Prologue

PROLOGUE

Gulf Shores, Alabama

Monday, September 16

8:45 a.m.

She'd come into the kitchen for something.

Hadn't she?

The old kitchen floorboards creaked under her weight. Always in the same spot. Her husband, Wesley, had promised her when they'd bought the beach house, they would replace the mismatched parquet and hardwood, but they'd put their attention and funds into the exterior of the house instead. Every room a different flooring, renovated at varying times throughout its long life. She hated it here. Hated that she could feel the sway of the pylons holding the house above sea level in case of flood. Hated the heavy odor of humidity and salt. Hated that a simple grocery run took a thirty-minute drive to and back.

But she loved running along the beach.

The freedom to get away. Just for a little while.

Sand pricked between her fingers. Constant. No matter how many times she showered, it never seemed to go away. Always in her hair, in her shoes, the furniture. Had she come in here to wash off the grit?

She twisted the builder-grade faucet to cold, running her hands beneath the water. Relief flooded through her at the change in temperature. That was another thing about Gulf Shores. Nothing was ever cool. Her skin stung along the side of one hand, below her pinky finger. The water changed color, a tinge of red spreading into the stainless-steel sink. Then she saw it. The cut. She hadn't noticed it until now. Her heart rate ticked higher at the sight of so much blood. Deep enough to need stitches. How could she not have noticed it until now?

She shoved her injured hand back beneath the water and reached for a paper towel from the dispenser installed beneath the upper cabinet. The entire roll unspooled, but she didn't have the mental capacity to stop it. Ripping more off than she meant, she pressed the wad of paper to the injury.

Footsteps aggravated the headache pulsing at the front of her head.

"How was your run?" Wesley rounded the peninsula into the kitchen behind her, heading straight for the fridge. A layer of sweat added a glow along his jaw and neck.

Run? Her brain fought to catch up. Her legs felt fatigued. She was still tied into her running shoes, and she could feel the sand invading her socks. The blister on the outside of her big toe raged. Running. Okay. Yes. She'd gone for a run. Though she didn't remember leaving this morning. She cradled the sopping towels closer. "I hurt my hand. I must've fallen."

Her husband retrieved his routine serving of orange juice, facing her for the first time since he'd come into the room.

And dropped the glass.

Shards exploded across the kitchen and spilled juice into the crevices of the old hardwood. It would take a miracle to get it all out. Droplets splashed against her calf and drove into one shoe as horror etched into the lines at the edges of his eyes. "You're bleeding."

"I know. I hurt my hand. Could you…" She blinked against the encroaching headache burrowing behind her eyes. She could stitch her hand as well as any clinic as a physician's assistant. She just needed the focus. "Get the first aid kit, please. It's under the sink."

"No." Wesley closed the distance between them, kicking the discarded paper towels out of his way. Strong hands guided her to one side to give him access to the first aid kit under the kitchen sink. "Your head is bleeding."

The pulsing above her eyebrows seemed to intensify then, waiting for the slightest nod of her attention before attacking. No longer just a dull headache but a piercing pain that threatened to take her down.

He dragged the first aid kit across the counter and popped the lid. Alcohol pads, gauze, disposable gloves. His obvious panic dumped the contents across the old tiled and grouted countertops and scattered them over the edge. "What the hell happened to you?"

She clamped her free palm into the laceration above her eyebrow, escaping from the confines of the too-small kitchen. The floor protested once again as she charged down the hallway leading to the front door and detoured into the bathroom to the right. Using her elbow to hit the light switch, she faced off with the woman in the mirror.

Battered. Bruised. Beaten.

Air lodged in her chest as she tried to fill in the blanks, but nothing was coming to mind. She shook her head. "I don't know."