LITMIR.BIZ

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I know he can, but this has really thrown him.”

      “Marital problems are never easy.” Jack strove to seem wise and mature, generous, too, in his assessment of the other man’s troubles. He didn’t wish Stan ill, but he wanted one thing made clear: Olivia was off-limits.

      “Poor Stan,” she murmured, shaking her head.

      Jack turned her into his arms. “If you want to feel sympathy for anyone, let it be me.”

      “You need my sympathy?”

      “Yes.” He grinned. “I twisted my ankle this morning and the pain is so bad.” He started to walk with an exaggerated limp.

      “Jack!” She broke away and slugged his shoulder. “You’re a fake if ever I saw one.”

      “Ouch.” He rubbed his upper arm. “That hurt.”

      “Good. It’s what you deserve.”

      “If you give Stan sympathy, then you have to give me some, too.”

      Olivia laughed. “It’s not a competition.”

      “Listen, I’m serious. It wouldn’t surprise me if Stan wanted you to help him through this.”

      “Jack, you’re being ridiculous.”

      “I don’t think so.” The playfulness left him and he shoved his hands deep inside his pockets. “What would you say if I confessed that I’ve fallen in love with you?” he asked.

      Olivia didn’t answer for a long while. Jack stopped walking and turned to study her. She looked at him steadily. “I’d say you sound like an insecure little boy and that you’re trying to score points in some imaginary contest with my ex-husband.”

      Jack clenched his jaw. “That’s what I thought.” Then, because he didn’t feel it would do any good to continue this conversation, he asked, “Are you ready to leave now?”

      “If you are.”

      “I am,” he said. In fact, he was more than ready.

      Grace dug the pitchfork into the soft earth and turned the sod. She hadn’t planted a garden in years. Where she’d once tended zucchini and tomatoes had long since been transformed into lawn. Cliff had offered to rototill the patch, and now she was digging up the turf so he could prepare the soil.

      Buttercup, who was busily chasing butterflies behind her, barked when Troy Davis’s patrol car turned into the driveway. Grace stood, removing her garden gloves before she walked over to the gate to greet him.

      “Hello, Troy,” she called.

      “Grace.” He touched the rim of his patrol cap. “You got a moment?”

      “Of course. Come inside.” Her stomach churned with anticipation. She wanted to ask if this visit had anything to do with Dan, but she’d already been through that earlier in the year. “Do you have another body you want me to look at?” she said, trying to make light of the incident.

      “Not this time.”

      “Coffee?” she asked.

      Troy shook his head and took a seat in the living room. “Sit down, Grace.”

      The seriousness of his tone told her something was terribly wrong. She sat nervously on the edge of the sofa cushion. “Is it Dan?”

      Troy nodded. “We got a report from a couple of hikers about a trailer up high in the woods.

      “Dan’s trailer? Is he there?”

      “Dan’s body is. He committed suicide.”

      Grace gasped and her breath froze in her lungs. For a long moment she couldn’t breathe. She should’ve been prepared for news such as this, but nothing could have diminished the shock of learning that her husband was dead.

      “He left a letter addressed to you.” Troy reached inside his shirt pocket and brought out an envelope, which he handed to her.

      “Suicide—but when?”

      “Best we can figure, he’s been dead more than a year. He shot himself last April.”

      “But that’s not possible!” she argued. “John Malcom spotted him in May, don’t you remember? So it can’t be Dan’s body. I’m sure of it.” She was desperate to prove the body was that of someone else. This had to be an elaborate hoax. It simply wasn’t possible that the dead man could be her husband.

      “Grace, the letter is dated….”

      “It couldn’t be April,” she continued to argue. “He was back in the house last spring—I knew it the moment I came home from work. I sensed it. Don’t you remember me telling you how the house smelled of evergreen? When Dan worked in the woods, he always smelled like a Christmas tree…I recognized the scent. He was in this house.”

      “He probably was back. Before April thirtieth… I’m sorry. But I’m afraid there’s no doubt. It’s him.”

      She was shaking now, so badly that she didn’t trust herself to stand.

      “Is there someone you want me to call?”

      Grace stared up at him, unable to respond.

      “Olivia?”

      Grace nodded, then covered her face with her hands as she struggled to hold back the tears. All these months she’d assumed Dan had run off with another woman. How could John Malcom have been mistaken? He worked with Dan; surely he’d recognize him.

      Troy went into the kitchen and used the phone there. He was gone several minutes and when he returned he pushed the ottoman over and sat down in front of her. “I’m sorry, Grace. Real sorry.”

      She had withdrawn and barely heard him. She saw his lips move but no words registered.

      “Olivia’s on her way.”

      She nodded, although she didn’t understand what he’d said.

      “Do you want me to call the girls?”

      She just stared at him.

      Troy patted her hand. “Don’t worry about any of that yet. I’ll talk to Olivia and see what she thinks is best, all right?”

      Again she nodded, without knowing what she’d agreed to.

      Buttercup wanted inside the house, and Troy stood and opened the door for the golden retriever. The dog ran immediately to Grace and nudged her hands. Grace wrapped her arms around Buttercup’s neck.

      While Troy went outside to meet Olivia, Grace picked up the letter. Where she found the courage to open it, she didn’t know.

      April 30th

      My dearest Grace,

      I’m sorry. Sorrier than you’ll ever know. If there’d been a way to spare you the horror of this, I would have done it. I swear I would’ve done anything. I did try, but there’s no escape from the hell my life has become. I can’t carry the burden of my guilt another day. I tried to forget, tried to put the war behind me, but the memories have pressed in on all sides and there’s no longer any hope of escape.

      Years ago while I was on patrol in Nam, we took enemy fire. In the aftermath, a few of us got separated from the unit. Desperate to find our way back to base, we stumbled into a small village. What happened afterward has haunted me all these years. A young woman and her baby stepped out of the shadows. Her infant daughter was clutched in her arms but I thought she was hiding a grenade. Only there wasn’t a weapon. All she had was her child. Instinct took over and I fired. I murdered a mother and her baby in my desperation to survive the war—my desperation to get home alive. I watched her fall, watched the horror come over her face and heard the screams of her family. Then there was more gunfire and more mothers and children and the shooting just never seemed to stop. Almost forty years now, and it’s

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