Four hours later, I was in a rental car driving through the ink-black desert toward Palm Springs.
The headlights sliced through the darkness. On the passenger seat lay the brass key, my father’s old spare revolver from my bedside safe, and my phone.
Grace had been calling non-stop, but I didn’t answer. This wasn’t her fight anymore. It was mine.
The GPS guided me away from the bright lights of the luxury high-rises and down a secluded, unpaved road flanked by towering fan palms. At the very end of the trail stood a low-slung, mid-century house, dark and shrouded in overgrown brush.
Parked in the driveway was a black SUV.
Beside it sat Lucas’s rental car.
My hands were completely steady as I turned off my headlights and coasted to a stop along the dirt shoulder.
I slipped the gun into my coat pocket, grabbed the brass key, and stepped out into the dry desert heat.
The air was dead silent, save for the hum of the air conditioning unit running at the side of the house. I tiptoed up the concrete steps to the front door.
The brass key fit smoothly into the lock.
Click.
I turned the handle and pushed the door open.
Inside, the house smelled of dust, old wood, and fresh paint. Sunlight from the patio reflected dimly off plastic-wrapped furniture.
Then I heard the voices coming from the back room.
“You don’t understand, Melanie,” Lucas’s voice was low, smooth, and dangerously calm—the exact tone he used when trying to gaslight me. “I did this for us. For our baby.”
“You lied to me!” Melanie’s voice was sob-racked and terrified. “You told me your wife was crazy! You told me you never knew my family! But I found the picture, Lucas! I found my mother’s ring in your suit pocket!”
