Chapter 1

"My wife can turn a single towel into a full-blown marital crisis."

Owen's voice came through the radio at the clinic while I was helping a patient practice walking.

A second later, his cohost, Sabine, was laughing so hard she could barely breathe.

"Wait. She really stopped speaking to you for an entire night because you washed a white towel with dark clothes?"

"Not one night," Owen corrected her casually. "It lasted from Friday until Sunday. She even made a list of laundry rules and taped it to the wall."

A few people in the waiting area laughed.

The receptionist glanced over her shoulder at me, then quickly looked away.

There had never been a list of laundry rules.

The previous Friday, I had worked a twelve-hour shift. When I came home, I found that Owen had thrown the clean towels I used for post-surgical patients into the washing machine with his oil-stained clothes.

All I did was ask him to read the label on the basket next time.

He was the one who refused to speak to me that night.

Sabine was still laughing. "What if Laurel hears us? Is she going to storm into the station?"

"She's working. Besides, she needs to learn how to laugh at herself."

This time, no one in the waiting area laughed.

I released my patient's hand, made sure he was safely seated, then removed my badge and turned to a coworker.

"Cover for me for ten minutes."

I called the show's hotline. The call screener asked what I wanted to discuss.

"Controlling behavior in marriage."

As soon as I was put on the air, Sabine greeted me in a voice so sweet it sounded sticky.

"Good morning. What's your name?"

"Laurel."

The studio went silent for half a second.

Owen spoke first. "Why are you calling right now?"

He didn't apologize. His first concern was what I might say.

I tightened my grip on the phone. "I'd like to correct something. I didn't give you the silent treatment for three days, and there was no list of laundry rules. You mixed up the towels I use for my patients, and I asked you to read the label next time."

Sabine drew in a quiet breath, then laughed. "It looks like we've finally reached the legendary wife herself. But Laurel, if one towel is important enough for you to call in and defend yourself, maybe Owen wasn't entirely joking."

"I didn't call because of a towel. I called because I want to know why my husband tells you about arguments from our home so you can humiliate me in front of the entire city."

"This isn't the first time. I've let it go again and again, but your job is not to turn me into the punchline of your show."

The producer clearly hadn't reacted fast enough to cut my call.

After several seconds of dead air, Owen lowered his voice. "That's enough, Laurel. We're live."

"I know. You were live when you made me the joke, too."

"We'll talk after work."

"Why? We've already talked about this more than once. What good did it do?"

Sabine suddenly cut in. "I understand that you're upset, but Owen was only trying to make the show entertaining. He wants the listeners to enjoy themselves. A wife who supports her husband's career should understand that—"

"Don't tell me how to be his wife."

My voice was already shaking.

Sabine laughed. "I wouldn't dream of it. But Owen and I work together every day. There may be things he's more comfortable telling me. You can't treat every woman like an enemy because of that."

Before I could answer, Owen's voice turned cold.

"Apologize to her, Laurel."

For a moment, I thought I had misheard him.

"You twisted what happened in our home and used my life for entertainment. Why should I apologize to her?"

"She didn't do anything wrong. You're the one who called into our live show and attacked her."

The words struck me hard enough to hurt.

The clinic had gone frighteningly quiet. My patients, my coworkers, and every stranger in the waiting area had heard him.

I slowly ended the call.

Ten minutes later, a private message from Sabine appeared on my phone.

It contained only a photograph.

She was sitting on the arm of Owen's chair with one hand resting on his shoulder. Owen was looking down at her, still wearing the same smile I had heard in his voice minutes earlier.

Beneath the picture, she had written:

[Thanks for calling. Now the whole city knows why he'd rather talk to me.]

Another message arrived immediately afterward.

[I want your husband, Laurel. You were right about me. And I don't play nice when I want something.]