LITMIR.BIZ

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over there.” Bill hadn’t liked her to have the freedom of her own vehicle, so they’d only owned one, which he took to work every day.

      “Oh.” Apparently nonplussed, Sheriff Cantrell went silent for a few seconds. “I’ll have one of my guys bring your car back to you.”

      “Thank you,” she replied, relieved when he ended the call.

      Bill was dead. The words echoed over and over inside her head. Bill. Was. Dead. Never to hit her again. Never to scream invectives at her, never to force her to have sex whenever and wherever he felt like it. Gone.

      She couldn’t bring herself to mourn the monster Bill had been, though she empathized with the pain his parents must feel. She imagined they’d search long and hard for whoever had done this to their beloved son. Once the perpetrator had been found, the Mabrys would enact a swift and merciless vengeance.

      Not sure what else to do, Nicole stuck to her usual routine, taking care of Jacob and housecleaning while he slept. She did two loads of laundry and almost caught herself ironing Bill’s work shirts—he liked them well starched. She remembered in time and simply hung them up in his closet without pressing them.

      One of the sheriff’s deputies delivered Bill’s car and keys around three. Another officer followed in a marked patrol car. Both of them expressed sympathy at her loss as they handed over the keys. Dry-eyed, she thanked them, staring at the BMW and hoping she remembered how to drive.

      Once they were gone, she went back inside. Jacob’s car seat was still tucked in the closet under the stairs, since Bill refused to drive around with a car seat in his car. She carried it outside, glad Jacob was napping, and placed it in the backseat the way she always did before church. Once she had it properly attached, she stood back with some satisfaction and surveyed her handiwork. This time, she wouldn’t be pulling the car seat out.

      After locking the car, she returned to her home and checked both her cell and the landline. No missed calls. Which meant neither of Bill’s parents had felt the need to call his wife to commiserate about his death.

      Which meant that she should call them. While she wasn’t really close to either of Bill’s parents, she’d guessed they had no idea how their son treated her or what kind of activities he enjoyed in his spare time. She wouldn’t take that away from them, not in a million years.

      So she took a deep breath and dialed Theresa’s cell phone. Theresa picked up on the third ring.

      “Nicole,” she said, her voice husky from crying. “I assume you’ve heard. I can’t believe my Billy boy is gone.”

      “I’m still trying to process the news,” Nicole admitted. “The Sheriff said they thought someone might have poisoned him?”

      Theresa sniffled. “Yes. They’ve asked us to make a list of possible enemies who could be potential suspects.”

      “That’s a good idea.”

      “Is it?” Theresa’s voice hardened. “I’m going to do you a favor and give you advance notice,” she continued. “Your name will be on that list.”

      “What?” Nicole’s heart caught in her throat. Shocked, she struggled to find a response. Any response. “Why would you say such a thing?”

      “Because my son told us about you. He said you’re a money-grubber, never satisfied with anything he gave you.” Vicious anger warred with grief in the older woman’s voice. “Now you have the house and the car and his bank account. But so help me, if we find one shred of evidence to indicate it was you, we will come after you. If you did anything to harm Bill, you will never be allowed to raise our grandson. Do you understand?”

      * * *

      Kyle Benning dragged his hand over his freshly-cut hair and struggled to relax the tension in his shoulders. Despite his honorable discharge from the army, he continued to wear his hair military-style. He felt more comfortable that way. Once an army ranger, always an army ranger.

      That said, he couldn’t wait to get home. He had no choice but to surprise Nicole and show up without a phone call, since her number had changed. Worst of all, he hadn’t even had a cell phone until after he’d been discharged from the hospital. They’d flown him Afghanistan to Ramstein in Germany, where he’d remained until his condition was no longer considered critical. Months later, conscious and able to finally sit up and take solid foods, they’d deemed him on the road to recovery. Finally.

      Then, they’d put him aboard another transport plane and he’d traveled from Ramstein to Walter Reed hospital in Bethesda, Maryland to continue his convalescence. Since he’d been in a medically induced coma for several months, he hadn’t been aware of any of this. He wasn’t even sure what had happened to him, but at least he knew who he was.

      And who he wasn’t. The name tags around his neck weren’t his. After the enemy had taken most of the soldier’s dog tags, Hank Smith had managed to hang onto one of his and had pressed it into Kyle’s hand before dying.

      No one would believe him at first. Then the IED had ripped their world apart in a single blaze of light. He’d learned Hank had been killed, torn apart by the blast, still wearing Kyle’s dog tags. Kyle had been believed dead.

      The only family of his that they could locate, the foster family back in Anniversary, Texas, who had raised him, had already been notified of his passing. Kyle doubted they’d even cared, but he’d worried himself sick about Nicole, the love of his life and the woman he’d planned to marry someday.

      He tried to call her, only to learn her cell phone had been disconnected. Her parents number had also been changed and apparently was unlisted,

      Briefly, he wondered if she was safe. It had been an entire year since he’d held her in his arms. Through all his seemingly endless deployment, her picture and thoughts of her love had kept him sane. Despite losing the photograph in the explosion, she’d never left his heart or his memory.

      These days, he might be all messed up, but he knew she would be able to help him get through this. PTSD, they’d told him, as if that acronym could cover his nightmares and jumpiness, the irritability and constant, pressing fear. Even here, away from the constant sound of gunfire and explosions, any innocent loud sound could have him instantly on alert.

      Nicole, Nicole, Nicole. He chanted her name in the middle of night sweats, the double syllables becoming his mantra, the single thing he clung to in order to keep from falling over the edge.

      She was his rock.

      He hated the fact that she’d been told he was dead. And that he hadn’t been able to reach out to her for so long. He took comfort in the knowledge that her parents would have at least let her know he still lived, even if he was only half the man he’d once been. At least he hoped they’d told her. Since she’d never taken the time to call him, he kind of doubted that they had.

      No matter. He’d be setting things straight soon.

      The 2013 Chevy Silverado he drove had been one of his lone expenditures. He’d paid cash for the used pickup, knowing he’d need something reliable for the drive west to Anniversary. Excitement jumped inside him, drowning out some of the ever-present anxiety. Excitement and, dare he say, joy. Because soon, he’d be with Nicole. He couldn’t wait to see her face when he knocked on her door, to pull her into his arms and breathe the fresh strawberry scent of her shampoo, to kiss her lips until they both felt as if they were drowning.

      In his pocket, he had the only other thing he’d spent part of his savings on. An engagement ring. As soon as he and Nicole got caught up, he planned to get down on bended knee and ask her formally to be his wife.

      They’d talked about marrying before he’d signed up for the army. He’d even given her his high school class ring as a token, proof that he was hers and vice versa. She’d taken to wearing it with a long chain around her neck, safely tucked under her shirt so her strict parents wouldn’t see.

      God, he loved her. As his truck ate up the miles, he amused himself with imagining

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