“I care about a lot of people, babe, but I’m not f**kin’ any of them,” he clipped.

“Yes, well, call me stupid, seein’ as my life has been how it’s been, havin’ hope that one day, one f**kin’ day somewhere in decades of them, I’ll get what I want, but I’d kinda hoped, starting my life out with the love of my life, it wouldn’t happen with my man carin’ about another woman and carin’ about me.”

“Jesus, there’s a difference,” he replied.

“And that would be?” I pushed.

“Clue in, Zara, I’m standin’ right in front of you. I’m here. And, like I said, I’m f**kin’ you.” And on the “you” he lifted a finger and jabbed it my way.

Heart racing, skin prickling, I retorted, “So, tell me, Ham, February Owens wasn’t pregnant somewhere in Indiana, livin’ with her high school boyfriend reunited, would you be standin’ here with me?”

From the change that instantly came about him, something about that struck him. It appeared it was deep and that absolutely did not bode well.

Not at all.

“You can’t be serious,” he whispered.

“Explain why you think that,” I returned. “’Cause, see, where I’m standin’, I see how I’m bein’ very serious. I’m also hearin’ that you haven’t answered my f**king question.”

“Fuck me, you’re still so far up your own goddamned ass, you aren’t payin’ a lick of attention,” he ground out.

“Explain that too, Ham, seein’ as I feel I’m payin’ so much goddamned attention, my head’s about to explode.”

“I suggest you pay more,” he advised caustically.

“Actually, I was thinking of suggesting the same thing to you,” I shot back.

“Zara, I have been so in your space, in your business, in your life, takin’ your back and sortin’ your shit, consumed by all that, I feel like it’s been months I haven’t breathed just for me.”

“Then today’s your lucky day, Ham. Breathe easy ’cause you’re off the f**kin’ job,” I hurled at him, my tone ice cold but the blood in my veins was boiling even as my throat constricted.

I gave him no chance to say more. When we fought, we didn’t do it fair and we went for the kill and I didn’t have the energy to take more.

And I definitely didn’t have the energy to come to the realization, again, the way Ham danced around the subject, that he was not in love with me. He might not be in love with February Owens, either. But he was honest enough to say it right out, share how he felt about me, and he didn’t.

So he wasn’t.

And I could not cope with that.

Not then.

I was too freaking tired.

I’d cope with it later and I’d figure it out, like everything I’d figured out in my life. I’d find my way past it, like I did with every blow I took. And I’d move the f**k on.

So I turned and marched to the front door, yanked it open, and stopped dead when I saw a woman standing at it, hand raised to the doorbell. She jerked in surprise, went solid, and stared at me.

I stared at her right back.

She was pretty, very pretty but in a way that it looked like she’d once been beautiful. In fact, a raving beauty. But she was older than me, if not by much, and the years had not been kind. There was a sadness to her face that even seeing her just then for the first time was easy to read. And it was so immense, that sadness had worn the beauty she once held clean away leaving her a dimmer vision of what was once glorious.

She was also blonde, her hair long and thick and cared for. She had hazel eyes. Her makeup was carefully applied to try to hide the wear of sadness, but it failed. She was dressed well, taller than me, and even more so in the high-heeled boots she was wearing. And she was very slim. Too slim, seeing as her br**sts were large enough that they were either fake or her frame had endured more dieting than it needed, which made her seem top heavy and her shape unnatural.

“I, uh… gosh, um… I’m sorry. I thought Graham Reece lived here,” she stated.

“Rachel?”

It was at hearing Ham’s incredulous, displeased growl that I went solid.

This was Rachel? Sneaky aborter of babies, ex-wife Rachel?

As I stared in shock (and maybe a bit of abhorrence), her eyes went beyond me.

Her face changed in a way that another chill slid over my skin and she said, “Reece?”

“What the f**k?” he asked from closer and I felt his heat hit my back.

“I… well.” Her eyes darted from Ham to me to Ham again. “I know this is a surprise—”

Ham cut her off. “Fuck yeah, seein’ as I haven’t seen your face or heard from your ass for twenty years, you show up out of the blue at my front door, it’s a big f**kin’ surprise.”

He was most assuredly not being welcoming and she didn’t miss it, not that she could. In fact, she barely hid her wince but she still managed to power through it.

“I saw you on the news,” she told him.

“So did a million other Americans,” he returned.

“And I… a few days ago, a man came to me, asking about you,” she went on and I felt Ham tense at my back even as my body strung tight.

Dad’s investigator.

“I thought you should know. I was worried and”—she shook her head—“I thought you should know.”

“How’d you find me?” Ham asked what I thought was a very pertinent question, one of many, seeing as Ham grew up in Nebraska and he hadn’t said it, but since they married young, my guess was that she was there, too.

“I have, well”—she hesitated—“my husband has a friend. He’s a police officer. He… I’m sorry if you find this intrusive but he looked you up for me.”

“And he couldn’t look up my phone number?” Ham clipped and he was being kind of funny but it was far from amusing.

Her eyes went to me, then Ham again, and she said quietly, “You were injured by a serial killer, Reece. I’ve obviously upset you but after that… after that man visited, I wanted to see if you were all right. Not hear it. See it.” Her eyes finally came to me and she whispered, “I’m sorry. It was—”

Ham interrupted her again, “What’d you tell this guy?”

Her gaze shot back to him. “Sorry?”

“What’d you tell the PI who came callin’?” Ham clarified.