One
Detective Olivia Newhouse
Tuesday, May 1
Nashville
Positive.
I stare at the pregnancy test stick. My hands shaking, my heart pounding.
Impossible.
Then I look at the other three lined up in a neat row on the marble counter with its double sinks and polished brass hardware. I am pregnant. My eyes close and I move my head from side to side in silent, frantic denial. How could forgetting my pill that one time have culminated in this catastrophic event? In ten years of using birth control products, I have been nothing less than diligent. But after my father’s unexpected death, I was a wreck for a few weeks. Then there was the move ...
The excuses tumble through my brain, all of them irrelevant. None of them change the reality. I’m pregnant.
Only a little, probably. I had a period last month ... It was light, shorter than usual, but I had one. Does that count? So how pregnant can I be? What the hell am I thinking? You can’t be just a little pregnant. You’re either pregnant or you’re not.
I. Am. Pregnant.The words echo through me like shotgun blasts.
“What the hell have I done?” I mutter to myself as the panic builds.
My cell shudders against my waist before I can start answering myself. A call this early likely means there’s no more time to worry about this unexpected development.
“Newhouse,” I answer without checking the screen as I reach to gather the test sticks. Can’t throw them in the trash. At least, not in the house.
“Hey, Liv.”
Walt Duncan, my partner. The gruff sound of his voice makes me smile. He is the one thing in my life at the moment that feels normal, steady.
“Morning. You headed my way already?”
“I am,” he says. “We got a call. Over on Twenty-Second. Might be just a missing person, but there’s a lot of blood, according to the uniforms on the scene.”
I slip the test sticks into the pocket of my khaki jacket as I consider the location, Osage / North Fisk neighborhood. Not exactly the best area when it comes to crime stats. “I’ll be waiting on the porch.”
“Be there in ten,” Walt assures me, then ends the call.
As I tuck my cell away, a knock on the bathroom door jerks my head up.
“Liv, are you going to be a while in there?”
I suck in a sharp breath, then remind myself to stay calm. “Almost done.”
I pick up my holstered service weapon and slide it onto my belt, followed by my badge, then check my reflection. Hair in a ponytail, I smooth my hand over a few stray strands. Eyes are clear. No sign of the tears I shed last night. I hate crying. It makes me feel weak. Cheeks are a little pale, but that goes with the territory of being a blue-eyed blonde.Good enough,I decide and turn away from the telltale mirror.
Cool, calm, and collected. I cannot deal with another fight this morning. Last night’s was bad enough. I haven’t had nearly enough sleepor coffee to function properly, much less remind him that there are four other bathrooms in this big-ass house.
Another deep breath. I open the door and brush past him, lips fixed in a fake smile. “It’s all yours.”
I feel his gaze burning a hole in my back as I hurry across the bedroom and out the door. It’s barely six o’clock. Early for him. The man I’m supposed to marry in November is the president of Brentwood’s Neighborhood Bank, one of four local banks his family owns. I don’t have to look back to know he’s still wearing his Ralph Lauren pajama bottoms, that his dark hair is mussed and his green eyes are bleary with sleep. I also know from experience that he’ll wait until I’m halfway down the stairs before he decides on an appropriate way to respond to my less-than-cheery disposition.
Everything about him used to make me happy. I have no idea when that changed. Or why. But everything feels different, off somehow. Maybe it’s only me who’s changed.
“Good morning to you, too!” he calls loudly. Not quite a shout, mind you. Prestons don’t shout. They speak firmly, knowledgeably. They stand their ground.
“Morning,” I grumble, not caring whether or not he hears me.
