“Well, it’s not exactly warm and fuzzy, but I’ll take it. And I wasn’t lying when I said I was done with that life, Christy-Lynn. It cost me a great deal to walk away, but I did it. Because I was tired of looking in the mirror and not liking what I saw. I wanted to do something worthwhile, something that made me remember who I was before they got their hooks in me. Except, I’m still not sure I know. Sounds crazy, doesn’t it? Not knowing who you are?”

She had been staring out over the lake. She turned to face him. “Actually, it doesn’t. Sound crazy, I mean. Sometimes things happen, things we can’t control, and it knocks us down—hard. Getting up isn’t easy.” She turned back toward the glass. “Sometimes it’s impossible.”

“The woman,” Wade said quietly. “The one in the car with Stephen when he died. That’s what you meant by things we can’t control.”

“Yes.”

“And what else?”

“Nothing.” She shrugged, stepping away from the door. “I don’t know. Questions. The kind that creep in when the initial numbness starts to wear off. How long had it been going on? Did he love her?” She paused, hugging her arms tight to her body. “Was it my fault?”

“Did you just say was it your fault?”

Her eyes slid from his. “Men cheat because they’re trying to make up for something they’re not getting at home.”

“Who the hell sold you that load of crap? Cosmo?”

The harsh response startled her. It also got under her skin. “Okay, you’re the expert on male behavior. Why do you think he did it?”

“Because he was Stephen. And because he thought he could get away with it.”

She avoided his gaze, running her eyes around the small kitchen; knotty pine cabinets with wrought iron hardware, a plate rail over the sink stacked with thick brown stoneware. “I could’ve been a better wife,” she finally blurted. “Maybe that’s why he went looking. Because I wasn’t enough.”

Wade shook his head, either annoyed or baffled. “Men like Stephen don’t cheat because they’re missing something at home, Christy-Lynn. They cheat because they’re missing something inside, so they take what they want and make it theirs, because they need to fill up all that empty space. That’s what this woman was. A space filler, something he wanted and took. It wasn’t about you.”

She stared at him, weighing his words. “How do you know?”

“Experience.”

He’d said it without flinching, as if there was no other answer possible, and suddenly she realized this was what she’d come for. Not to deliver some grudging apology, but to connect with someone who had known her husband, another human being who knew the man—perhaps the real man—she had married.

“Thank you,” she said quietly.

“For what?”

“Listening, I guess. There are so many things I don’t know, so many questions without answers. I haven’t really talked to anyone about any of it, unless you count Detective Connelly, and he’s not doing much talking these days.”

“Have you thought about going over his head?”

“I’ve threatened to.”

“Threatening isn’t doing.”

There it was again, the undisguised rebuke she had detected earlier, plucking at nerves already exposed and raw. “I’ve been a little busy getting the store open,” she replied coolly. “But the last time I spoke with him, he assured me I’d be wasting my time.”

“How long ago was that?”

“I don’t know. A few months.”

“So that’s it? You just took his word? A few minutes ago, you said you had all kinds of questions, and now you tell me you haven’t spoken to him in months. It’s none of my business, but maybe it’s time to ask yourself if you really want to know.”

Christy-Lynn felt her spine stiffen. He had a way of locking on her eyes, holding them until she wanted to squirm. A natural trait, she wondered, or something he had cultivated as a reporter? Either way, it was unnerving.

“And what is that supposed to mean?”

“Just that sometimes not knowing is easier than coming face-to-face with the facts. Believe me, I have some experience with this. The facts may suck, but they’re still the facts. Pretending they’re not never works.”

“You think I’m pretending?”

“I think you’re hiding. And I get why. Just don’t be surprised if you reach a point where it stops working.”

Hiding. It was the perfect word for what she’d been doing. Dodging uncomfortable truths while pretending to be too busy to pick up the phone. Because what then? Knowing the truth meant having to do something about it, didn’t it? She’d have to process it, somehow. Own it. Live with it. Was she prepared to do that?

“I think I’d better go.”

“I’m not judging, Christy-Lynn.”

“Aren’t you?”

“Just . . . observing.”

“It’s hard to tell the difference.”

Wade ran a hand through his hair, smiling awkwardly. “Look, I’m not trying to be a jerk. I just seem to have knack for it. As you’ve probably guessed, I have a habit of stating my opinion whether it’s wanted or not. For what it’s worth, I usually mean well.”