“You were late.”

“Only two days.”

“Why were you late?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’ve never been late before.”

“Not usually, no.”

“Then why now?”

“I don’t know, Foster,” she said, trying to contain her impatience. “Stress, maybe.”

“Dammit!” He struck the arms of his wheelchair three times. “When you didn’t start two days ago, I let myself begin to hope. I should have asked. If I’d have asked-”

“I would have menstruated anyway.”

“We’ll never know.”

“I know. My temperature had dropped, indicating I wasn’t pregnant. I’ve felt premenstrual for days. That’s why I’ve been draggy and tired. I hoped I was wrong but…” She shook her head wistfully. “I dreaded telling you.”

“It’s not your fault. Come here.”

His soft tone compelled her to set aside the paperwork. When she reached him, he guided her onto his lap. She sat down gingerly. “Don’t let me hurt you.”

“If only you could.” They smiled at each other but left unsaid the many things they always left unsaid about the accident and its residual effect on their lives. He squeezed her shoulder affectionately. “This is a letdown, but it’s not a defeat. You did everything you could.”

“Which obviously wasn’t enough.”

“Success has been delayed. That doesn’t equate to failure.”

She ducked her head, murmuring, “You know me so well.”

“I know how your overachiever’s mind works. Sometimes to a disadvantage.”

Both being type A personalities, they had compared their childhoods and discovered that, despite the sizable financial gap between the two families, they had been reared similarly. Her parents, like his, had expected much from their only child.

Both their fathers had been dominant but not unloving. The pressure to succeed that they had placed on their children was more implied than overt, but that didn’t make it any less effective.

Her father had been career Air Force, a bomber pilot who’d served two tours of duty in Vietnam. After the war, he was a test pilot and trainer. A natural daredevil and risk taker, he rode his motorcycle without a helmet, slalomed on both water and snow, went skydiving and bungee jumping.

He died in his sleep. A cerebral aneurysm burst. He never knew what hit him.

Laura had adored him and took his death hard, not only because of the bizarre unfairness of it but because he hadn’t lived to see her achieve all the goals she’d set for herself.

Her mother had considered her dashing husband an unparalleled hero. She worshiped him and never recovered from the shock of finding him lying dead beside her. Grief deteriorated into depression. Laura was helpless to stop its inexorable pull until eventually it claimed her mother’s life.

Laura had been a straight-A student, valedictorian, Phi Beta Kappa. She had achieved every goal she’d ever set for herself. Her parents had openly showed their pride. They’d called her their crowning achievement. But their deaths, both tragic and premature, had left her feeling that she had failed them miserably.

Foster knew this. She pointed her finger at him now, saying, “Don’t start with that psychobabble about me not wanting to disappoint my parents.”

“Okay.”

“But that’s what you’re thinking,” she accused. “Just like you’re thinking that this is your fault because you didn’t ask me about my period this morning.”

He laughed. “Who knows whom well?”

She ran her fingers through his hair. “I know that you don’t like changing your routine, because if you do, terrible things will happen. Isn’t that the principle by which you live, Foster Speakman?”

“And now here’s proof of how sound that principle is.”

“The laws of nature are also sound.” She shrugged. “An egg wasn’t fertilized. It’s as simple as that.”

He shook his head stubbornly. “Nothing’s that simple.”

“Foster-”

“It’s indisputable, Laura. Unwritten laws govern our lives.”

“To some extent, possibly, but-”

“No but. There are cosmic patterns in place that one should not violate. If one does, the consequences can be severe.”

Lowering her head, she said softly, “Like switching drivers at the last minute.”

“Oh, Christ. Now I’ve made you even more unhappy.” He pulled her head down onto his chest and stroked her back.

She couldn’t argue this with him. To try to do so would be futile. Shortly after they were married, in an effort to better understand his OCD, she had talked with his psychiatrist. He had explained Foster’s conviction that disorder predestined disaster. Patterns could not be broken. Series could not be interrupted. Foster believed this with his heart, mind, and soul, and the doctor had told her that trying to convince him otherwise was a waste of breath. “He copes with it extremely well,” he’d told her. “But you would do well to remember that what to you is a hitch, is chaos to him.”

Tacitly agreeing to let the matter drop, they sat quietly. After a time, Foster said, “Griff Burkett will be disappointed, too.”

“Yes. He’ll have to wait at least another month for his half million.”

He hadn’t asked her anything specific about her first meeting with Burkett. When she came home that evening, she’d given him a detailed account of everything that had taken place in the office, but she’d told him nothing about that until he asked. “How was your appointment with Burkett?”

“Brief. He did what he needed to do and left.”

She hadn’t elaborated, and he hadn’t asked for more information, perhaps sensing that going into detail would make her uncomfortable.

“So you’ll be calling him again in a couple of weeks?” he asked now.

She sat up and looked deeply into his eyes. “Do you want me to, Foster?”

“Yes. Unless it was unbearable to you.”

She shook her head but looked away. “If you can bear it, I can.”

“Isn’t this what we agreed?”

“Yes.”

“It’s what we want.”

“I know. I just hope it happens soon.”

“It’s what we want.”

“I love you, Foster.”

“And I love you.” Then he drew her head to his chest again, saying, “It’s what we want.”

A week after the beating, Griff began to think he would live. For the previous six days, he hadn’t been so sure.

The sons of bitches hadn’t even been kind enough to beat him unconscious. And that had been deliberate. They’d wanted him awake to feel every punch, grind, and gouge. They’d wanted him conscious so that when they lifted up his head by his hair and pointed out to him a car parked nearby, he would recognize it as Rodarte’s olive drab sedan and see the cute flashing of its headlights. They didn’t want him muzzy or confused. They wanted him to remember the beating and who was behind it.

They’d given him a concussion. He’d suffered a couple in football, so he recognized the symptoms. Even though he didn’t experience the amnesia that sometimes accompanies a concussion, the nausea, dizziness, and blurred vision had plagued him for twenty-four hours.

By rights, he shouldn’t have moved, except to use his cell phone to call 911, summoning an ambulance to the parking lot. But a trip to the emergency room would have involved paperwork, the police. God only knew what else.

Somehow he’d managed to climb into his car and drive himself home before his eyes swelled shut. Since then, he’d been popping ibuprofen tablets every couple hours and trying to find one position in which to lie that didn’t cause throbbing pain. He didn’t worry about internal injuries. The pros knew how to damage him so he would feel it, but they didn’t want a murder on their hands. If they did, he’d be dead. They’d only wanted him praying for death so he’d feel better.

He got up solely to pee, and not until his bladder was full to bursting. When he did leave the bed, he walked like an old man, bent at the waist, shuffling because every time he tried to lift his feet, a knifing pain in his lower back brought tears to his eyes.