Wherever She Goes(83)

He takes us to a new subdivision on the edge of Oxford. It’s one I’ve never seen before. He drives onto a street of duplexes, a few inhabited, some still under construction. He pulls into the drive of a finished one with darkened windows. Then he gets out.

When I don’t follow, he waves for me. I carefully climb from the car.

“What do you think?” he says.

It takes me a moment to realize he’s talking about the duplex.

“It’s . . . nice?” I say. “Is this . . . ? Do you mean as a possible place for me?”

He nods. I just keep looking from him to the duplex. Is this his way of saying he still wants to support me? Or is he changing the subject, distracting me from talk of custody?

“I . . . I’m not sure I could afford it,” I say. “I have the down payment, but I should wait until I have a new job. I’ll get a full-time one. I should—since I don’t have Charlie to look after.”

“Do you want Charlie to look after?”

My heart leaps, but I keep my expression neutral.

“In an ideal world, Bree, what would you want?” he says. “No pressure. No judgment. Full-time job? Full-time parent? Part-time both? Go back to school?”

“I . . .”

“Perfect world. Just tell me.”

“I loved being home full-time but . . .”

“No judgment.”

I take a deep breath. “In a perfect world, I’d stay home with Charlie and go back to school part-time. I’d let her go to daycare a couple of days a week because I think it’s been good for her.”

“Then that’s what you’ll do.”

I nod. “Okay, I’ll find a better apartment—”

“I’d like you to live here, Aubrey. The left-hand unit has a nice sunroom you can use as a study. The right-hand one is better for me—the office has a lousy view, which will keep me from getting distracted.”

I turn to look at him.

“This is for us,” he says. He steps toward me. “You’re concerned that I don’t want you parenting our daughter anymore. This is my answer. I found it yesterday, and I haven’t changed my mind. I would like to change the custody arrangement. To this.” He nods at the duplex. “Extreme co-parenting. If you’d be interested.”

Tears prickle my eyelids. “I would absolutely be interested.”

He shoves his hands into his pockets. “I’d love to just ask you to move back into the house, so we can try again, but even if you want to try again—”

“I do.”

“Then I think we need to get to know each other first. Start over, and let me meet the real Aubrey.” He looks up at the house. “Which will be a lot easier like this.”

“I get to date the boy next door?”

He smiles. “Yes, I guess you do. And if it works . . .” He shrugs. “The neighborhood is a work in progress. It’s a good investment. Easy to sell if we want closer quarters. I just don’t want to rush. I’m sorry. I know that’s not the most romantic solution—”

I throw my arms around his neck. “It’s the perfect solution. Thank you.”

He kisses me, a long and passionate kiss. When he pulls back, he says, “Will you come with me to get Charlie?”

“That depends. Think we can find a hotel along the way?”

His brows arch.

I grin. “Well, you did say you want to get to know me again. Not to rush or anything . . .”

“That doesn’t sound like rushing at all. Perfectly logical.” He puts his arm around my waist and leads me back to the car. “I’ll tell my mother to expect us first thing in the morning.”





Thank you for reading!


I hope you enjoyed Wherever She Goes! If you’d like to try another of my thrillers, I’d suggest City of the Lost, the first in my series about Rockton, a small town in the Yukon where people go to disappear.





You can read more about City of the Lost on my website by clicking here, or you can turn the page to read the first five chapters free.





Chapter One





“I killed a man,” I say to my new therapist.

I’ve barely settled onto the couch . . . which isn’t a couch at all, but a chaise lounge that looked inviting and proved horribly uncomfortable. Like therapy itself.

I’ve caught her off guard with that opening line, but I’ve been through this before with other therapists. Five, to be exact. Each time, the gap between “hello” and “I’m a murderer” decreases. By this point, she should be glad I’m still bothering with a greeting. Therapists do charge by the hour.

“You . . . ,” she says, “killed a man?”

The apprehensive look. I know it well—that moment when they’re certain they’ve misheard. Or that I mean it in a metaphorical way. I broke a man’s heart. Which is technically true. A bullet does break a heart. Irrevocably, it seems.

When I only nod, she asks, “When did this happen?”

“Twelve years ago.”

Expression number two. Relief. At least I haven’t just killed a man. That would be so much more troublesome.

Then comes the third look, as she searches my face with dawning realization.