“There was no way that poor woman could’ve survived. They had to have been going fast.” The woman’s voice lowers. “When they brought her in, she was really messed up. Did you see her? The officer said she flew thirty feet. Cracked her head open on the asphalt.”
“What was she doing in the middle of the road?”
“No one knows.”
The woman sighs heavily, as if whatever she’s thinking has taken a physical toll on her. “But that’s not the worst of it. This woman’s husband—the one driving—was ejected through the windshield of their car when they veered into a tree.”
Denial flares in my gut. That’s not right—they’re mistaken. My husband couldn’t have been ejected from the car. That’s not possible….
“He was killed on impact,” one of the nurses whispers.
Beepbeep…beepbeep.
“Oh my God,” the sweet one says as she pats my hand. “She’s going to be devastated when she finds out.”
“It gets worse,” the other retorts. “I overheard the officer outside her door talking to a detective last night. They’re going to have a lot of questions for her when she wakes up. They’re going to try to arrest her for murder.”
Murder? No—this can’t be happening. As a heavy dose of medication deluges my blood, I fall into a deep, comalike sleep—one plagued with nightmares of shattered glass and blood-soaked skin and screams bubbling from the pit of hell.
BROOKE
ONE MONTH BEFORE THE ACCIDENT
“The area is an architectural dream, with Italian Renaissance, Elizabethan, and Mediterranean influences,” the real estate agent says. “There are only forty homes in Presidio Terrace, all located around one street that makes the shape of a lasso.”
Or a noose, I think, though I don’t dare speak.
“There is a twenty-four-hour guard at the front gate, and anyone using the pedestrian entrance must show proper identification.” The agent leads us through the formal dining room, featuring a table that could easily seat thirty. “Not even Google Earth can get in here. The community association negotiated for this area to remain unseen from all maps. There is a security system on the home as well, of course. It features cameras for every door, sensors on every window, and a panic button in each bedroom. It was created by the Secret Service.”
“Really?” Jack says, finally acknowledging the agent’s presence. It’s as if she’d been beneath him all this time and not worth speaking to. “Interesting.”
She nods excitedly. “The level of security here is quite extraordinary.”
Jack lets his arm fall heavily around my shoulder, and I’m not sure why but it feels fatherly. As if I’m a child he’s trying to shield from something heinous. At fifty years old, Jack is only fifteen years older than I am, though he’s aged incredibly well. I gaze up at him, admiring how smooth and tight his skin is, even though he doesn’t have a nightly facial routine. He’s clean-shaven, with one of those hardened jaw lines that must’ve manifested after years of clenching his back teeth. He takes care of his body, too. I’ve dated twenty-year-olds who don’t have the muscles he’s got. But his hair and eyes give his true age away. We’ve only been together a year—and married for ten of those months—so of course I wouldn’t know what he looks like with a full head of dark hair, but to me, his silver hair only enhances his sex appeal. And his eyes—they’re crisp blue and full of light and vitality, but when he smiles, which he doesn’t do often, tiny lines splinter from the corners. I won’t think about the size of his—ahem—wallet, but that’s impressive, too.
“Top-level security is what we’re looking for. Isn’t it?” He squeezes me against him, indicating that I’m not supposed to answer the last question. Stand silent and smile. I do as I’ve been previously instructed. “My job takes me away so much, I need to make sure my wife is protected. As a newly elected U.S. senator, I anticipate I’ll be spending most of my time in Virginia.”
“Don’t senators have to live where they’re elected?” the agent fires.
“My permanent residence will remain in Virginia. This home is for my wife.”