Page 134 of The Right Wrong Promise

The sheriff arrives justbefore dinner with a deputy at his side.

They don’t stay long, just an hour or so, enough to ask a few questions and photograph the vague mud prints before heading to the Babins to clear things up.

They’re sure it’s a misunderstanding.

I want to believe that so bad.

I still don’t want to believe small-town drama can balloon into real menacing crime.

After they left, I threw together dinner, a frozen lasagna while Kane went outside to get the new security cameras working.

The entire time he’s gone, I’m on tenterhooks.

Sophie draws at the kitchen table while Dan brings his drum pad downstairs and plays in the living room—oddly quietly for him.

We all pretend we’re fine, but we’re obviously still jumpy whenever the house creaks or pops with the wind on a cool night.

By the time Kane returns, I’m a twitchy mess.

Sophie runs up and gives him a hug. Dan talks loudly about the music he’s been practicing, some old American military marching songs he found online.

“Everything okay?” Kane asks.

I nod. “Just peachy. Dinner’s ready.”

He helps me plate the lasagna and apple-gorgonzola salad I threw together and we take our seats around the table.

Dan stays weirdly quiet, picking at his food.

It’s like we’re still listening for a break-in, a jittering lock or a scraping window.

I can’t stop thinking about what might happen if someone was that determined to charge in while we’re here.

All the doors and windows are locked, but Kane found a tampered lock on the back door. Possibly a sign someone had a lockpicking set.

The only good news is having the muddy prints on record. The police photographed them.

Also, the truck sighting heading back from the lake house.

But with the small-town attitude, will that be enough?

Will they really think the Babins invaded this house without a smoking gun?

I have to look into a restraining order.

Seriously, I’m done being scared.

Kane stays silent, too, chewing mechanically as he thinks heavy thoughts that show on his face.

He couldn’t protect us from the asshole coming back. I’m sure that’s hanging on his mind like burrs.

It must eat him to the bone when the man’s a protector.

I just wish I knew what to say to make it better, but all my words feel patronizing, so I keep my mouth shut and eat quietly, barely enjoying what should be a tasty dinner on a cold night.

Once we’re finished and I bring our plates to the dishwasher, he lays out his expectations for the evening.

At least an hour of schoolwork for the kids, writing up what they learned about the fort and Sully Bay for school. They can work together in here on his laptop.