“Look, sweetheart. I know you’re upset-”

“Upset? I am way more than ‘upset.’ I have no idea if my husband is dead or alive and I am sleeping with a fucking stranger who could be a murderer as far as I know, so yeah, Melody. I am fucking upset!”

I am trying to stay as calm as I can and not raise my voice too loud to cause a scene. Part of me feels for what Melody is going through right now. I can tell by her stature and the puffiness in her eyes that she has been crying, and most likely hasn’t slept since hearing the news. But the truth is that I have no sympathy whatsoever for the woman standing in front of me.

“You haven’t talked to your brother, have you?”

I hear the rawness in her voice and I know this has to be a shock to her, but until I know exactly what is going on here and why, I need her to leave.

“Not in depth,” I say briskly, “So I have no clue what is happening. Now excuse me for being so blunt, but I don’t give a shit how you feel. The sight of you right now makes me sick, Melody. I have no clue where my husband is . . . the man you raised. He’s the one we need to be concerned about right now, not that man inside my house. Now leave, and you’d better hope like fucking hell that my Turner . . .” My voice cracks and I start to shed unwanted tears. “My Turner is okay, because so help me God, if he’s not there will never be an excuse good enough from you.”

She just stands there in shock while pear-shaped tears rapidly slide down her face. As I watch her climb into her car and back out of my driveway, I realize that what sucks most of all is that I couldn’t bring myself to console her in any way. I just can’t comprehend what reason a mother would have for keeping this kind of secret, but no matter why she has done it, I don’t know if I will ever be able to forgive her.

Most women would envy my relationship with my mother-in-law. She has always been the mother that I never had and I love her more than anything. Acting like a cold-hearted bitch when I was talking to her doesn’t make me feel any better at all.

When I first found out about all this, I wanted to lash out at her in more ways than one. Now, after seeing the look on her face and knowing she is hurting just as badly as I am, I feel terrible for the words I said to her. I simply can’t risk Trent finding out everything yet, not until I know Turner is safe. With her being so unstable and not having seen her other son since he was a toddler, she would most likely ruin everything, no matter what she says.

I make my way back into the house with my head down and walking at a snail’s pace, the tension and fearfulness taking over as I try and reassure myself Trent didn’t see or hear her in the driveway. When I approach the garage my eyes roam everywhere to try and find some sort of weapon to use just in case he is inside and attacks me when I enter.

Finding a wrench in a small red toolbox that Turner keeps in the far back corner of the garage, I creep slowly towards the door leading into the house and turn the handle uneasily. Once inside, I gently close it behind me and peer down the hallway toward the office, noticing the door is still closed.

Needing to make sure he is still in there, I stealthily progress down the hall until I am nearly in front of the door and stop. The sound of what appears to be an e-mail or some other sort of notification on the computer is all I hear, and then fingers fluently tapping away as if they were e-mailing back.

A sigh of relief escapes as I turn and tiptoe like a burglar back into the kitchen while wondering who the hell he is e-mailing. More than likely it’s his dickhead of a father. I could spit nails at that man. Better yet, I could blow both his and his heartless son’s fucking brains out and not give a second thought about it if it would bring Turner back to me safe and unharmed.

Becoming aware that I still have the wrench clasped tightly in my hand, I exit the kitchen and climb the stairs to the bedroom where I place the wrench underneath the mattress on my side of the bed.

Living through what I am right now has my mind drifting back to an earlier conversation with Zack. He told me Turner would not want me to feel the way I am feeling now, and that he would want me safe. I am keeping the wrench right there, and the next time Trent tries to touch me . . . I will use it.

I smooth out the comforter and sit down on the end of the bed facing the window, where the sun is shining through so brightly that the beams glisten from hitting the full-length mirror in the corner. I lift my head and stare at my wedding picture. My thoughts drift to so many memories that the two of us shared. Vacations. Walks where we would hold hands and talk about our future plans, or sometimes even just walk in silence enjoying each other’s company.

Turner and I were just in the beginning stages of talking about having children. We both wanted to wait until we had our feet solidly planted on the ground financially before we brought a child into this world. He was so adamant about me being a stay at home mom that at first we argued about it. But, the more I thought about it, the more I wanted to stay home and be the best mom I could be.

Taking our children to soccer practice, swim lessons . . . it didn’t matter what they did. We wanted to be those parents whose child knew how much their mom and dad loved them, and would never feel the emptiness in their hearts of being abandoned as both Turner and I felt when we were growing up. We have both been betrayed by a parent, and now it seems that Turner is being betrayed by both.

“Clove, are you up there?” Trent hollers from the bottom of the stairs.

“Yeah. I’m changing my clothes.”

Pushing myself up from the bed, I go pull out yet another summer sundress from my closet to put on.

“I’m all done and set to go.”

His voice doesn’t sound like he suspects anything, yet I still tremble as I take my dress off and step into the other one and zip it up at the side.

“I’ll be down in a minute,” I call. “Just freshening up a little.”

I assess my appearance in the bathroom mirror. Looking at the reflection staring back at me, I barely recognize myself as I truly take myself in for the first time in a long while. I see confusion, not simplicity. I see dullness and not vibrancy in my eyes. I see a woman who doesn’t even know who she is anymore. I see a scared, bitter, and angry woman all mixed into one.

No, the woman staring back at me is not Clove Calloway, wife of Turner Calloway. The woman staring back at me is someone I don’t recognize at all. A woman who I hate just as much as I hate the man downstairs. I am a sham of a woman, an imposter just like he is, and fuck if I know if I will ever be able to get that vibrant, simplistic woman back ever again.

“Wow. You look breathtaking, babe.”

Trent’s observation of my appearance stops me dead in my tracks when I enter the kitchen. He sounds so sincere and his phrase is exactly like one Turner would use.

“Thank you, big boy,” I reply, doing my best to mask my anger.

His intangible charm does nothing for my sour mood at all. However, I feel all of the strain and pressure leave my body as he seems like he knows nothing about his mother’s short visit. I don’t know if he is playing me for a bigger fool than I already am. He could know, or at least suspect that I know, who he really is and is waiting for the right time to plan his attack and strike.

In a short while I will have to face another parent who knows absolutely nothing about what is going on. I need to think long and hard before we get to my brother’s house about how I am going to make sure it stays that way. Unlike Melody, my dad won’t listen to a word anyone has to say if he finds out. He would come unglued and kill this bastard for what he is doing to this family.