remember sitting outside her door and begging her to let me take care of her. I remember Dr. Leslie Howard visiting my sister, and the look on her face as she left the house. I remember fear.

I remember trying to ask Dad for help. It had been shortly after mom's death, and he had been perpetually lost in a bottle of scotch. I remember struggling to pull myself together and go to school. It had been my final year, and I knew I needed to push through to the finish line. I remember my sister disappearing quietly one night, without a word. I remember waking up to find her computer and belongings gone. I remember calling relatives and her school friends, only to find that no one had any idea where Helen could be.

I remember being so miserable about losing my mother, and my sister's disappearance, that I barely passed final exams. I remember being so depressed, for so long, that my boyfriend Daniel finally broke up with me. I remember meeting Grayson shortly after that. I remember running into him several times, and feeling like it had been fate pushing us together. Either that, or he had been stalking me and trying to find my sister.

"Carmen?" Owen says with concern. "You're pale as a ghost. Are you okay?"

I realize that my hand is wrapped around the handle of his car door so tightly that my fingers have gone white. I wish I could deny this information, but I know that it's true. Grayson was often mildly violent even with me, and shockingly sexually aggressive. At first, sometimes, I was able to enjoy it, but there were times when it became somewhat frightening.

Like the times he refused to use a condom.

He had known that I needed to stop taking the pill for health reasons. But he could never just slow down and take a moment to be safe. He was always ruled by his passions, fierce and raw like a wild animal. It was what I had loved about him in the bedroom, but what I also grew to despise.

And he hurt my little sister.

I realize that I have gone from holding my breath to hyperventilating. I place a hand on my chest, and look down at my swollen abdomen. His baby. Fear, disgust, and loathing are burning through my insides and boiling up to my throat.

"Pull over," I say hoarsely. "I'm going to be sick."

# Chapter Sixteen

#

I have been leaning weakly against the window of Owen's car for the last half hour. I have been staring numbly at the passing scenery for dozens of miles, and trying not to think. Owen might have tried to talk to me after I threw up the bacon he had brought me for breakfast, but I was too dazed to hear him. We have been sitting in silence since then, with my mind racing.

"Carmen?" Owen says softly. "There's a sign for a restaurants up ahead. Do you want to stop and get something to eat?"

I am unable to respond. I just keep staring out the window.

"I shouldn't have told you," he says with remorse. "That was cruel and stupid. Now I've gone and hurt you."

"No," I manage to whisper.

"I should have let Helen tell you herself. I have no tact. I am so sorry..."

"She tried to tell me once," I say in a tired voice. "Before my wedding. I just shut my ears and wouldn't listen. I wouldn't let anything deter me from walking down the aisle that day. I'm a fool, Owen. I hurt myself, and I hurt my sister."

Owen clenches his jaw. "Carmen," he says with authority. "What is the thing you love most?"

I turn to look at him in confusion. I remember him asking me that question before, but I still don't know the answer.

He glances at me and sees the bafflement on my face. "What is it that you love doing?" he prods. "Tell me a little about yourself."

"Why? You already know everything you need to know. I'm a miserable dumb blonde."

"Stop that," he chides me. "I want to know what gives you peace. Helen had her writing. She survived what your husband did to her because she could escape into her stories. She could create her own worlds and control the outcomes. Do you have something like that?"

"I don't know," I mumble.

"What did you study?" he asks with determination. "What do you do?"

"I studied journalism," I say shyly. I know that he's a doctor, and this probably seems lame. "I had dreams of being a foreign correspondent, but my parents didn't want me to leave the country or go to dangerous places. Everyone always said I had a really bubbly personality, and that I'd make a great anchorwoman."

"You don't seem particularly bubbly today," Owen comments, "but considering the circumstances, you're about as bubbly as anyone could be."

This coaxes a tiny smile out of me. "I was advised by a counselor to do a double major in meteorology, and I was a weather broadcaster for a little while..."

" _That's_ where I know you from!" Owen exclaims in excitement, smacking his steering wheel. "It was bugging me. To quote a hilarious rom-com: 'You're that bitch from the news!'"

"That's me," I say wretchedly.

"You don't seem to like it much," Owen observes. "May I offer my personal opinion? Your face and body are much better suited to a lucrative career in porn." Owen nods seriously. "You're like, a twelve out of ten. Who even watches the weather? What's the big deal if you get wet? If you were in porn, you could make getting wet an art form. You could have studio lights illuminating places on your body where the sun don't shine, even on a cloudy day. _That's_ glamorous. Instead of warning people of a slim chance of showers, you could be dishing out golden showers and..."

A few small giggles escape my throat. "Okay, okay," I tell him with a wave of my hand. "You win. You got me to smile. But you can stop now: I'm not going to become a porn star, Owen."

"Aw, shucks," he says sadly. "I would have been your number one fan. But there must be something you really enjoy doing that isn't telling people the weather or having sex on camera?"

"I never said I didn't enjoy having sex on camera," I tell him coyly. "Just that I didn't want to do it professionally."

Owen turns to look at me in surprise, and the car swerves slightly out of the lane. He catches it and clears his throat in embarrassment.

I laugh softly at his response. "There's something really thrilling about watching yourself. Don't you think?"

A deep blush is staining Owen's cheeks, and it's delightful to think that I might be turning the tables and making _him_ uncomfortable. The mild flirtation is also making me smile and distracting me from my sadness. I can't resist glancing down to Owen's pants to see if I can detect visible signs of arousal.

"Can I share something super personal?" Owen asks. When I nod, he continues. "Something that takes up a lot of room in my collection—one of my favorite fetishes—is to watch pregnant women." He blushes even deeper. "It's a rare and exquisite sight. Especially as a doctor, I know that the female sex organs are engorged with blood and extra sensitive during pregnancy, so I like to believe that the woman is enjoying herself far more than she possibly could otherwise. It's like her pleasure is almost supernatural."

"It _is_ supernatural," I say in confirmation. "Some of the best sex I've ever had..." I trail off in horror, abruptly realizing the man in my memories is now dead. Only a few days ago, he was making love to me; holding me. Now, I am driving home to attend his funeral.

"It's even healthy for the baby," Owen adds happily. "Did you know that sex can lower your blood pressure? That can help avoid a lot of complications in pregnancy. Also, pregnant women can have many more orgasms, and even _multiple_ orgasms, far more easily—the hormone rush is good for you emotionally, and the baby will also experience the euphoria. There are virtually no downsides. The muscle stimulation also increases postpartum recovery... Carmen?"

I realize that I've been gripping the door handle tightly again. "He's gone," I say dazedly. "My husband is gone."

"Oh, no. I'm so sorry. I didn't want to remind you of anything bad. I was just trying to cheer you up."

"I know," I tell him softly, lowering my chin. "I don't care what he did, Owen. He was a world-class bastard, that's for sure. But I loved him. I needed him. Who's going to be there now? Who's going to have all that amazing pregnancy-sex with my fat, disgusting body now?"

Owen pulls the car over into the shoulder again and hits the emergency lights before reaching over to pull me into a giant hug.

"I think you know the answer to that last question, Carmelos. Absolutely anyone on earth would have you, because you aren't fat or disgusting. You're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen. And trust me, I've seen a lot of beautiful women; sometimes I just sit and watch The Playboy Channel all day."

He manages to make me smile through my tears as I bury my face into his sweater—and his obscene pink scarf. I feel Owen's arms slide around my body and encircle me, and one of his hands drifts comfortingly up and down my back.

"And as for who's going to be there?" he adds. "Well, I am. And probably a shit-ton of other people, but I can't speak for them. I'm going to be there for you, Carm. I know it sound stupid, because we just met and all—but I'm serious. Call me anytime, day or night, and I'll be there as soon as I can."

"Thanks, Owen."

"You don't need my dirty jokes right now," he says seriously. "I can distract you temporarily and make you smile, but it's not really going to help you heal. Your wounds are too deep. What you need is to do something for yourself. So I'm going to ask you again: what is the thing you love most?"

"I guess," I mumble. "It's kind of silly, but I do have a fashion blog."

"A fashion blog?" Owen asks, pressing for more information.

"I understand clothing." Hesitating, I look down to hide my embarrassment. "I don't know how to explain it, exactly—I just see what people mean to say when they put on an article of clothing. I see sentences in every color and texture. It's my art form."

"Give me an example," Owen requests.

Snuggling closer to him, I lift my hand to finger the soft woolen fabric around his neck. "Your scarf," I whisper. "I can see its true meaning. You lied to me earlier. You're not wearing the scarf to distract others. You're wearing it to hide yourself. It's a disguise—a costume. You put it on and you get into character. You are suddenly this cheerful, bright, and vibrant man; no one can see how terrified you are on the inside."

He pulls away slightly, looking at me in appraisal.

"It's the same reason you like to talk about porn," I add, getting braver. "You want to appear bold and fearless in social situations. You're actually quite shy and used to being alone. Maybe you were an only child? Or maybe you came from a larger family, and your siblings and parents never really paid you much attention? Either way, you're uncomfortable around people and you try to compensate by being extra-hilarious. It makes you feel good to see people smile. It makes you think that they are warming up to you, building a connection with you, and that they'll think of you fondly later. Then you wonder why they just seem to forget you anyway."

Owen's brow creases. "Go on," he encourages.

I slowly trace the silver zippers of his leather jacket. "There's something deeply wrong in your personal life that's making you unhappy. Nothing too terrible, like serious money problems or abuse, but a slow-burn sort of sadness and dissatisfaction. It's been building up for years. I can tell this from your heavy leather jacket, belt, and shoes." I let my fingertip glide over his belt buckle. "I figure you chose them in a rush when Liam called you and told you about Helen's accident. You knew you needed to be there for your friend, so you dressed for war. You wore these shields everywhere, not to protect yourself from harm, but to protect Liam. You didn't want any of your own depression getting out and making things harder on your friend. You wanted to keep it all bottled up, so you could be strong. So you could be entirely focused on Helen, and appear optimistic and hopeful. But when you go home and take off that scarf, and all that leather, you're going to feel vastly empty and alone. Because you're still missing something."

"Wow," Owen says quietly. "You're like a fortune-teller. But instead of reading my palm, you read my wardrobe. How do you know all this?"

"It's just an intuition I've always had. I've never really liked fashion magazines or runway shows, but I do like sitting at a café and watching normal people walk by in their everyday clothes. I imagined I could tell who was happy, and who was contemplating suicide from a mere glance at their ensemble. There is immense information encrypted in all those tightly woven threads. But it's not foolproof. I obviously couldn't even tell with my own husband."

"Can you access your blog on your phone?" Owen asks me.

I nod. "Of course."

"Write something in it," Owen commands.

"Now?"

"Yes. Thinking about this will get your mind off things. This is a special kind of knowledge that is unique to you, and you should explore it. Write a blog entry while I drive to New York."

I reach for my phone and use my thumb to scan across the screen and pull up the app for my blog. "Um, I suppose I could write something about being a new widow and the tradition of wearing black..."

"Nope. I want you to get your mind off things, not focus on them more."

"Okay. There's another idea that's been in my head for a while," I say thoughtfully. "I could write about maternity fashion—how clothes demonstrate how you feel about your baby. How certain shapes and colors serve to conceal the baby bump, indicating shame or stress, instead of drawing attention to it and celebrating new motherhood with pride and excitement."

"There. Do that."

"Alright, alright. I will. You can stop bossing me around now, Sergeant Owen."

"I can tell that you love it, Private."

# Chapter Seventeen

#

"...with an empire waistline that calls to mind eighteenth-century French luxury, while proudly enhancing the contours of your baby bump. Even if money is tight, one glimpse of your elegant silhouette in this classic style will have you feeling like the wealthy empress it suggests. We've already discussed bras, but when it comes to underwear, you have only two options: giant, loose-fitting, cotton granny panties or nothing at all. Anything in between will be a waste of your money and end up in the trash bin. Comfort always comes first, and style second. Consider these tips when choosing maternity clothes, and you will be sure to keep your mood elevated throughout those final months of heaviness and feeling not quite like yourself. The right wardrobe is essential to skating through even the most difficult pregnancy with ease."

"Really impressive," Owen comments. He has been slowly driving the final few miles to my house while listening to me read aloud. "I can see that strong writing runs in the family."

"Do you really think so?" I ask him nervously. "I just threw this together spontaneously. Usually, I make notes and do a lot more research. It was also really challenging to add photos from my phone..."

"I have no idea what you're talking about for the most part, but I can see that you know your stuff. Women will love reading those tips. Or clueless husbands, looking to choose the right gifts." Owen sends me an approving smile. "When was the last time you posted in your blog?"

"February." I sigh as I scan through the dates. "It was before Grayson got sick. Before I had to quit my job to take care of him."

"You seem to really enjoy doing it," Owen observes. "You care a lot about every detail."

"I do. You were right. It was nice to focus on something else for a few minutes."

"You definitely have a knack for it," Owen says as he pulls into my driveway.

"I hope so. I can see why Helen found writing so therapeutic. When I was trying to choose the right words, I was so consumed by the task that nothing else mattered."

Owen puts the car in park and looks at me squarely. "Promise me that you'll remember this technique. Whenever you feel yourself losing control, this is what you need to do. Block everything else out, and take a moment to write in your blog. It'll help."

"How do you know all this?" I ask him curiously.

"I lost someone close to me once," he says simply, with a distant look in his blue eyes. "Do you need a ride to the funeral home later? Would you like my company?"

"That would be nice," I tell him softly, reaching out to squeeze his hand. "Thank you for everything, Owen. I mean it. I would have been losing my mind without you."

"It's no problem at all," he responds quietly. There is something incredibly sad about the way he's looking at me; some kind of infinite, fathomless understanding.

On an impulse, I lean forward to press my lips against his. My huge stomach nearly gets in the way as it collides with the gearshift, but I manage to land the kiss anyway. It is a faint and tentative peck on the lips, hardly anything scandalous, but Owen pulls away abruptly in surprise.

"Carmen," he whispers.

"I'm sorry," I tell him. "I just—" My words are cut off when he rips his seatbelt off and leans forward until his nose collides with mine. He slips his hand around the back of my head and drags me closer, forcing his mouth more firmly and purposefully against mine.

Owen's fingers entangle with the hair at the nape of my neck as his kiss knocks the breath out of me. His tongue darts between my lips, exploring my mouth with a bit of spicy sweetness. My heart begins pounding fiercely as I feel his hand grasping one of my generous breasts. His fingers knead the flesh until he coaxes a moan from my lips. I feel his teeth sink lightly into my bottom lip, gently biting and tugging. I grasp his leather jacket with both hands, dragging him closer to me for a deeper kiss, but Owen suddenly pulls away with a start.

He looks at me with fear in his eyes.

"What am I doing?" he asks himself miserably. He runs both hands through his hair. "Dammit, fuck. What am I doing?"

My face wrinkles in confusion. I am flushed and my breathing is heavy. "Is this because of my husband? Owen, I'm sorry. I know he just died and this looks bad—but I wasn't using you as a distraction or some sort of grief-stricken rebound thing—"

"Carmen, I have a girlfriend!"

I pause. "You _what?"_

"I thought I told you that yesterday! I even mentioned her name. Caroline! The reason I didn't become a gynecologist?"

"I thought..." I have to take a deep breath to calm myself down. Pressing a hand against my fluttering heart, I sink back into the passenger seat. "I thought that was years ago, when you were in med school. I didn't know you were still together!"

"How long ago do you think med school was?" Owen asks. "Do I seem that old? I only became a doctor last year. I haven't even had time to pay off my loans and buy a decent vehicle."

"God, I'm so stupid," I say, putting my head in my hands. "Why am I so stupid?"

"Besides," Owen adds, "I like to appreciate what I've got instead of moving on to the next thing like everyone else. I'm a one-woman type of guy."

"Then why did you sleep beside me last night?" I demand fiercely. "Cuddling me all close and being all romantic."

"I wasn't romantic!" Owen protests. "I was being a comforting older brother, remember?"

"And that kiss you just gave me? Was that being a comforting older brother?" I ask accusingly.

Owen hesitates. "Um. Well, perhaps _some_ brothers..."

"Oh, screw this," I mumble, grabbing my purse. "Don't worry about driving me to the funeral. I can take my own car." Reaching for the door handle, I unlock the door and push it open. I hold my stomach as I dismount from the vehicle and step onto the cobblestones of our driveway.

"Carmen, wait—"

"You can take your pink scarf and shove it up your ass," I inform him politely before slamming his car door. I walk away as briskly as my shaky legs will carry me.

I hear the car door open as Owen steps out of his vehicle. "Lily!" Owen calls out. "Or Lizzie! I'm speaking to you because your mom's being a bitch."

Pausing, I clench my fists, but I don't turn around.

"Those are both nice names, but I think that you should be called Grace," Owen says. "It sounds a little like your dad's name. Grays-on. I think it means something like purity or virtue. Like whatever bad things happened before don't mean anything. You're above it all, and you get a fresh start."

I swallow down a lump of emotion in my throat. As much as I want to hate Owen, it's difficult when he's being such a sweetheart. I glance back over my shoulder, and glare daggers into his woeful blue eyes. "My daughter's name is none of your damn business!"

"I meant what I said, Carm," he vows earnestly. "I'll be here for you. Just call or text if you need me. I put my number in your phone as 'The Phenomenal Owen.'"

"Sure thing, _big brother,"_ I say sarcastically as I move toward my house.

"That was a lie I was telling myself to keep from tearing your clothes off," Owen explains. "I'm so sorry, Carm. I'm a bastard. If I was single, I'd jump your bones! I'd get on my knees and apologize and beg you to be mine. But I can't do any of those things, because I'm stuck in this relationship... will you forgive me?"

Jamming my key into the lock and furiously twisting it, I open the front door and step inside. I slam the door behind me before moving to punch in the alarm code into our security system. Once I have finished this, I lean against the wall and sigh.

_You thought you were going to get rid of me that easily?_ Grayson asks me. He begins laughing mockingly and loudly inside my head. _Poor Carmen._

Shutting my eyes tightly, I groan in frustration.

I really liked Owen. He was wise, sweet, attentive, and funny. Genuinely caring to everyone around him, even strangers. A passionate and skilled kisser, able to make my whole body tingle with barely a touch. He made me feel peaceful and untroubled. I wanted to see him again.

But it was too good to be true.

How is this possible? My husband's only been dead for a day, and I already managed to get my heart broken. Am I already back to being my miserable self, and having one pathetic misadventure after the next due to my terrible intuition with men?

I really hate being single.

# Chapter Eighteen

#

I am an hour late for my own husband's funeral, but I don't really care.

As I move through the building, following the signs to Grayson's viewing, my high heels echo in the empty funeral home. There wasn't enough notice for any friends or family to attend, so I'm not expected to play the role of the grieving widow on display. I just need to say one final goodbye—for myself. Maybe once I do that, I can finally let go of him, and stop the voices in my head. I decided to take the few hours before the event to nap instead of preparing myself or writing a speech. I was exhausted and miserable, and sleep seemed like the only thing I was capable of doing. It was challenging to even toss on a change of clothes before leaving.

Now, the quietness of the establishment is chilling me to the bone. I start thinking about my own death, and wondering how many people will show up at my funeral. I always imagined that I'd be ancient, and that I'd have tons of grandchildren and great grandchildren who loved me. I bet Grayson wanted the same thing—but now here he is, dead in his twenties, with no one to give a damn.

Except me.

I enter a silent room and walk between rows of chairs toward an ivory casket. It is a gorgeous and stately piece of craftsmanship, with gold detailing all around the base. There are little carved angels guarding each corner, looking forlorn as they wrap their naked bodies in feathery wings. My breath catches in my throat; they are perfect. The lid of the coffin is open halfway, revealing a deep red satin interior. Before I can even see my husband's body, I feel the tears starting.

Brad did an excellent job of choosing a final resting bed for my husband. I can tell from the exquisite casket, similar to the way that I can read articles of clothing, that he truly loved Grayson. As I ascend the stairs to the coffin, I feel my anxiety mounting as I am about to look upon Grayson's face. I try to prepare myself by gritting my teeth, like I am about to be struck. It does not work.

When I can finally see his face, my heart shrivels up like a raisin.

I can feel it twisting and withering inside my chest, with a stabbing, sinking pain. I place a hand between my breasts and try to breathe, but all my vital organs have malfunctioned. Somehow, I find that my legs have carried me to the edge of the coffin. One of my hands rests on the ivory case, while the other moves out to touch his shoulder.

I feel the urge to gently shake Grayson's shoulder and ask him to wake up. He looks like he is only sleeping. Maybe this is still just the craziest April Fool's joke ever. Maybe Brad was in on it. They were just toying with me, and Grayson's going to sit up and tell me that it was all a trick.

But he is simply too motionless; too impossibly still.

"Gray," I whisper to the corpse, squeezing his shoulder gently, as though he might crumble into ashes if I apply too much pressure. However, he feels just as strong and muscular as he did when he was alive. "Please don't be gone," I beg him. "I'll do anything. I don't know how to carry on without you." I am expecting a response, even from the voices in my head, but there is nothing. There is only a deafening and exhausting silence.

My heart shrinks even more and dries up completely. I swear, it must be the size of a popcorn kernel inside my chest. I fear that if the heat of my emotions cause it to pop, it will kill me on the spot. A teardrop escapes my eye and splashes on Grayson's neck. I am startled when the droplet of water erodes some of the makeup that has been applied to his neck to cover the scars. I reach out with my thumb and brush some of the makeup away, revealing the rope burns that are deeply embedded in his flesh. I trace the patterns with my fingernail in despair. They remind me that this is all too real.

A bizarre idea comes to my mind as I stare at Grayson's red satin sheets.

"Shall I join you?" I ask him softly, running one of my hands over the luxurious fabric. "It seems comfortable, my love. Is there room for one more?" I am suddenly smitten with the idea of climbing up into the coffin with him and snuggling down beside Grayson. I could fall asleep in his arms one last time, and cling to him until they rip him away from me. I am reaching for the latch to open the lower half of the coffin when I feel a warm hand on my own.

Before glancing up to see who it is, I look at the wrist which is against mine, clad in a fine suit and burnished cufflinks. Could it be Grayson? Is the body in the coffin just a dummy? It could all just be a really convincing Halloween trick. Is it Halloween sometime soon? I can't remember.

"Carmen," says Bradford's voice as he moves to stand beside me. "I can't imagine what you must be going through. I still can't believe he's gone."

I finally manage to breathe, and I take a large sniffle of air to clear my sinuses. Anger immediately fills my body, where before there was nothing at all. "Why did you choose to bury him in his brown pinstriped suit?" I ask Brad accusingly. "He hated this suit. He found it scratchy."

Brad gives me a sad smile. "Well, he can't exactly feel how scratchy it is anymore."

"But he needs to be comfortable," I say brokenly. "He's going to be wearing the damn suit forever. He needs to be..." Tears are spilling down my cheeks and I am having difficulty standing.

Brad immediately gathers me up into his arms and places kisses on my wet cheeks. "I'm so sorry, Carm. I tried my best. I tried to get a nice coffin that you'd approve of. I wanted you to like it. I wanted him to be comfortable too. He's my best friend."

When I can catch my breath and stop crying, I realize that Brad is crying too. His own tears are sliding down the hard lines of his jaw and mixing with mine. "Oh, Brad," I say miserably. "I'm sorry. You did a great job. I really appreciate this."

"I can tell that you're unhappy," he says softly. "I just wanted to make you happy."

Unable to respond, I glance back at my husband's body. Brad reaches out to grasp my chin and turn it back toward him.

"I think you and I could be good together, Carm," Brad tells me. "I think that I should spend my life trying to keep you happy. It's what Gray would have wanted."

"What?" I mumble hesitantly. "What do you mean?"

"I think I'm going to marry you," Brad tells me as he puts a hand on the side of my head, gently caressing my hair. "I think it's the best way that I can honor Grayson's memory. To take care of the woman he loved."

"I thought you said he never loved me," I say hoarsely. "That I was just a responsibility to him."

"Then I'll give you the love you deserve," Brad vows, wrapping his arms around my waist. "I'll treat you better than Grayson ever could. The way he wanted to, and would have if he wasn't ill. I'll give you everything, Carmen. You're perfect to me."

I am about to object or question his thinking, but Brad's mouth descends to mine before I can speak. I am too weak and tired to push him away or protest. I let him kiss me. Maybe marrying Bradford West is a good idea. At least I would never have to go through the humiliation and rejection that I experienced earlier with Owen.

I am too old to play games. I am too old to put on skimpy outfits and go clubbing or drinking in Manhattan bars while searching for a suitable man. I am too old to date dozens of losers while hunting for the diamond in the rough. I don't have the energy. I'm going to be a _mother_. I was never meant to be alone; I'm just not good at it. I like having a husband, and not having to worry about my future. I like being settled and having a family. Maybe I should seize the opportunity to be with Brad. At least he's not a stranger.

He really does seem like the next best thing.

"You taste like blackberries," Brad whispers to me as he pulls his lips away from mine. "Why aren't you kissing me back, Carmen?"

I had completely forgotten he was kissing me. I am just so numb and empty. When Owen kissed me earlier, I was able to feel it, but Brad's touch just feels like background noise. "Sorry," I tell him softly. "I'm just so upset about Grayson that it's hard to feel. It's hard to think."

"I can fix that," he tells me as he cups my face in his hands. He lets them fall to caress the sides of my body. "I can make you feel again, Carmen. I can make you forget about all of this."

I gasp as he pushes me back against Grayson's casket. When his lips collide with mine again, this time, I do feel. I feel shocked with the wrongness of the fact that this man is kissing me against my husband's coffin. And somehow, the shock and wrongness of the situation cause my body to stir to life.

Against my better judgment, I find myself kissing him back. I reach up to wrap my arms around Brad's neck, pressing my body against him more firmly. I am doing this to spite my husband. And I do feel. It feels good.

That's what you get for leaving me, Gray. How do you like that?

I am egging him on and hoping for a response. When his voice was taunting me and inciting me to do horrible things, I wished it would be gone. But now that he's been silent for a little while, I miss him and want him to return. I hate the fact that I am being such a fickle, changeable woman. This isn't me. This is nothing like me.

Brad begins raining kisses down my neck and over my breasts. I can't help thinking about what it would look like if a relative of mine were to walk in at this moment. I would be the laughingstock of my family, and rumors would be spread far and wide about how I was having an affair that caused my husband to kill himself. Thinking about all the things that could go wrong in this very public display of affection only makes it more thrilling.

I want to be bad. I want to be awful. Grayson hurt my sister. As much as I love him, I also hate him. He deserves this, and far worse. He deserves me spitting on his grave. He deserves to have another man fuck his wife on top of his coffin. With the lid open, so he can watch.

I can't believe that these thoughts would even dare to cross my mind.

Brad slips his hand under the waistband of my black skirt, and slips his hand down between my thighs. When he begins to massage my tender flesh, I moan out in pleasure. My body grows quickly soaked with lubrication as Brad rubs his fingers in circles between my folds.

Somehow, I went from feeling nothing at all to being lit on fire. My body is writhing under his hands and moving wantonly to encourage his touch. I still can't believe he is doing this to me here, but I need it so much that I am powerless to stop it. I need something; anything.

"Brad," I whisper breathlessly.

"Shhh," he says, slipping his index finger deep inside me. "I'm going to make you feel good."

I gasp and arch my head back, letting it falls limply against the ivory casket. Brad continues to pump his fingers into me, and the room spins in my vision. I remember what Owen said about how much better sex feels when a woman is pregnant; this is definitely supporting evidence for that theory. My body feels so alive and ablaze that I have lost all my senses.

_Please,_ says a voice inside my head. _Please, Carm. Don't do this._

Confused and disoriented for a moment, I realize that Brad has pulled away and is fiddling with his belt buckle. Feeling an odd texture against my fingers, I look to the side and discover that my hand is lying on my husband's chest, and that my fingers have been tangled up with his tie.

"Oh my god," I whisper, ripping myself away from Grayson's corpse with a shudder. My legs tremble and I fall to my knees. "Oh my god. What am I doing?"

"I'm sorry," Brad says, instantly moving to my side and hugging my shoulders. "I don't know what came over me. That was totally inappropriate."

My shoulders shake with sobs of horror and self-loathing. "God! What is _wrong_ with me? Am I going fucking insane?"

"Let's take you home," Brad says gently, helping me to my feet. "I'll drive. You're in no condition. We can come back for your car tomorrow."

I nod numbly and let him guide me away from my husband's casket.

"When was the last time you ate? Do you want to stop for dinner?" Brad asks with worry.

I nod again, unsure of what the question even was. I feel some of the dampness of my arousal leaking down between my thighs. It is a reminder of my guilt and shame. As I move mechanically down the stairs and out of the room, I glance back to my husband's cadaver one final time.

_Goodbye,_ I tell him in my mind. _Goodbye, forever._

_Hello,_ he responds in a sinister tone. _I am never letting you go._

# Chapter Nineteen

#

"Did you ever consider giving up the baby?" Brad asks as he helps me up the stairs of my house.

"No," I say sharply, pausing in mid-step. "Why would I do that?" My chest heaves, and I tighten my grip on his arm for support. I am so dizzy that I am afraid I will tumble down the stairs. "I need her. She's the last piece of Grayson that I have."

"But you're still so young, Carmen," Brad tells me, cradling my lower back to guide my tired body. "You could have a friend or relative take care of the child for now. Don't you want more time to be free?"

"Free?" I ask in confusion. I find myself growing teary-eyed without intending to. "No! I wanted a family. I wanted someone new to love! Someone who would love me unconditionally. I never wanted things to fall apart like this." My emotions are volatile; they are playing tug of war with my mind, and leaving me feeling out of control and afraid.

"I will be that person," Brad tells me sincerely. "I want nothing more than to love you, Carm. It's just a little scary because I didn't expect to have a kid in my life so soon. Not that I don't like kids, because I do. But I still need more time to focus on me. I really want to make partner at my law firm, and I have a shot at doing that in the next two years. Until then, I'm not sure I can really be a full-time father."

"No one's asking you," I inform him angrily. "I don't need you, Bradford West. You're being kind to me now, because my husband just died, but that's all we have in common. Once this situation with Grayson fades into the background, we will drift apart. He is the only thing that binds us."

"You're wrong," Brad assures me. "We have a lot in common. I know more about Gray than you ever will, and I know that he treated you badly. He didn't put you first. I can change your life for the better, Carmen Winters. You'll always be number one to me. I'll never put anyone or anything above you."

"You don't even know me," I say weakly.

"Then give me a chance to get to know you," he says with a smile. "And you can get to know me. We can discover all the things we have in common. We should go out and spend some time together. I am sure we can grow to care for each other far more than you and Grayson ever did."

"Maybe," I mumble as I continue to climb the stairs. I just want to lie down, and kiss goodnight to this terrible day. Once I am on the landing of the second floor, something beckons me to glance down to the chandelier, still suspended proudly in the center of the foyer. After a few seconds of staring at the majestic lighting fixture, I feel something inside me snap.

That popcorn kernel inside my chest has burst.

I step forward and grasp the railing to keep from collapsing to my knees again. All I can see is Grayson's body, hanging there and smiling up at me in victory. He's won. He's destroyed me. Isn't that what love is all about?

Brad slides his arms around my waist, hugging me from behind. He moves my hair aside so that he can place kisses on my neck and shoulder. "I know it was a horrible sight," he whispers, "but you need to forget about him, Carm. It's time to move on."

"I can't," I say wretchedly. "I just can't."

Brad continues to comb his fingers through my blonde hair. "Do you need some help, love? Do you need a distraction?"

"Yes," I murmur, sinking back into his body. "Please."

"Are you sure?" he asks me quietly, rubbing his hips against my bottom so that I can feel the hardness of his erection. "Do you trust me?"

"Yes," I say numbly and uncaringly. "Just do it."

It happens in such a blur that I can't even determine exactly what he's doing to me. All I know is that it's working; my body is responding, and my mind is going blissfully blank. The moment he started touching me, all the pain and despair fled from my chest. I was calm.

I seem to recall him lifting my skirt up around my hips and bending me over the railing. I recall his hands on me, and his mouth, but I'm not sure where, or in what order. I remember his pants falling with the clangor of a buckle, and his warm flesh pressed against mine, far too boldly. I remember him entering me, and a bit of pain at first. The pain quickly subsided into rapturous pleasure as he held me against him, thrusting himself wildly into me. I never wanted it to end. He managed to make me feel both blessedly alive and completely dead at the same time.

What I recall most vividly is staring at the chandelier in a daze while Brad fucked me.

As far as quick, rough sex goes, it was excellent. I feel really refreshed, like waking up from a very long hibernation. Brad is panting against my shoulder, and I can tell that he is satisfied. I'm not close to being satisfied, but I don't care about that. My dizziness dissipates as my vision focuses, and the dozens of light bulbs below become clear.

I squint thoughtfully as I stare at them.

"I need to get a new chandelier," I finally decide.

Brad is still panting, and he is having difficulty responding. "That's a good idea," he finally agrees.

"Will you spend the night?" I ask him, rearranging my skirt. "I don't want to be alone right now."

"I can't," he says, reaching down to grab his pants and pull them up around his waist. "I have to get back to my apartment to be close to the office in the morning. I don't want to be caught in the gridlocked traffic of rush hour."

"Brad, please," I say softly. "I can't stay in this house alone. It's so big and empty. I'll lose my mind."

He moves closer and presses a kiss on my lips. "I want nothing more than to sleep beside you, Carm. I promise we'll be together every day soon."

"I don't care about every day—I need you here tonight."

"Tonight isn't good for me," he says apologetically. "I have to get to the office early tomorrow so I can get a head start on all the work I'll be missing over the weekend. I'm so sorry, Carm. Please try to understand. I wasn't born with a silver spoon in my mouth like you, and I need to work hard for what I have."

The barb stings a little, and I pull away from him. "I just can't sleep alone right now. I keep having nightmares."

He gently cups my cheek. "Let me make you a cup of tea. Any preference?"

"Chamomile," I say softly, thinking of Owen.

# Chapter Twenty

#

The house is so deathly quiet that I have been unable to rest. Grayson is still whispering in my ear, but it's growing so distant that I can't quite make out the words. It's like he's fading away. This is forcing me to strain my ears and hold my breath to listen more closely, in hopes of understanding my husband's voice. Sometimes, I am able to doze off for a few minutes, only to be awoken by a cricket chirping, the house settling, or a mournful gust of wind.

I miss my husband.

I can't wait for my dad and Helen to come home. I don't think I can survive much more of this.

A blaring ringing sound causes me to bolt upright. I am so on edge that I feel like I jumped three feet off the bed. I take a deep breath to try and relax before reaching for my phone, which is resting just beside my pillow. I am a bit puzzled by the name on the display. _Lauren_. It's an old co-worker.

Why would she be calling at 5 a.m.?

It doesn't matter. I'm just glad to have someone to talk to. Anyone will do.

Accepting the call, I summon my cheerful work-voice. "Good morning, Lauren!"

"Hey, doll! Gosh, I'm so sorry to call at this hour."

"It's fine," I say, clearing the sleepiness out of my throat. "I was awake anyway. It's great to hear from you. What's shaking down at the station?"

"Things just haven't been the same around here without you, Carm. I mean, have you seen the new weather girl? What a snoozefest!"

I force myself to laugh politely, and Lauren hastily continues:

"But that's not why I'm calling. This is embarrassing, but I noticed that you just made a blog post last night. Yes, I follow your blog! Your insights on fashion are just always so fascinating. It happens that our interview with a popular designer got cancelled this morning due to her flight being delayed. So I thought, _hey!_ Who's the most fabulous girl I know, with a great on-air personality?"

A smile begins to tug at my lips. "You want me to do a segment? On fashion?"

"Yes! Would you, darling? It was going to be about popular spring trends, but you can make it about anything you like. Heck, you could even just use one of your blog posts for material. I know you're a great bullshitter! All you have to do is dress up and be your adorable, cheerful self for seven to eight minutes."

"I can do that," I say uncertainly. My cheerful self has been AWOL since I came home to find my husband dead, but I am semi-positive that I can perk up and bring it for the cameras. It will be a good challenge.

"It's for the morning show, so you need to be here in thirty minutes. You can be a little later if you do your own hair and makeup, and I know you're spectacular at that." Lauren pauses. "Can you make it, Carm?"

"Of course, Laurie!" I say, already getting up from the bed. Sharp pain shoots through my abdomen, but I ignore it. "I'm so glad you asked me. I've been bored out of my mind on maternity leave."

"Well, let's put an end to that long sabbatical of yours and get your pretty face back where it belongs—in front of a camera! If this goes well, maybe we can work out a regular spot. You were meant for so much more than just doing the weather."

"Thank you so much for the opportunity, Laurie. It means a lot to me."

"It's nothing, doll. Just _hurry!"_

The line goes dead, and a large smile takes over my face. I feel a lot better already. My renewed sense of purpose has infused me with vigor. It is small, but at least it is something I'm good at; something that I enjoy doing. Maybe Brad was right about my silver spoon, and all I really needed was to _do something._ I am grateful to the universe. I am also immensely grateful to Owen; without his encouragement to write that blog post, I might not have been in the forefront of Lauren's mind when this opportunity came up. It's funny how things work out.

Checking the time on my phone, I try to make a plan of action for how to get ready quickly, cutting out any unnecessary rituals. I start trying to determine what dress I'll wear, so that I know precisely how much of my legs I need to shave. I toss my phone on the bed and remove my robe from my shoulders as I speed-walk toward the bathroom in my nightgown.

The wheels in my head are turning swiftly, and I love it. I love rushing around and getting things done. A reason to put on makeup and style my hair! This is perfect. This is kismet.

This is exactly what I needed: an occupation to override my maddening preoccupations.

I am dragging a brush through my hair when I remember that I left my car at the funeral home. I curse loudly. I'll have to call a cab. I'll have to call it _now_ so that it will be here on time. I swivel and turn back to the bedroom when a stabbing pain causes me to double over.

My breathing is shallow and rapid as I try to endure the cramps. I have never felt anything like this pain; it spreads to my lower back, completely immobilizing me. Once it has passed, I try to straighten my body and shake it off.

I finally have something to look forward to and get my mind off things. I am not going to let any amount of small, stupid pain get in the way of me going to the station and being cheerful and sunny for the morning show.

Taking another step toward the bedroom, the pain attacks me again. This time, it spreads all the way up my back to my shoulders, causing me to gasp. I have to grab the bathroom door for support, and I whimper softly as I wait for the pain to pass.

"Come on," I urge myself with enthusiasm. "You're Carmen Winters. Bright, blonde, bubbly, and badass. You need to get on TV and show the world what you're made of. Crappy pregnancy? Who cares. Husband committed suicide? Who cares. Really cute guy has a girlfriend? Who cares! Little sis was raped, disappeared, bumped her head and now has amnesia? _Who cares!_ Dad has a weak heart and is probably going to die soon? _Who fucking cares!_ You're stronger than all that. _Nothing_ is going to bring you down."

This pep talk was apparently a sufficient dose of medicine, for all my pain instantly fades away. I take a deep breath and stand up with a proud and erect posture, releasing my death grip on the doorknob. I take a step into the bedroom when I feel something warm and wet sliding down my thigh.

I pause.

Slowly, I glance down at my leg. There are generous rivulets of blood running down the insides of both my legs, and congregating at my ankles. For a moment, I am unable to breathe.

Glancing back at the bathroom floor, I see small puddles of blood gathered below where I had been standing. I stare without blinking, transfixed by the hypnotic sight of bright red blood against pure white tiles. There are even some partial footprints painted on the blank canvas.

For a moment, I am struck by the strange urge to try finger-painting with the vermillion pigment.

Then the realization sinks in, and my chest explodes in panic. I run over to my bed and grab my cell phone, and quickly call my father with shaking hands. I move back to the bathroom, unable to stop staring at the deep crimson, perfect droplets of blood. The phone rings several times, but my father does not answer. I hang up instead of leaving voicemail.

I begin to pace back and forth in the bathroom, realizing that my father could not help anyway. He is too far away. It might be better not to tell him, with everything that's happening. I grit my teeth together and call Brad. The phone rings once. Twice. Three times. It goes to voicemail.

"Brad!" I say frantically into the phone. "I—I'm bleeding. I need you. Please. Will you come over as soon as you can? I think I have to go to the hospital."

As I hang up the phone, another wave of pain strikes me, ripping through my back. It feels like my spine has been cleaved in half with a machete. I am knocked clean off my feet. I fall to the ground with one hand around my stomach, and one hand holding my phone against the ground. I take several rasping breaths.

I know that I should call 9-1-1. I know that I should.

But there's one person I really want to talk to right now. I just need to hear his voice telling me that everything's going to be okay. That my baby is going to be okay. I need to hear him calling her Lily, or Lizzie, or Grace—like she's already a person that we know. Tears stream down my cheeks as I swallow my pride and dial his number. He arrogantly placed himself in my favorites, which is able to make me smile even now, through all my tears and blood.

The phone rings. I try to control my breathing so that I don't sound freaked out. My bathroom is covered in bloody footsteps from my pacing, and now some pretty palm prints and knee prints.

The phone rings again. I notice something odd on the ground, and reach out to pick up a peculiar object, the size of an egg. Only when the soft material is in my hand do I realize that I am holding a rather large clump of my own blood. It is squishy and thick—the consistency of jello.

I am sobbing with unadulterated fear when a female voice answers the phone.

"Hello? This is Owen's phone."

The pain explodes through my back again, and this time it mixes with emotional pain. I press my lips together tightly before forcing myself to respond. "Hello... I'm so sorry... can you please..." I am interrupted by my heavy breathing and crying. "I need to speak with Owen."

"Yeah, um. I'm Caroline, his girlfriend. Who are you?"

"Please," I whisper desperately into the phone. "Is he there?"

"Is there an important reason you're calling him at 5 a.m.?"

The humiliation hits me almost as hard as the pain that is destroying my stomach and back. As another wave rips through me, my fist clenches, smashing the egg-shaped blood clot I had been holding. "No," I whisper into the phone as my strength drains out of me. My eyelids close as the phone falls out of my hand, clattering to the floor. My whole body slumps flaccidly onto the cool bathroom tiles.

Tears slip out of my eyes, mixing into the puddles of blood.

"Never mind."

# End of Eternity, Book 2

Carmen is rushed to the hospital, desperately hoping her baby can be saved. Can she find the strength inside herself to pull through? An unexpected visitor renews her hope, and Carmen discovers the shocking truth about her husband's death that will change everything...

Read the rest of Carmen's story!

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