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His eyes swept over the living room. Everything was in order, but everything felt out of place.
He pulled his shoulders back and straightened.
He didn’t have time for a pity party. He needed to do what he could to help Bethenny.
He turned on his coffeemaker, shifting restlessly as he waited for it to warm up. As soon as the light turned green, he pressed the button and filled his cup.
Lachlan liked his coffee black and smooth, with a touch of bitterness.
He took his mug to his home office and sat at his desk.
The officers had found a floor plan, but he wanted to see if there was anything else in his home that wasn’t his.
He opened each drawer, pulling out the contents before putting everything back in. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for, but he needed to know if anything else had been planted. There was a chance the officers had missed something, but he wouldn’t. He was a hunter of people, and his hunt was just beginning.
Drawer by drawer, cupboard by cupboard... Eventually, he finished with the office and moved to the bedroom.
His breath stuck in his throat as he opened the bedside table. The officers had put everything back, but not everything was in the right place. A picture of Eden and Lachlan taken in the Bahamas was face up sitting on top of his Bible, visible the second he opened the drawer. He knew for a fact that he hadn’t left it like that. He’d kept it close to his bed, but always tucked away in his Bible. He thought, though he hadn’t been able to confirm, that this was the last vacation they’d taken before she’d started the affair.
He’d thought they were madly in love, and he’d had no idea that when they returned home, his entire life would crumble.
He sat on the edge of his bed, burying his face in his hands.
How had his life ended up like this?
Widowed, accused of murder.
He’d risked most of his life trying to eliminate evil in this world, to save civilians who had no idea who they’d brushed elbows with, and now he was being accused of murder.
He couldn’t believe it.
He felt like a complete and utter failure, and not for the first time he wondered what the point of his life was. Why so much pain? Why so much heartbreak?
Why, God?
Before he could stop it, a sob wracked his body and his eyes burned. Suddenly angry, he stood, needing to movebefore he let himself go down that slippery slope. He knew from experience that when he was in a mood like this, he needed to move—to find a release.
He went to his basement, taking the stairs two at a time. He grabbed a boxing glove and pounded his fist into the bag, over and over until his chest burned for oxygen and his hand felt wet and sticky. It wasn’t quite the same doing it with one hand in a glove and one in a cast, but he made do.
He pulled off his glove, throwing it on the floor.
He didn’t need to look at his knuckles to know they looked like he’d taken a cheese grater to them, regardless of the glove he’d worn. Lachlan had been here before.
He sighed, feeling a tiny bit better—just enough to clear his mind.
After Eden’s death, he’d understood for the first time how people were driven to commit suicide. He’d never understood it until then, but when you’re sitting on the floor, feeling like a hopeless failure, you can barely see through the foggy darkness. In that mental state, you just want the pain to end.
He remembered feeling like he couldn’t go on then getting on his knees and screaming for God to help. There was no miraculous revelation, no beam of light or anything else to indicate God had heard him. But he made it through the night, and then another night, and then another. And with each day that passed, he felt a little less alone, and he leaned into his faith.
God saved him that day in the most subtle, gentle way. To this day he couldn’t pinpoint the moment he’d turned his life around. But he had—or at least, he’d run from it.
But he wasn’t running anymore.
Now it was time to face his fears.
He inhaled a deep breath, feeling like he was about to have a stare-down with the devil.
“Let’s do this, God,” he said as his doorbell rang. He raised an eyebrow.
