Our Little Secret

by Lisa Jackson

Genres: Psychological Thrillers; Suspense

Synopsis

#1 New York Times bestselling author Lisa Jackson puts a sexy, twisty, gender-reversed spin on Fatal Attraction in this addictive tale of escalating obsession, betrayal, and violent delights for readers of Peter Swanson, Allison Brennan, Carola Lovering and Stacy Willingham.

He swore he’d never let her go. She should have believed him.
 
Brooke Hastings is ready to end her six-week affair. Gideon Ross is charming and sexy, but he’s not worth throwing away her marriage and family for. So she breaks it off, hoping Gideon will understand.   
 
He doesn’t. Gideon insists that he and Brooke are meant to be together. Finally, he backs off, but not before issuing a promise: he’ll never let her go.  
 
Six years later, Brooke wants to believe it’s all behind her. Her family has survived intact. Gideon has vanished.    
 
But the fear hasn’t disappeared. Brooke can’t tell how much of it is paranoia, and how much is justified, but she’s worried. And maybe she’s right to be.     
 
Because Gideon is a man who keeps his promises . . .

Release date: June 25, 2024

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 384

Sample

“How far would you go?”

Gideon’s words stopped Brooke short. She was already late and she felt the seconds ticking by. Turning in the small cabin of his sailboat, she found him where she’d left him, lying on his bed, his tanned body entangled in the sheets, dark hair falling over his forehead.

“What do you mean?”

He pushed himself upward, levering on an elbow, muscles visible beneath his tanned skin, gray eyes assessing. As if he knew. Outside a seagull cried, and she caught its image flying past masts of neighboring sailboats, then skimming over the gray waters of the bay.

Tell him. Get it over with. End this now!

“For something you wanted,” he said, and he wasn’t smiling. “How far would you go?”

“I don’t know.” She finger combed her tousled hair, then started for the short flight of stairs leading to the deck. “Pretty far, I guess.” She glanced at her watch. “Look, I really have to go.”

Tell him.

“Wait.” He rolled off the bed, and she noticed his tattoo, a small octopus inked at his nape, barely visible when his hair grew long. He caught her wrist, spinning her back to face him. A little over six feet, he was lean and fit, his skin bronzed from hours in the sun. “Why don’t you ask me?” he said and he leaned down to touch his forehead to hers. His fingertips moved against the inside of her wrist and his pupils darkened a bit. Tell him! that damned inner voice insisted. Tell him now!

“Ask you?”

“How far I’d go.”

Her heart started beating a little quicker, his fingers so warm, the boat rocking slightly under her feet. “Okay,” she said, and hated the whispery tone of her voice. “Okay. How far would you go?”

“For something I wanted? For the person I was supposed to be with?” His gaze locked with hers and the breath caught in the back of her throat. The walls of the boat’s tiny cabin seemed to shrink, and for a heartbeat it was as if they were the only two people on earth. He leaned close and whispered in her ear, “I would do anything.” She swallowed hard.

He repeated, “Anything.”

“Anything?” She couldn’t keep the skepticism from her voice.

His gaze held hers. “If I had to, I would kill.”

Seattle traffic was a nightmare.

And she was late.

Of course.

Not only had she chickened out and not told Gideon that what they’d shared for the past few months was over, she was running late. Again.

“Come on, come on,” she said, as much to herself as to the other drivers in the snarl of vehicles clogging the streets. She drove her SUV through the knots of vehicles, slipping from one lane to another, then turning her Explorer onto a steep side street, hoping to avoid the crush heading to the freeway.

“Come on, come on,” she muttered as she caught up with a huge red pickup that inched forward. She glanced at the clock on the dash. She was supposed to be at the school in five minutes. At this rate it would take an hour! She pounded on the horn just as they reached a construction site.

The pickup, laden with a load of cordwood, eased past the orange cones guarding a wide hole in the asphalt as a bearded construction worker held up a stop sign. Though his eyes were shielded by aviator sunglasses, he glared at her through the windshield, daring her to try to slip past.

She didn’t. Waited. Impatiently drummed her fingers on the steering wheel while a monstrous backhoe, alarm beeping, backed into the street, then moved forward. It was a warm day for October in Seattle, sunlight streaming through her dusty windshield. And the backhoe seemed to inch its way across the street.

“Oh, come on!”

She wouldn’t make it.

Especially now.

Great.

“Damn.”

She picked up her cell phone and texted her daughter: Running late. On my way.

How many times had she typed in those exact words and sent them to Marilee? At least once a week, often times more. Especially recently.

Marilee, all of fourteen, no, wait, “almost fifteen,” would be pissed.

So what else was new?

Spewing exhaust, the backhoe inched forward, a hefty driver working levers to scrape up huge chunks of concrete and asphalt. In what seemed like slow motion, he swung his bucket high into the air, then tilted it to pour his load into the box of a massive, idling dump truck.

The minutes ticked by before the backhoe started moving out of the street and into an alley.

“Finally.”

Her cell phone rang. Startling her.

Then she realized it wasn’t her cell, not the one registered on her family plan with Neal and Marilee but her other phone. The burner. Not connected to her Bluetooth. The secret phone no one knew about. No one but Gideon. She flipped open the console, scraped out the bottom of the small space, and found the burner. Yanking it from its hiding space, she glanced at the screen.

She didn’t recognize the number.

“What the hell?”

She answered abruptly, her foot easing up on the brake. “Hello.”

A pause.

Her SUV started rolling forward.

“Hello?” she said sharply again.

The street cleared and the flagger turned his sign from Stop to Slow.

A rough, whispered voice was barely audible over the rumble of engines and shouts of men on the work crew. “He’s not who you think he is.”

“What?” she said, straining to hear. “Who’s not—who is this?”

The call disconnected.

Her heart sank. Someone knew! Oh God, she’d been found out.

She blinked, staving off a panic attack. No one was supposed to know. No one did. Of course no one did. The call had to be a mistake. Someone who had punched in the wrong numbers. That was it. Sweat began to moisten her fingers and she mentally kicked herself for not having the guts to break it off earlier. She hadn’t even found the courage to tell him today.

“Chickenshit,” she grumbled. “Coward.”

The flagger was motioning her through, frantically waving his arm, but her mind was on the message. What if it wasn’t a wrong number? What if someone knew? Oh God.

She stepped on the gas, her heart pounding, her pulse pounding in her ears.

This couldn’t be happening—From the corner of her eye, she saw a blur of yellow, a sports car speeding around her, cutting her off.

“Jesus!” she cried, nearly standing on the brakes as the disgusted workman kept waving her through, though he gave the yellow car a shake of his head.

But the Porsche was already through the construction zone and caught at the next light. “Idiot!” she muttered under her breath, driving forward, hoping to make the light as it started to turn green.

The burner jangled again.

What the hell?

The same unknown number showed on the screen.

Oh. God.

She answered sharply. “I don’t know who you are, but you’ve got the wrong number!”

A pause, and then the whispered voice: “I don’t think so, Brooke.”

The caller knew her name?

“Who is this?” she demanded, frantic. Oh no, no, no . . .

“He’s not who you think he is.” The voice—male? Female? Old? Young? She couldn’t tell. “You’d better be careful—”

Bam!

The front end of her Explorer slammed into the back of the sports car with a horrendous crunch of metal and plastic.

Her body jerked.

The seat belt snapped hard.

“Shit!” She hit the brakes, dropped the phone, her pulse shooting to the stratosphere.

The Porsche screeched to a stop.

The car behind her—a white boat of a thing with an elderly man at the wheel, his wife beside him—stopped within an inch of plowing into her. The driver looked up, startled. In front of her, the guy in the damaged Porsche jumped out of his car and strode to her window.

“What the fuck?” he yelled, his face all kinds of red, his jeans and black T-shirt faded and worn over a large, burly frame.

As she rolled down her window a little further, he yanked the hat from his head and threw the Mariners cap onto the pavement. “You fuckin’ hit my car!”

Her mind was racing, her breathing shallow. “You started to go, then stopped.”

“So what? You’re supposed to have control of your vehicle. You hit me, lady!” He jerked a hand toward the curb. “And if you’d been paying attention, you would have noticed, a kid—that kid—was playing with a ball near the curb!” He stabbed a finger at the boy—four or five years old from the looks of him—staring at them with wide, frightened eyes. “The ball rolled into the street,” the driver explained and she peeked past his angry body to see a basketball still rolling slowly on the pavement in front of a stopped van in the opposite lane. “I thought the kid might run after it. Jesus, what are you? A fuckin’ moron?”

There was no way to deny it. When she looked to the near side of the street, she saw an older woman dragging the kid into an apartment house.

“You’re just damned lucky he didn’t chase the fuckin’ thing!” The driver was still ranting. “Cuz if he did? And I didn’t hit him? You sure the hell would have.”

Her heart knocked painfully. He was right. She’d been so distracted by the phone call, by Gideon, by all of her messed-up life that she hadn’t been paying attention. At least not enough attention.

But it would be fine—just some twisted metal. Nothing more. Nothing life-threatening. Thank God.

She peered up at him. “Are you okay?”

“Do I look okay?” he demanded, his bald head glistening in the sunlight, wraparound sunglasses hiding his eyes. Beneath a two- or three-days’ growth of beard, a muscle in his jaw was working overtime.

“I don’t know.”

“Well, I’m not. Thanks to you. And my car! Shit, I just got the temporary plates removed! Brand-new and now—Now? Fuck!” He stripped off his sunglasses and looked about to throw them as he had the cap, then thought better of it and pushed the mirrored shades back onto the bridge of his nose. “Do you know what this is?” he said, jabbing a finger at his car. “Do you?” Before she could answer, he filled her in. “It’s a fuckin’ Nine-eleven! Did you hear me? A fuckin’ Nine-eleven.”

“Got it!” she shot back, her temper spiking. She gritted her teeth and tried to remain calm, even though this jerkwad was punching all of her buttons and her nerves were frayed to the breaking point.

The man in the white behemoth of a sedan had stepped onto the street. “We saw the whole thing,” he shouted from behind the open car door. “If anyone needs a witness. Aggie and I saw it all.” He motioned toward his wife, sitting stiffly on the passenger side of his Buick.

“Are you all right?” Brooke asked, yelling out her open window as other cars eased past them. “And your wife?”

“Yeah, yeah, we’re both fine,” the old guy said, flapping a hand.

Thank God.

To the angry driver, she said, “I think maybe we’d better pull over,” noting the crowd that had gathered on the edge of the street. “Get each other’s information.”

“Fuckin’ A,” he said. “You’re goddamned right we’re going to do that! You’re fuckin’ gonna pay for this!” He motioned to his car before jabbing a finger at her face. “This is on you.” Then he yanked his phone from his pocket, snapped a picture of her Explorer’s license plate before motioning jerkily to the parking lot of a strip mall across the street. “Over there,” he ordered.

He swiped his cap from the street and jammed it onto his head. As he climbed into his car, he shot her a look guaranteed to cut through steel.

“Ass,” she said under her breath and watched as he rammed his sports car into gear before roaring across a lane of traffic to nearly bottom out as he hit a speed bump in the parking lot.

Served him right. Yeah, she was at fault, but the guy was being a jerk about it. She slid her Explorer into a parking slot in front of a FedEx and got out of her vehicle to survey the damage. The front bumper was destroyed, crumpled beyond repair, a headlight cracked, and who knew what else? But the Porsche had fared worse, a huge dent in the back end, paint scraped away, the hood creased.

“Jesus, would you look at that,” the driver said, stalking to the back of his car and shaking his head at the dented metal, twisted to the point that she caught a glimpse of the engine. “I’m lucky I can still drive it. The engine’s in the back, if you didn’t know.”

“I do know.” From what she could see, the engine didn’t appear to be damaged.

“Who taught you how to drive?” he asked.

Her temper flared hotter and her back stiffened. No way would she tell him she learned to drive a tractor at eleven, a truck for the fields of her uncle’s farm at thirteen. None of his business. With an effort, she held her tongue. Don’t get into it with him. It’s not worth it! You have other problems to deal with, bigger than this ass’s car. “Let’s just exchange phone numbers and information,” she suggested as evenly as possible.

“But it’s all your fault. You rear-ended me.”

“I get that,” she shot back, her temper snapping. “Okay? I was there!”

“Good.” He started back to his car.

“But you don’t have to be a prick about it.”

He whirled, his face contorted. “What did you say?”

“That you don’t have to be a prick.” She’d had it with the jerk. “Yeah, the car’s a mess. Mine too, but what’s done is done, so let’s just get down to business.”

“‘A mess?’ Do you have any idea how much this car costs?”

“A lot. Yeah, I know. But yelling at me about it won’t help.”

“‘Yelling at me won’t help,’” he singsonged back at her.

She bit back another hot retort, refused to be baited any further, and took a picture of her insurance card with the camera in her phone. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw people collecting on the curb. “I’ll text this to you. What’s your number? Oh, and send me yours.”

Grudgingly, jaw set, he rattled off his cell number and she, ignoring the curious looks from cars and trucks driving slowly by, typed it in. “I’m Brooke Harmon.”

“Jim Gustafson. But James. Legally. It’s James.”

“Got it.”

“Good, so, you know, when you hear from my lawyer.”

“Great. Your attorney can contact mine: Neal Harmon.”

He stiffened slightly, obviously catching the connection.

She filled him in anyway. “My husband.”

He frowned slightly and she felt a second’s satisfaction, then she offered Jim—legally James—a cold smile and sent the text before glancing up from her phone again and spying her distorted image in the lenses of his sunglasses. “We’ll let the insurance companies sort it out.”

“Not much to sort. Remember, I got witnesses. I took pictures of the license plates of the cars that were nearby. And that old guy and his wife in the Buick? They saw it all.” Gustafson’s smile was smug. Proud of himself.

“Good. Then we’re done here.” She only hoped it was true as she caught a glimpse of the flashing blue and red lights of a police cruiser in her mirror.

“Iowe you,” Brooke said an hour later via Bluetooth in her dented Explorer as she drove. She was still rattled, her nerves stretched from the accident and the disturbing call.

From the other end of the connection, Andrea said, “Don’t worry about it! Seriously.” Andrea, who had been her friend since Marilee and Andrea’s daughter, Zuri, met in kindergarten. Now, once again, Brooke had asked her to come to the rescue this afternoon.

She had texted Andrea earlier, while still dealing with Gustafson, and asked her friend to pick up Marilee at the high school. Of course Andrea had stepped up, located Marilee at the school, and given her a ride to the athletic club where they had a membership. Brooke had texted her daughter as well, but Marilee hadn’t responded.

No surprise there.

Now, Brooke maneuvered her dented car into the parking lot of the club and pulled into a spot with a view of the gym’s tall windows. Beyond the glass, teenage girls were clustered around the gymnastic equipment. Brooke caught a glimpse of Marilee dressed in her leotard and shorts. “You’re a lifesaver,” she said to Andrea, then cut the engine.

“You’d do the same for me.”

“In a heartbeat.”

“So there you go. Don’t give it another thought. Besides, you’ll pay me back.”

“Of course. Name the time.”

“Oh well . . . maybe next week? Zuri’s got piano again and I’ve got to take DJ to the pediatrician at the same time.”

“Done.” Brooke nodded as if Andrea could see her. “Just text me a reminder.”

“Will do. Hey—I just got a call from Joanna Nelson; you know her, right? She’s Kinsey’s mother.”

Kinsey, a redhead with freckles, was another student in Marilee’s class. The two girls had been close in elementary school but drifted into different cliques in junior high. “Yeah, the girls used to hang out.”

“She says there’s a girl missing from the class. Allison Carelli. Two days now. The police have been called in. As you can expect, Alli’s mother, Elyse, is freaking out. Has no idea where she is. Has called all the friends and hospitals and everywhere.”

“And they can’t find her,” Brooke said, feeling a drip of dread. She knew Allison of course, a quiet, petite girl with curly black hair, blue eyes, and an attitude that bordered on sullen.

“Gone without a trace.”

“Two days?” Brooke whispered, sick inside. She told herself that two days, forty-eight hours, wasn’t all that long, but she knew better. If Marilee were missing two hours, she would be going out of her mind.

“The police think Allison might be a runaway, but Elyse doesn’t buy it. Neither does Joanna, who knows the family pretty well. Alli’s a good kid, you know. Average student, on the swim team, low key—shit, I hate this stuff. Scares the hell out of me.”

“Dear God.” Brooke bit her lip. “Maybe she’ll turn up.” She tried to sound hopeful despite the little drip of dread that was becoming a steady stream.

Two girls in two years.

“Maybe, but Penny Williams didn’t,” Andrea said, as if reading Brooke’s thoughts. “And that’s been what—like nearly a year?”

Brooke was nodding. Penelope Williams just hadn’t come home from school last fall. Since then the girl, in the class above Marilee’s, hadn’t been located.

Brooke’s gaze was still centered on the oversize windows, her thoughts taking a dark turn when she thought about the missing girl and the pain her mother must have been feeling. If anything happened to Marilee, she would lose it. Absolutely lose it.

“Well, everyone’s freaking out. I even got a call from Austin Keller; you know him, right? The fireman?”

“Yes.” She smiled. “I’ve known Austin since high school. A shame about his wife.” Stacey was a classmate as well and had died a couple years ago in a biking accident.

“He called. Worried sick. Single dad. Only kid.” She let out a sigh. “You know, he always asks about you.”

“Really?”

“Mm.”

“Weird. I had such a crush on him my freshman year.” She caught movement from the corner of her eye. A low-riding Honda wheeled into the lot, taking a space three slots down, the thump of bass audible through the driver’s open window. He, a boy of about eighteen, cut the engine and unfolded his lanky frame from the car before heading toward the glass doors.

From the other end of the connection, Andrea said, “Oh crap, look at the time! Sorry, I’ve gotta run. DJ can’t seem to find his soccer cleats for the third time this week. But warn Marilee, okay? About Alli. We need to be super-vigilant. More than ever. Later!” And then she was gone.

Leaning back in the seat, Brooke bit her lip. New fears crowded through her mind as she continued to watch her daughter. Marilee, her near-black hair pulled back into a long ponytail, was currently going through her routine. Her face was set, her expression determined, her shoulder muscles straining as she spun around the upper bar, then swung to the lower bar while her coach, a fit woman pushing forty, stood nearby.

At fourteen, her daughter was a good if not stellar student and a dedicated if not naturally talented athlete. Also, in Brooke’s opinion, Marilee seemed more mature than some of her friends, and, as an only child, more than a little self-centered. Then again, what teenager wasn’t? And having a sibling didn’t make everything all peaches and cream. Didn’t Brooke know that from personal experience? It wasn’t as if having a sister had helped smooth out the treacherous road of adolescence for her. In fact, it had only deepened the ruts.

And as for being self-centered?

Was Marilee any worse than Brooke? She had only to remember rear-ending the car in front of her to remind herself of her total self-absorption.

How had she missed the warning of the Porsche’s glowing taillights? And how had she not seen the kid with the ball in the street ahead? The boy could have been seriously injured or even worse. And what about the older couple in the Buick behind her? They had appeared fragile and certainly could have sustained serious injuries. Maybe even had a stroke or a heart attack from the stress? Who knew? Not to mention the ass she’d rear-ended. More than his ego could have been bruised had her Explorer pushed his car into oncoming traffic.

Still, Gustafson was a prick. A major prick! And she’d hated that she had felt forced to play the my-husband-is-a-lawyer card, but the jerk had goaded her into it.

But what about the call she’d received? Who was behind the whispered warning?

He’s not who you think he is.

The single sentence revolved through her mind in an endless loop.

Someone was aware of her affair with Gideon Ross. Someone who had her private phone number.

Who?

Until that call, she’d believed only she and Gideon knew of their involvement. Brooke had told no one. But what about Gideon? How did she know she could trust him to keep his lips sealed?

A sick feeling came over her.

What had she been thinking? Why had she gotten involved with him in the first place?

Before she allowed herself to go there, to get into her own psyche, she reminded herself that she was going to break it off with him anyway. Time to calm down. It wasn’t a problem.

Yet.

And there were bigger issues to worry about with the girls missing from Allsworth High.

She picked up the burner phone, studied the Recent Call menu, but there had been no name attached to the warning call. Just “Unknown Caller” and a phone number. Without thinking twice, she hit the button to return the call. It rang, and she felt her whole body tense. She would demand answers.

Who are you?

What do you want?

What do you mean, “he’s not who you think he is?”

What the hell do you think you know?

And, most importantly, she’d issue her own warning: Don’t ever call me again.

But she never got the chance. The phone disconnected after the fifth—or was it the sixth—ring? No voicemail.

Her stomach roiled. This was no good. Her secret fling had been discreet and now short-lived, but someone knew. And they were calling.

Who? Her mind spun with possibilities and came up empty. She’d been careful.

But what about Gideon? How careful had he been?

Fingers trembling slightly, she tried to send a text to the number.

That didn’t work either.

“Awesome,” she said to the empty car. “Just freakin’ awesome.” She’d given out the burner phone’s number to no one but Gideon. But someone had it. Someone, she assumed, who knew it belonged to her.

Frustrated all over again, she leaned back in the driver’s seat, the accidents ever-more horrifying what-if scenes playing through her mind. She was at fault for the accident with the Porsche. No doubt about it. And the whole situation could have ended up so much worse. As it was, no one was injured, unless she counted her own pride. That definitely took a hit and was bruised black and blue.

Maybe it was a sign, she thought, watching Marilee dismount and converse with her coach before approaching the balance beam.

Brooke told herself she didn’t really believe in omens or curses or signs from a higher power, but sometimes she sensed there was more going on than met the eye. She and her sister were brought up in a strict Catholic household. Her grandmother was always reminding her that the devil was lurking just over her shoulder, that God was expecting her to sin and ready to mete out his painful punishment.

Their summer cabin on the island, passed for generations in Brooke’s mother’s family, had once been filled with Nana’s religious artifacts. Jesus statues adorned the mantel. Candles, most decorated with the Sacred Heart of Jesus, were placed on the hearth. Pictures of the Madonna graced the walls. Rosaries were draped over bedposts and crucifixes were nailed over doorways, inside and out. When Brooke was a kid the cabin was a shrine to Christ. Over the years, after Nana’s passing, most of the candles, crucifixes, and rosaries were packed away.

Despite her own teenage rebellion, some of the beliefs and teachings of the Church had rubbed off on Brooke. Her grandmother had always looked for signs that God was talking to her. So maybe, today, He was turning his attention to Mary O’Hara’s granddaughter. The accident a warning of her sins.

“Yeah right.”

Either way, it was time to end the affair. She’d even thought about doing it earlier that afternoon when she’d been with Gideon but had lost her nerve.

She glanced at her watch. Marilee’s lesson would be over in ten minutes. More than enough time. She glanced around and saw no one nearby, but she turned on the engine again, rolled up the window, and with the AC blasting dialed Gideon’s number on her burner phone.

He picked up on the third ring. “Hey, babe.”

His voice caused the breath to catch in her lungs. Jesus. Even though she hated him referring to her as “babe.” Even though she was mad as hell at him.

“What’s up?” he asked.

“Who did you give this number to?” she demanded, her voice edgy.

“What? No one.”

“You’re sure?”

He laughed. “Of course I’m sure. Why would I tell anyone? That’s what makes it special, you and me, right? Just our little secret.”

She plunged on. “So then why did I get this weird call, like some kind of warning? From an anonymous caller.”

“A warning?”

“Yes.”

“About what?” he demanded.

“Us—or, more specifically, about you.”

“Me?” he said, the timbre of his voice changing slightly, the laughter having drained away.

“Yeah. They said, ‘He’s not who you think he is.’”

“And they were talking about me?”

“Who else?”

“Anyone. Neal, to begin with.” He was getting defensive. “Who was it? Who called?”

“I told you, I don’t know.”

“You didn’t recognize the voice?”

“No! That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.” Her voice had elevated an octave and she held the phone in a death grip as she stared through the dusty windshield.

“So what? You think l told someone and they called you?”

“I don’t know what to think, but someone knows.”

A pause. “Maybe it’s a prank.”

“Oh right, what’re the chances of that?” Was he being dense on purpose? Outside a crow flew onto a nearby tree.

“I don’t know. I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Now he was just being obtuse.

Tell him. Tell him now!

She gathered the courage she hadn’t found earlier. “So maybe we should cool it,” she said, her heart racing.

“What?” he said, a cautionary note in his voice. “What’re you talking about?”

She drew in a long breath, then plunged in. “I’ve been thinking for a while now. And I don’t really know how to say this, because it’s new territory for me, but I guess it’s best to just come out with it. Gideon, I’m done.”

“You’re—?”

“What we had?” she cut in quickly. “It was great. Okay? But it’s over.”

She waited, the silence stretching long.

Ten seconds. Fifteen. Twenty. Then, finally, “You’re kidding. Right?”

“No. Not kidding. Dead serious. I can’t do this anymore.”

Another achingly long pause, then, tentatively, “But . . . why?”

“Because it’s wrong, Gideon. We both know it.” She stared through the windshield but couldn’t see Marilee in the glare. “I have a family. And I don’t know what I was thinking to let this go so far, but I just can’t go on with it. I won’t. I’m a married woman, for God’s sake. I’ve got a kid.”

Yet another stunned silence. Then only, “Wow.”

She waited.

As if he finally understood, he said, “I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything.”

“You were just here.”

“I know.” She didn’t admit that she’d been too nervous to say what was on her mind to his face, that she’d planned to break it off for weeks. “It’s been coming a long, long time.”

“As I said, you were just here,” he argued, his voice a little harsher.

She cringed as she eyed the half-drunk cup of iced coffee melting in the cup holder, the dry cleaning tossed into the back seat with her gym bag, all part of her alibi if she were asked what she’d done all afternoon.

Lies.

All lies.

Well, it was over.

But Gideon still was not believing her. He said, “You could have given me a heads-up. You know, when we were together. If it’s been on your mind for so long, why didn’t you say anything?”

“I wasn’t sure.”

“But you are now?” Skepticism tinged his voice.

“Yes.” No hesitation. The time was right.

More seconds passed, and she watched a jet rising