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Grant and I rode in silence to the surgery center. I closed my eyes, willing the Ambien I had taken that morning to hit.

“Kellan’s a good doctor,” Grant said, his voice tight. “Everything will be fine. He has a good team. A good anesthesiologist.”

I looked over, surprised at the tenor of his tone. His fingers were wrapped around the wheel, the tendons in the backs of his hands visible from the strain. “What are you, worried?”

“Of course I am. You’re going under. Things happen.” He swallowed. “It will be fine,” he repeated. “I’m sure it will be.”

“If something did happen to me, you’d be okay,” I pointed out. “Just add more hours to Madeline and keep Paige on. No biggie.”

He glanced at me. “I can’t tell if you’re joking.”

“Well, you would have to get a manager for the complexes,” I allowed. “But to be honest, nothing I do with them is that difficult. Anyone with basic organization skills and intelligence could do it.”

“I’m not thinking about the apartments,” he snapped. “I’m thinking about the emotional impact. The loss of you as a person.”

“Oh.” That’s right. People were supposed to mourn. I needed to add that to my list. “How do you think you would handle it if I died? What do you think your reaction would be?”

“I would be destroyed.” He reached over and grabbed my hand. “I know what I was like with Lucy, and it ... I stopped knowing how to live for a period of time. I was just blinded by hate and rage and the deep, deep sadness. It was like falling down a well of hell, one where no one could reach you, no one could hear you screaming, no one understood. That’s what I would go through if you passed. What Sophie would go through.”

“Oh.” I studied his face and mentally repeated the words, trying to cement them in my mind. They were great. I couldn’t use them verbatim—that would raise his suspicions—but what a great visual to think of when I spoke to the media fresh after the event. Maybe I should have a mental episode. Freak out enough to be sedated. That would play well for the cameras and the story. Like falling into a deep well of hell.

“I can’t believe your focus was on the implementation details of our lives.” He squeezed my hand as his attention returned to the road.

“Well, I guess that’s because that’s what I’ve been thinking about the last two weeks,” I said lightly. “Getting everything handled for this week when I’m out of commission.”

“Kellan is a good doctor,” he repeated, as if convincing himself of the fact. “You’ll do fine.”

Impulsively, I undid my seat belt and leaned over, kissing him on the cheek. “I will, don’t worry. I’m a hard girl to kill.”

I settled back in my seat, glowing from the concern he’d shown. Of course, he’d ruined it with that mention of Lucy. The bitch had been dead more than twenty years, and I was still competing with her, but that was okay. I’d had him in ways she never did. There was no way his love for me wasn’t greater. If her death had pushed him down a well, mine would open up a crater.

Maybe Sophie’s death will break him. That would be an interesting turn of the coin. I had no interest in nursing him through a mourning period and pulling him out of some well of Sophie-triggered sorrow. That wouldn’t sit right with me. I didn’t need her to be a martyr in our relationship, and right now, seeing him get this worked up over a simple plastic surgery ... I could see it happening. Him moping about. Breaking into tears. Babbling about Sophie to anyone who would listen. Taking my time, my limelight.

Which was why he needed to be clearly identified as the villain. The public could debate over whether he was the original Folcrum killer or just working with him ... but he needed to have his shiny father-of-the-year crown gone from his head before the press descended and decided whom to shower with love and whom to shit on. I didn’t need his grief to be constantly compared to my own. What if mine was found lacking? Wooden?

As he made the turn into the surgery center, any internal debate over his role ceased.

Grant had to take the fall. Otherwise, he’d ruin this for me.