“Connor!” Looking at the cop that’s blocking me, I’m wild with worry. Then I notice my hands and stumble back.

Blood.

They’re covered in blood. My heart drops to the ground.

Whose blood is this?

Oh God. Where are McKenzie and Mary-Anne? Please don’t let this be their blood.

“There were two young girls staying with me,” I manage. “Where are the girls?”

“They’re fine, but as a precaution, they’ve been taken to the hospital to be checked out. Their mother and father have been notified.” The officer, Officer Morrell, as his nametag states, informs me.

Pressing a hand to my forehead, trying to make sense of everything, I yell to no one in particular, “What the hell is going on?”

“You’re convict in-law murdered my husband!” A voice cracked with emotion responds. Whipping around, I find Mrs. Jenson with a pained expression on her face, tears streaming down her wrinkled cheeks. “He murdered my husband,” she moans as she collapses to her knees. I’m speechless. I can’t move even as two policeman move toward her and try to help her to her feet.

I blink a few times, numb with shock and disbelief. Connor wouldn’t . . . he just . . . wouldn’t. Would he?

As they drag Mrs. Jenson away, she howls like a hurt animal begging to be put out of its misery, managing to shout one more time that Connor killed her husband. Officer Morrell approaches me, attempting to question me. Instinct kicks in even though I’m in shock, and I tell him I won’t discuss anything until I speak with my attorney.

I waste no time contacting Jim Burgess, the attorney Blake used for everything and have him rush to the jail immediately to make sure Connor didn’t do or say anything to get himself further in trouble. After arguing with the police some more, at their insistence, I’m taken to the hospital. The next few hours are a blur as the police question me. After a cat scan shows I have a mild concussion, finally, I’m diagnosed with dissociative amnesia; amnesia brought on by stress—that’s the only explanation for it. Why else can’t I remember what happened between me walking across the street to the Jenson’s house and waking up in the back of the ambulance? What the hell happened to my head? I must have seen something? But what? Isn’t that the million dollar question? What happened?

When the police realize their questioning is in vain, they take my clothing and swab my hands to test the blood. I’m told I am a suspect at this time and not to leave town. I called Wendy and Jeff, but they wouldn’t let me speak with the girls until after the police were finished, worried they’d become even more emotional after speaking to me in my frenzied state. I tried not to take it personally when they seemed short with me, telling myself they were just worried, but deep down I felt their anger with me. Something terrible happened while their daughters were in my care. But what exactly happened? That’s what I want to know. Why can’t I remember? How could this have happened in thirty minutes? No matter who I’ve asked, no one seems to have any answers for me. Well . . . there’s one answer. One very definite answer.

Mr. Jenson is dead.

The world seems to be spinning at high speed right in front of my face, and I can’t get my bearings. Why is Connor being pinned for murder and what did the girls have to do with it? Why do I have blood on my hands, but can’t remember how it got there?

After the police collect all the evidence they need off my person, Jim leaves me to talk with Connor. An hour later, a husky female officer came to tell me I was free to go. Finally, after hours of waiting, sipping disgusting coffee and jumping every time I heard a set of doors open, Jim emerges from the back of the building where they’ve been questioning Connor. His expression reveals nothing, but his dark hair is a little disheveled as if he’s just run his hand through it. Otherwise, his suit looks clean and crisp as if he’s just dressed and even though it’s evening his face reveals no signs of a five o’clock shadow. He looks good. I look like I feel. Like shit. After they had taken my clothing, they gave me a T-shirt that’s way too big for me and a pair of basketball shorts I had to roll at the waist five times. I stand, but he gestures telling me to sit, then he takes a seat beside me, the old wooden bench creaking with the addition of his weight.

“Is he okay?” I ask, fighting the tremble in my voice.

Jim tugs hard at his tie, loosening it as he lets out something between a sigh and a groan. “He’s in a lot of trouble, Demi. They’re charging him.”

“Already?” I gasp.

Jim releases a deep breath. “It’s bullshit.”

With a deep breath, I blink back the tears burning my eyes. “Did he tell you what happened?”

“He did,” he answers with a nod, then he looks at me peculiarly. “You really don’t remember anything?”

“Nothing,” I confirm. I wait a moment, hoping he’ll continue, elaborate on what Connor told him, but when he doesn’t I ask, “And? What happened, Jim?”

“He asked me not to discuss it with you.”

In an instant, the tears clear and my mouth drops open. I blink a few times, digesting his words. “Why?”

“You’ll have to ask him,” Jim replies stiffly. “What I can tell you is his bail hearing is tomorrow at 9:00 a.m.”

“Do you think he can make bail?”

“Doubtful,” Jim admits. “Sometimes small towns have small minds; once a felon, always a felon.”

I pinch my lips together, hating that he’s right. No matter what evidence there is, Connor is as good as done. His past coupled with his bad boy looks won’t do him any favors.

“You have to get him bail,” I insist.

“And if he does . . . it’s going to be hefty.”

“I don’t care how much it is,” I say. “I’ll pay it. Just make it happen, Jim. And I’ll send a retainer to you as soon as possible.”

Jim turns his head and meets my gaze. If he’s trying to hide his opinion, the one that says I’m a fool, he isn’t doing a great job at it. When he gets a good look at me, his demeanor seems to soften some. I know my eyes are puffy and swollen. I’m exhausted. He pats my back and nods once. If you were anyone else, I’d tell you not to waste your money, Demi.”

My stomach twists with his words. “What does that mean?”

“It means Blake wouldn’t have wanted you to give up, so you shouldn’t.” I swallow the knot in my throat. Jim and Blake had become close in his last few months. Blake had built himself a pretty successful freelance business and in addition to handling Blake’s will, Jim also assisted in the sale of Blake’s business.

He flips open his briefcase and pulls out a card from a pocket inside, then hands it to me. “This is a good bondsman. I’d advise you to call tonight, let them get your information. Might make things go smoother after the hearing. But Demi,” he pauses, “don’t get your hopes up. There’s a very good chance he won’t make bail.”

Ignoring him and his pessimistic warning, I murmur, “Let’s hope you’re worth your pay, Jim.”

His head rears back ever so slightly in offense, but he stops himself with a shrug, probably deeming me an emotional woman and not worth justifying with a response. It was a shitty thing to say, but I need positive thoughts right now, not dismal predictions.

Closing his briefcase he stands and replies, “I’ll see you in the morning. If you remember anything, call me. Talk to no one before you contact me.” Then he leaves me sitting on the hard wooden bench, wondering how I’m going to make myself move.

After taking the hottest shower I’ve ever taken in my life and scrubbing my skin raw to remove all traces of blood, I tossed and turned all night, anxious for the morning. But standing behind Jim as the Judge walks in with his furry gray brows and anal retentive stature he wears as well as his black robe, I don’t feel tired at all. I’m fueled by fear right now. This guy looks like he loves nothing more than to say the words: Bail denied. After the judge takes his seat, we all sit and shortly after, Connor is brought in. He’s wearing an orange jumpsuit, and with his canvas of tattoos, he looks every bit of the stereotypical convict. I try to ignore the murmurs and whispers that fill the courtroom, but it’s hard. I want to scream at everyone to shut up and tell them Connor is innocent. I don’t know how I know this. Especially since I can’t remember anything, but I just do. Connor didn’t kill Mr. Jenson. I know it as sure as I know myself. As he’s led in, his wrists cuffed in front of him, a guard on each side, I stare at him, willing him to look up and meet my gaze. I want him to know I’m here, that no matter what, I have his back.