A Sinclair Homecoming. Kimberly Meter Van

as Dr. O’Hare walked away—inappropriate and flustering—was how pretty she was and how he wished she’d been a wizened old man with a bald head and knobby knuckles.

      If that were the case he surely wouldn’t be spending undue time thinking of those deep blue eyes behind those designer frames.

      And what the hell was he doing thinking of any woman in that capacity? He’d told himself he was going to take a breather in the romance department after suffering through a particularly uncomfortable breakup with Elizabeth, his mostly casual bed partner. Well, he’d thought what they were doing was casual. When he realized Elizabeth had different ideas, he’d decided to cut ties. Better that way than dragging out something that was never going to go where she’d hoped it would.

      So that left the question: Why was he noticing how deep and blue Dr. O’Hare’s eyes were? Had to be the strain of the moment because if he were thinking straight... Hell, no. It just wouldn’t happen.

      Besides, he had a feeling things were going to get worse before they got better—and that pretty doc was going to be in the center of it all.

      And not in a good way.

      CHAPTER FOUR

      MORGAN LEFT THE HOSPITAL, thinking of the Sinclair family and everything they’d been through over the years. She remembered when the youngest Sinclair went missing and then was found the following day by Trace Sinclair, frozen to death on the mountain. The poor girl had been brutalized and left to die. So pretty, so young. It’d been a senseless tragedy that’d scared the entire town. For weeks everyone had been on hyperalert, terrified that the killer was among them. Her father had been paranoid, insisting on a strict curfew for his kids, particularly his daughters. Her younger sister, Mona, had actually known Simone. They hadn’t been friends, per se, but Simone had been a tidal wave of charisma and it’d been difficult to prevent getting swept up in her energy. Mona had told her how pretty and sweet Simone had been.

      Cheerleader, dance team, pep club, French club—the girl had been into everything.

      And then, just like that, she was gone. Her life snuffed out at the whim of a psychopath. Add in the fact that her killer had never been caught and well, it created a perfect cocktail for paranoia in a small town.

      Morgan vaguely recalled Wade from school—he’d been older than she was in school—and of course everyone had had a crush on Trace, even though he’d been over the moon gaga for Delainey Clarke. But she remembered that Wade had been the quiet one. She also remembered that he drove a burgundy Chevy Blazer. Why she remembered that, she didn’t know. Well, time had been kind to the Sinclairs in ways that fate had not. They were a good-looking bunch. No quirks of DNA in that chain.

      She also remembered that David hadn’t liked the Sinclairs, particularly Trace. More than likely because the Sinclair brothers were athletic, ruggedly handsome and smart and the girls were beautiful, both in different ways. Ahh, David and his opinions. He’d had so many of them. And of course, if she didn’t share his opinions, he’d had ways of impressing upon her his wisdom. Morgan suppressed a shudder and couldn’t help the glance over her shoulder, even though she knew her dead husband wasn’t going to be behind her, watching.

      He’d always been watching. Waiting for her to screw up so that he could correct her. Lovingly, of course.

      Stop thinking of him! He’s gone. Gone. Gone. Gone. Morgan climbed into her Lexus and closed the door a bit more forcefully than she intended, and the sharp sound caused her to jump. Her heart pounded, and she emitted a shaky laugh at her foolishness. All she needed was time. Time to heal. Time to forget.

      But even as she rattled off to herself the same advice she gave others, she knew, in her case, it was a lie because there were some things that not even time could erase.

      The punishments. The rigid adherence to certain rules. David’s rules. That even now, three years later, she couldn’t free herself from. A part of her lived in fear that David might pop from the shadows and discover that the towels in the downstairs bathroom were not lined up properly nor were they color coordinated. It was a small thing. But not in David’s world. And subsequently not in hers. Usually, she could keep the memories from biting but tonight was proving more difficult as a particularly brutal one began nipping at her thoughts.

      “Morgan...would you come here, please.”

      Morgan stilled the chopping of celery and swallowed, a familiar trickle of fear following the knowledge that he was in the bathroom. Hadn’t she replaced the linens with fresh stock this morning? David preferred everything clean, particularly for the guest bathroom as that was the room others would see. Of course, it made sense to ensure the guest bathroom was spotless. Impressions were important.

      “Coming,” she answered, placing the knife on the cutting board and carefully wiping her hands on her apron and not on the dish towel as David had taught her.

      She rounded the corner and saw David scowling in obvious displeasure at the spotless marble counter. “Can you tell me what is amiss here?”

      Morgan tried not to tremble as her gaze quickly searched for what was out of place. Her stare settled on the tiny soap ooze from the dispenser. Hadn’t she wiped it down after using it? A bead of sweat popped along her brow in spite of the subtle chill of the house. “I’m sorry. I’ll fix it right away,” she said, moving to clean the soap dispenser but he caught her hand in a tight grip, squeezing the bones until she winced. “I-I’m sorry...I didn’t mean—”

      “What would people think about our home if they saw this? Can we not keep a tidy home? Are we slobs?”

      She shook her head, tears springing to her eyes.

      “No, we are not,” he agreed, tossing her hand away and grabbing a handful of hair in a move so fast she almost didn’t see it coming. Almost. Pain exploded as he wrenched her to her knees, practically dragging her from the bathroom. “I do this because I love you,” he yelled, his face livid with rage. “You must enjoy these punishments because you make me do these things.” He shook her hard. “Do you hear me? I love you! Someday you will learn and I won’t have to do these terrible things to you anymore. Don’t you want that?”

      “Y-yes! Please, David! Please!” She cried, her knees bruising from the hardwood floor. “I’ll do better next time. I promise!”

      “Lies...all you do is lie to me when I give you the best of everything. How did I get saddled with such an ungrateful bitch for a wife?” He tossed her away like garbage and she nearly shuddered with relief, believing his rage was spent but she was wrong. Suddenly, he buried his booted foot in her stomach and she blacked out from the pain.

      The next day she’d bled out the remains of the child she hadn’t known she was carrying.

      Six weeks was barely pregnant, she’d told herself as she’d tried to get over her grief. If David hadn’t been worried that he’d ruptured something internal when she wouldn’t stop bleeding, she might never have known about the child.

      And David had been so remorseful.

      Almost sweet—for a time.

      “Baby, you’re my life. I am nothing without you,” David had cried, clinging to her, demanding her comfort even though she was numb with shock. “I don’t know what came over me. I am completely distraught over what happened. You know it was an accident, right?”

      “Of course,” she murmured, stroking his hair with mechanical motions. David liked his hair gently stroked in a certain way. Although the hospital had recommended that she stay overnight, David had been insistent that he would care for her. Lying in their bed as David wept, Morgan had wished for the solitude of a hospital room. “It’s okay.”

      “Why do you push me to do those things?” he asked plaintively. “And why didn’t you tell me you were pregnant?”

      “I didn’t know.”

      He pressed a tender kiss to her belly and hugged her tightly. “To think...my child had