She'd thought of everything.
He could see her even now, standing in the doorway of their little rental flat, hair pulled back, maps and tickets clutched in her hand, cheeks flushed with the heat. She'd found a quiet beach the locals favoured, somewhere less crowded, where the water was clear and shallow enough for David to swim safely. She'd lit up when she showed him the plan, her soft grey eyes hopeful.
But the day had come, and he'd been buried in his laptop, emails and calls that "couldn't wait." He'd worked from morning until the sun went down, while Sage's smile had dimmed, then steadied into that careful mask she wore when she didn't want to upset him. He realized with a start that the Sage from the first year of their relationship would have upset him with impunity, unplugging his laptop and dragging him into the sunshine. This newer Sage had learned to walk on eggshells over the years. Why?
She'd simply taken David by the hand, packed a bag with towels, fruit and bottled water, and left him to his work. They'd come back later with salt in their hair and sand still clinging to their legs, laughing at some joke only they shared.
And he had looked up from his screen, guilty for a moment, before shrugging it off.
Sage had planned every detail of that trip to make him happy. And in the end, she'd carried it alone, as she always did while he told himself he'd make it up to her next time.
But there hadn't been a next time.
He had ruined them and, in the end, himself.
Chapter 20
The last three trips Sage had planned had to be cancelled. He always had an excuse—too much work, too many deadlines, too tired to bother. He'd convinced himself they'd go next time.
The memory of one night in particular rose like bile. The first of those cancelled trips, two years ago. He had told Sage he couldn't manage it, that work was too busy. She'd gone quiet, disappointment drawn like a line across her face. That same night, Amanda had poured him a drink, and he hadn't stopped her when her hand slid to his zipper.
Shame burned through him, but it was interrupted by the now-familiar number flashing across his phone.
Brenson.
He'd hired the PI the day before Sage went missing. Something Amanda had said hadn't sat right, and the gnawing unease hadn't let him go. He'd called Brenson the morning after Sage disappeared, desperate, telling him to follow her trail as well.
Ronin answered on the first ring.
"I don't have anything on your wife yet," he began, and Ronin deflated, breath leaking out of him. But then Brenson continued, voice taking on a strange note, "I do, however, have something on Amanda Floyd...and James Floyd."
Ronin sat forward, spine tight. "What did you learn?"
"You should check your inbox," Brenson said cryptically. "It's easier to show you."
Ronin opened his laptop. Sure enough, there was an email with an encrypted attachment. The password was in a separate email: Floyd234. He took a steadying breath, keyed it in, and the file bloomed open on the screen.
Brenson's voice droned in his ear as the pictures loaded. "Nothing really to suggest domestic abuse. She's never been hospitalized like she told you—the insurance records show no admissions, except for her delivery. My contacts say James is a doting dad. She's been with him for five years. Neighbors, friends, ex-girlfriends...no red flags."
Ronin barely registered the words. His attention snagged when Brenson added, "She was born and raised in Kent. Middle-class parents, Keith and Dorris Hoffman. One sibling. One older sister—and this is interesting—Mia Hoffman."
The screen seemed to freeze for a second.
Amanda's maiden name was Hoffman.
"That's right," Brenson said, oblivious to the scale of the bomb that he had just detonated, but he had obviously made the connection. "You dated her sister in university, didn't you?"
Ronin's pulse thudded irregularly. A vague memory stirred. He remembered the narrow hallway of the Hoffman's neat Kent house, Mia standing with her arms folded, a flicker of annoyance on her face as her little sister trailed after them. Amy had been shy, bespectacled, her blonde hair in cute little pigtails. 'Owl eyes,' Mia used to call her, not unkindly. He'd crouched once, asked about her school, and she'd lit up, telling him about herfavourite teacher. One rainy afternoon, he had even played chess with her on a worn board while Mia sulked in the kitchen. Amy had been quiet but sharp, her small fingers darting across the board with surprising confidence until Mia appeared in the doorway, irritated, and tugged him back into her orbit.
He'd known Mia chafed under her strict parents. Still, he had never expected her to leave him, to marry another man within a month of their breakup. That betrayal had cut deep, a wound Sage had healed with patience and time. She'd been the one to piece him back together, steady and patient while he drank and raged and tried to make sense of it all. She had been the one who insisted he finish his degree when he wanted to quit and curl up and find oblivion at the bottom of a bottle.
And now...Amanda. No wonder she'd reminded him of Mia when he had first seen her. The same fair hair, the same quick, searching eyes. He hadn't wanted to look too closely at why, but he had been a fool. He had been reliving his past in more ways than one.
Everything had been a lie. But why?
With a dry throat, he clicked on the folder markedJames.Sparse details filled the screen. He was a manager at a major clothing retailer. Well-liked by colleagues. No convictions. Volunteered at an animal shelter. Nearly went pro in football until an injury sidelined him.
Ronin pressed his fists into his eyes, groaning low in his throat. If he had a time machine, if there were any way to go back and undo it all, he would. He would never have let Amanda in, never have betrayed Sage, never have watched their son's eyes fill with grief and contempt.
