Chapter 1

By the time I came home from my shift, my husband had already given another woman a key to our house.

Twelve hours at Oakridge Veterinary Clinic. I'd helped save a German Shepherd. All I wanted now was the roast chicken Ethan had promised.

Instead, there was no smell of dinner.

There was suddenly a light-colored suitcase in the middle of our hallway.

My brain went blank for a beat. There was no light-colored suitcase in our house.

A pair of cream leather boots sat on the mat where I usually left mine. And on the entryway table, beside the mail, lay a freshly cut silver key.

Ethan stepped out of the living room with a mug of tea in his hand.

He looked calm. Comfortable. Like I was the one interrupting his evening.

"You're back late," he said.

I looked at the suitcase. Then the key. Then at the man I had been married to for seven years.

"Whose things are those?"

"Maren's," he replied smoothly, his tone as casual as if he were reporting the evening weather.

"I told you about her situation last week, remember? Her landlord sold her building, and the new management gave her forty-eight hours to clear out."

He set his mug down on the walnut table, right next to the new key.

"She was going to put all her equipment in storage and crash on random couches around town. I couldn't just sit back and watch a friend do that, Nora."

"You said she was looking for apartments," I said. My voice dropped an octave, a cold, hard grip closing around my chest. "You didn't say she was moving into our house."

"It's temporary," he said, stepping closer and reaching out as if to touch my shoulder.

I took a small step back, avoiding his hand.

Ethan let his arm drop, his expression shifting into mild irritation. "Until next Sunday, Nora. Just until her new lease starts."

My eyes drifted past his shoulder, down the narrow hallway that led to our guest room.

The door was ajar.

Through the gap, I could see the edge of the bed. It was made up with our best linen duvet—the slate-gray set I had bought for our anniversary. The navy throw blanket was folded neatly across the foot of the mattress.

The guest room I had spent three weekends painting and setting up as a reading den.

"You gave her our spare key?"

"It's a key, Nora."

"No," I said, looking him dead in the eye. "It's a decision you made like I don't live here."

A soft, measured rustle came from the living room doorway.

A woman stepped out into the hall.

Maren Cole didn't look like a disaster. Blazer, silk camisole, short skirt, tall boots—every piece looked chosen, not grabbed. She stood in my hallway like it was her own studio.

I recognized her face from Ethan's Oakridge High School alumni newsletter, though she looked taller in person, her hazel eyes clear and striking.

Maren stepped forward, her posture straight. "Nora," she said. Her voice was soft enough to sound fragile, but before she spoke, her eyes flicked to Ethan as if she needed his permission.

"I'm sorry. I told Ethan we should wait until you got off your shift so we could all talk together."

Her fingers tightened around the strap of her camera bag. "I can still leave if you want me to," she added softly. "I'll find somewhere for tonight."

I watched Maren's fingers tighten around the strap. For a split second, I imagined doing the same—grabbing my keys, walking out the front door, stepping into the rain, not looking back.

The image was so clear it was almost cruel.

I swallowed it and looked at Ethan.

Before I could process her words or offer an answer, Ethan took a step forward, placing a firm, protective hand on Maren's arm.

"You're not going to a hotel tonight, Maren," Ethan said, his voice dropping into that authoritative tone he used with his high school seniors.

"The downtown long-stays are sketchy, and you have an early shoot tomorrow."

I watched his hand resting on her sleeve.

"That wasn't yours to decide alone either, Ethan," I said, my voice dangerously level.

"I'll take my tote into the room," she said softly to both of us. "We can figure out the details tomorrow."

She picked up her leather camera bag and walked into the guest room, closing the door behind her with a soft, decisive click.

Ethan turned back to me, his jaw set. "She's trying to be considerate, Nora. You're treating her like an intruder."

"She is in my house without my consent," I said quietly.

My gaze fell back to the entryway console table.

Beside the silver key sat Maren's leather-bound photography portfolio, left open to a spread of recent local portrait work.

One square print caught the hall light.

It was Ethan.

He was sitting at an outdoor table at the downtown bakery, laughing in the dark green waxed jacket I had given him for his birthday in August.

Across from him, reflected in the glass behind his shoulder, was Maren with a camera raised to her eye.

The date printed at the bottom of the photograph read September 14.

"You told me you hadn't spoken to her until two weeks ago," I said.

Six weeks earlier.

Before Ethan could reach for the portfolio, I closed it and slipped it into my work tote.

For the first time that night, Ethan looked afraid.