Page 2

Chapter One

I stand in the living room, an empty box sitting at my feet, staring at the half-finished mantle on the fireplace—the only thing Brian had left to do was paint it.

“Kat, are you okay?” my friend and co-worker, Cindy, asks.

She pulls me from my thoughts, and I turn and look at her.

“I’m fine,” I lie, grabbing an empty box and taking it to the bookcase.

It has been two weeks since the break-in and my husband’s murder. Cindy and her husband, Mark, took me back to their house after my week-long hospital stay. They wouldn’t allow me to stay here. Frankly, I didn’t want to. I never wanted to step foot in the home Brian and I loved so much again.

I was only here to pack up everything because the house was going on the market soon. Georgette, my realtor, expressed concerns because she would have to disclose that a murder happened inside the home, and she was afraid she wouldn’t be able to get enough to pay off the mortgage or sell it at all.

A knock at the door rattled me. Cindy walks over and invites Sheriff Strange in.

“How are you holding up, Kat?” he asks.

“Doing my best, Lucas. Please tell me you have a lead in the case?”

“Unfortunately, we don’t. Whoever did this was meticulous. They made sure to leave nothing behind. You can’t remember anything about that night?”

I tried hard to remember for the past two weeks, but my mind was like a black screen. “No. The only thing I remember was waking up on the kitchen floor.”

Which is the truth. I have no recollection of anyone being in the house that night or the horrific events that took place.

“Okay.” He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Are you still staying with Cindy and Mark?”

“Yes, she is,” Cindy chimes in. “She will be staying with us for as long as she wants.”

“Okay.” He nods. “If we find anything, I’ll let you know.”

“Thank you, Lucas.”

He leaves the house, and I plop down on the couch, placing my face in my hands. Cindy sits down next to me and places her hand on my knee.

“Everything is going to be okay, Kat.”

But I wasn’t so sure about that. I wasn’t sure my life would ever be okay again.

Rockstead, Maine—the small town where we lived. Quiet and quaint. There hadn’t been a murder in town in over ten years. It was an accidental murder, but nonetheless. Why us? We didn’t have much. We lived in a fifteen hundred square foot cape cod-styled home with two bedrooms and two baths. It was a steal when we bought it because it needed so much work. That’s what I loved about Brian. He was a handyman and could do almost anything. We fixed up the house ourselves—new kitchen, new bathrooms, new paint, and a new staircase. It was perfect, just like he was—just like our marriage.

We were married for two and a half years and were the envy of the town. The residents called us the perfect town couple. Everyone knew everyone and everyone’s business. When I moved to Rockstead and worked at a small law firm, I never expected to meet someone as wonderful and perfect as my husband. It was love at first sight for both of us.

Brian worked for a construction company. I was an attorney, fresh out of law school when I moved here from Richmond, Virginia. My parents were killed a year before I graduated from law school in a horrible car accident. The brakes on my father’s car went out. He lost control, went off the road, and crashed into a tree. They died instantly, according to the medical examiner. They were all I had, except for Brandon, a guy I was in a six-month relationship with. After my parents were killed, I became so distant he dumped me, which was fine because I wasn’t sure why I kept seeing him in the first place. He was nice enough—even a little cute. But he wasn’t the perfect man I was searching for.

The police ruled my husband’s murder as the result of a break-in. Some of the jewelry Brian had given me was taken, along with my wedding ring. Other than those few items, nothing else in the house was touched. Detective Strange told me that they put an alert out to all the pawn shops across the country with a description of my jewelry in case the psychopath tried to pawn it.

I’m sitting in Cindy’s guestroom on a queen-sized bed, my knees planted into my chest with my arms securely wrapped around them. I sit like this often—ever since I was a child. Brian used to make fun of me and tell me I looked like a scared little girl who got in trouble, which was further from the truth. I was never scared as a child. My parents were the best any child could hope for. They took care of me, guided me, loved me, and were always there when I needed them. I probably had the best childhood of any kid in the world.

I glance at the old-fashioned clock on the nightstand. It’s two a.m. Ever since that night, I wake up at precisely two a.m. The officers found me and Brian in our home at three a.m. Brian’s time of death was two a.m., according to the medical examiner. I can’t sleep. I stare at the bottle of sleeping pills Dr. Leary prescribed sitting on the nightstand. I’d only taken two in the last two weeks. I didn’t want my body to become dependent on them. I’d never taken a sleeping pill in my life, and I wasn’t about to become addicted now.