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CHARLOTTE

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

Time is of the essence, and yet I’m chained to the driver’s seat of the Bronco, down the street from the Benson estate, unable to drag myself inside.

How did we get here?

My own mother is blackmailing people over my love life.

What kind of psycho shit is this?

I know these elections are important to her, but for fuck’s sake.

My phone buzzes, yanking me out of my spiral.

NOAH

Are you still at the library?

I blow out a shaky breath. The deal was Noah and I would come here together, but Denny let it slip they’d all be out of the house for an event today, and it seemed like the perfect opportunity. Given Noah has a game tonight, I knew there was no way I could bother him with it. He’s already made it clear he’d tank his career for me, but I refuse to let him.

Being his wife is the safest I’ve ever felt, and I need to make sure he’s protected too. Make sure whatever my mother has on him is useless or we’re fully prepared for it. The mere thought of him being hurt by something she does makes my blood boil.

In my head, I calculate how long until I can get to the Barracudas’ stadium.

Ten minutes to find the documents.

Ninety minutes home to store them.

Thirty to the stadium.

Two hours and ten minutes… Let’s say three to play it safe. A sinking feeling settles in my stomach as I type out a reply. But this has to be done. He’ll forgive me later.

I hope.

ME

Yes. But I’m almost done

I’m going to take a quick nap at home then I’ll be there

NOAH

Awh is my wife tired from growing little Brie

My wife. The guilt sinks further, but it’s replaced by baby’s movement, reminding me why I’m doing this in the first place.

I rest a hand on my stomach. “Wish Mommy luck, little one.”

Releasing a shaky breath, I finally force myself out of the car. The driveway is empty, as expected, and I rush up to the entrance. If I’m caught, I’ll just say I came to talk. Figure something out.

The front door creaks as I push it open, and the alarm sounds. I hurry to shut it off, grateful the code hasn’t changed.

My footsteps echo through the quiet, empty halls.

The last time it was this still was after my grandma died. The estate was loud and chaotic for hours as they cleaned everything up, but once the coroners left and my parents went to the station to give their statements, it was just… silence.

A chill runs down my back. I’m not here to reminisce. I hurry to Mom’s office, and once inside, my eyes bolt around for something, anything that could contain information on Jonathan—and possibly Noah.

Remembering the overheard conversation on the Fourth and the loud banging, I opt to start with her desk. As each drawer checked comes up empty, I begin to panic.

Where else could I look?

My hand grips the handle of the bottom drawer. The last one. I yank on it, and it rattles but doesn’t budge. Locked tight.

“Bingo,” I mutter to myself, scouring the desk for something to jimmy it. A letter opener is in a cup holder, and I pluck it, shove it in the lock, and decide I don’t really care if I break the damn thing. I grab a book and bang the end of the letter opener, and it pops the lock.

“Yes!” I shout, then suck in a breath. Shit. At least try to be stealthy, Mrs. Caruso.

Sliding the drawer open, I buzz with relief and anticipation, finding a row of files. It appears to be organized by first name, and I flip through the tabs urgently.

There’s one on pretty much every member of our family, and especially our friends.

Jesus, Mom .

My fingertips pause on a folder with Jonathan’s name. I snatch it out and quickly flip through it.

Son of a bitch. She was having him—us—followed for years .

What kind of complete paranoia would someone possess to carry out this level of blackmail?

I find the picture of Jonathan snorting coke and notice Kendra behind him, a wicked grin on her face. My nose wrinkles in disgust. I’m sure his cheating tendencies far outlived the ultimatum from my mother. I slap the folder shut, set it to the side, and rifle through till my finger freezes on his name. My husband’s name: Noah Caruso/Lewis.

My stomach sinks.

She knows about his father.

Does she know about the shooting?

Will she leak it to the press?

Did she already?

Sure, it was self-defense. But the tabloids can spin a story any way they want.

My hands shake, and a glance at the clock reminds me how long I’ve been here already.

I opt to take the folder with me and examine it at home.

Continuing my search, my finger pauses on another labeled Benson Autopsy.

My heart stops. Why would this be in her archive of extortion?

A car door slams, and I spring into action. Adding the folder to the other two, I slide the drawer with the rest of the files shut, although I probably should burn them all. As I stand, something falls onto the floor.

I glance down, finding a flash drive, and before I can think, I’ve swiped it up and shoved it in my pocket. Looking around, I ensure the room appears untouched and sprint out of the office, slip out the back door, and don’t stop till I’m in my Bronco.

When I make it home, which took longer than expected thanks to an unwelcome panic attack, I’m still a fucking mess.

Rushing through the front door, I blow out a breath of relief when I lock it behind me. Noah’s right. I do feel safe here. I check my watch, thankful I told Noah I’d be a while. There are two hours till the game starts, so even with a little research beforehand, I should make it.

I head to the couch, files in hand, and sink down, flipping them open.

My jaw drops.

Photos of Noah, me, and the twins from the camping trip are inside. But not the cute ones I took of us around the campfire. They look more… aerial. Like someone shot them from far away.

Anger courses through my veins.

Flipping through the photos, I discover one of me with my head popped out of Noah’s tent, him clad in shorts, no shirt, and a flashlight in hand.

Raccoon, my ass.

I shove down the anger, continuing through the folder.

It’s all standard information. Medical records. Graduation certificate from CBU.

Damn, her private investigator is thorough.

My fingers flip to a page with the header Prisoner Release Form.

I gasp. She didn’t.

My eyes widen, scanning the page.

She did.