“One of his guys?”

“An investigator. At least that’s what he calls them. A little shady, but they aren’t shy when it comes to turning over rocks.”

“And?”

“And nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“No arrests. No public records. Sketchy work history—waitressing mostly, a stint at the local grocer. He did manage to dig up an old yearbook photo from Riddlesville High, which he e-mailed to me if you really want it, but that was the extent of it. It would appear Miss Rawlings kept a pretty low profile before hitching her wagon to Stephen’s.”

Christy-Lynn stared down at the spaghetti congealing on her plate as she absorbed the information, trying to make sense of her disappointment. Wade had been right. She’d been kidding herself, thinking a name would be enough. She wanted more, needed more. But what exactly? Did she even know?

“Sorry,” Wade said, interrupting her thoughts. “That last crack was indelicate.”

“Yes, but factual. It seems your friend was very thorough. I was just hoping—” She paused, shaking her head. “I don’t know what I was hoping.”

“The things you want to know aren’t something a reporter or PI is going to be able to get at. No one will. You understand that, right?”

Christy-Lynn picked up the page of notes, running a finger thoughtfully along one of its creases. “I could talk to the grandmother—to Loretta.”

“Christy-Lynn . . .”

“She’s a woman. She’ll understand me needing to know.”

“No. She won’t. Her loss is different than yours. She lost a granddaughter, not a philandering husband.”

Christy-Lynn folded the paper and laid it in her lap. “I just want the dream to stop.”

Wade said nothing for a moment, as if weighing his next words very carefully. “Before, it was just her name. Now it’s where they met and how long ago. There’s a point where wanting to know becomes something else, Christy-Lynn.”

She heaved a sigh. “I know. I know. It’s crazy.”

“No. Not crazy. But painful. And not just for you. The woman just lost her granddaughter. Think about how you’d feel in her shoes.”

“It’s not like I’d be badgering her. We’d just . . . talk.”

“Woman to woman, you mean?”

There was no mistaking his sarcasm. Christy-Lynn stood and moved to the railing. “You don’t understand.”

“No, I don’t. Because we talked about this when you first came to me. I told you I needed to be sure you weren’t going to use whatever you found out to cause trouble. And here you are, thinking about doing exactly that.”

Christy-Lynn turned to face him. “Yes, here I am. And I meant what I said. This isn’t about causing trouble. It’s about a ghost—a woman whose name I don’t know, whose face I see every time I close my eyes.”

“I understand the pain you must be feeling. What I don’t understand is how you think what you’re talking about is going to fix any of it? Stephen’s dead. Honey’s dead. And you’re here in Sweetwater, starting a new life. Maybe that needs to be enough.”

She forced her eyes to his, her throat burning with the effort it took not to tear up. “What if it isn’t?”

“Did you love him?”

“What?”

“Before all this—did you love Stephen?”

Christy-Lynn’s mouth worked soundlessly, sensing a trap in the question. “He was my husband,” she said finally.

“So a ring, a piece of paper? That’s love?”

“It was a commitment.” She shifted her gaze toward the lake where a pair of egrets waded near shore. “Or it was supposed to be.”

“It takes two people to make a commitment work, Christy-Lynn.”

“I suppose.”

“Are you going to contact Loretta Rawlings?”

She thought about the question. He was right. Of course he was right. About all of it. So why couldn’t she let it go? “I don’t know,” she answered finally. “I know you think I shouldn’t, and you’re probably right, but I need some time.”

“Time for what?”

She looked at him then, shaking her head. “I don’t know that either.”

TWENTY-FOUR

Sweetwater, Virginia

May 18, 2017

It had taken Christy-Lynn more than a week to make her decision. A week of grappling with her conscience, of weighing a wife’s right to know against a grandmother’s right to grieve in private, of struggling with her promise to Wade.

Honey Rawlings.

She had waited for the stab of jealousy the first time she heard the name, had braced for the squeeze in her chest, the heaviness in the pit of her stomach, the things any red-blooded wife should feel. But it hadn’t come. Instead, she’d felt only an obsessive curiosity. And shame that she had been so blind, so gullible, so unplugged from her own marriage.

Had Stephen really been that good at covering his tracks, or had she simply stopped paying attention? She cringed as she recalled Wade’s point-blank question. Did you love him? Her response couldn’t have been more tepid if they’d been talking about her mailman.