Chapter 1

I had spent three days at the hospital with my father. When I finally came home to change clothes, my husband's ex-fiancee was asleep in our bed.

Sloane was curled up on my side, wearing my blue-gray robe. It was the last birthday gift my mother had given me before she died, and Sloane had twisted the cuff into a wrinkled knot in her fist.

The glass door from the master bedroom to the balcony stood open.

Silver-white fireworks were bursting over the Charles River, one after another, making the room flash between light and shadow. The final bursts formed a message across the night sky.

WELCOME HOME, SLOANE.

Adrian stood by the balcony, speaking on the phone. He did not turn around until he heard the bedroom door open.

His first glance went to Sloane on the bed. Then he lowered his voice and asked me, "Why are you back?"

As if I were the one intruding in our bedroom.

"The nurse told me to go home and sleep for a few hours." I looked at the robe on Sloane's body. "I also need clean clothes."

My father had collapsed at his music school three days earlier. The bypass surgery had gone well, but he still had not regained consciousness. I had called Adrian seven times. The only response I received was a text on the first night saying he was dealing with an emergency at the foundation and that I should contact his assistant if I needed anything.

Now I knew what that emergency had been.

A week earlier, I had seen a $12,800 fireworks charge in the Mercer Foundation's event budget. Adrian told me it was a private arrangement for one of the donors and that I did not need to worry about it.

Apparently, the donor was Adrian himself.

The woman in my bed stirred and slowly opened her eyes.

Sloane had been back in Boston for eight months since her divorce. She and Adrian had been engaged when they were twenty-two, before she married someone else. When Adrian first told me she was back, all he said was that her marriage had ended badly and she now suffered from severe panic attacks. An old friend needed support, he said.

The second she saw me, she sat up.

"Laurel, I didn't know you were coming home tonight."

"This is my home."

Adrian ended his call and walked into the bedroom. "She took her medication and just fell asleep. Do you really have to do this right now?"

"Why is she in our bed?"

"The hotel's fire alarm test triggered a panic attack. Her doctor said she shouldn't be alone for the next few days." His tone was calm, as if he were explaining a decision that had already been approved. "You've been staying at the hospital, so I let her move in temporarily."

"The guest room is downstairs."

"She tried it. She woke up in the middle of the night and couldn't breathe. The master bedroom has a terrace, and it's closer to my office."

I looked at him. "So you put her in our bed."

"I'm sleeping in the study." He frowned. "Laurel, she's sick."

Sloane pushed the covers back and got out of bed, stepping barefoot onto my rug.

"I can go back to a hotel." She looked around for her slippers, her voice already beginning to tremble. "I told you she wouldn't want me here."

"No one is asking you to leave." Adrian turned to her immediately. "Sit down."

Sloane's breathing grew faster. One hand clutched the collar of my robe while the other searched blindly across the nightstand and knocked over my perfume.

The bottle hit the carpet with a dull thud.

Adrian crossed the room, opened the nightstand drawer, and pulled out an orange prescription bottle. He crouched in front of her and closed his hand around her shaking fingers.

"Look at me. Breathe in slowly. You haven't done anything wrong."

That drawer used to hold my hand cream, my earrings, and an old photograph of my mother.

Now it was filled with Sloane's medication.

"Where are my things?" I asked.

Adrian did not answer.

I walked out of the bedroom and saw six cardboard boxes stacked neatly at the end of the hallway. The top one had not been sealed. My sweaters, framed photographs, and our wedding album were visible inside.

A moving company's inventory sheet rested beside them.

Master closet. Bathroom. Nightstand.

Every item was labeled with the same name: Laurel.

Destination: second-floor blue guest room.

I kept reading.

Occupant of master bedroom: Sloane Whitaker.

There was a date printed in the upper-right corner of the page.

Four days ago.

My father had not even collapsed yet.

I had not been staying at the hospital.