prologue
One Year Earlier
The smellof garlic and tomatoes filled the kitchen as Millie Anderson stirred the pasta sauce.
Biscuit, her cocker spaniel, lay in his bed by the pantry, watching her with those soulful brown eyes that seemed to understand more than a dog should.
Steam rose from the pot, fogging the window above the sink. Outside, the sun was setting over their neighborhood, where each house had a neat lawn and a two-car garage. It was the kind of street where people waved to each other and stopped to chat as they walked their dogs on the pristine sidewalks.
Everything was picture perfect . . . just like Garrick liked it.
At the thought, Millie straightened her sweater then ran a hand through her hair. She’d taken extra time to style it in long waves. She’d carefully applied her makeup.
She needed to look nice for her husband when he returned home.
She adjusted the heat and reached for the wooden spoon, her movements practiced and precise. Garrick would be home any minute. Dinner needed to be ready—not too early, not too late. Just right.
The pasta was al dente. She’d checked it twice.
The salad was in the fridge, already dressed. Garlic bread was warming in the oven.
She didn’t have to check the clock to know he was close.
The tightening in her chest was warning enough.
Biscuit lifted his head from his bed, ears perked. He’d learned to read the signs too—the way Millie’s movements became sharper, more careful when Garrick was near.
The dog stood and padded over to her, pressing against her legs.
She heard Garrick’s car in the driveway, and her shoulders tensed automatically.
She forced her shoulders down, forced her expression into something calm and welcoming as the garage door rumbled open.
You’re fine. Everything’s fine. Just don’t mess up.
The door leading from the garage opened, and Garrick stepped into the kitchen. He was still in his suit from work, tie loosened, briefcase in hand.
Her husband was handsome, successful, and the kind of man people envied her for marrying. At one time, she’d thought she wassolucky.
She’d been wrong.
“Hi, honey.” She kept her voice light. “Dinner’s almost ready. How was your day?”
“Long.” He set his briefcase on the counter. “What are we having?”
“Pasta primavera. Your favorite.”
He moved to the stove and lifted the lid on the sauce pot, peering inside.
Millie’s pulse quickened as she waited for his reaction.
“Smells good,” he finally said.
She exhaled slowly. “I’m glad. Do you want to change first or?—?”
“I’ll eat now. I’m starving.” He replaced the lid and moved toward the dining room. “Is the table set?”
“Yes. I just need to drain the pasta, and we’re ready.”
