Pear Whispers! Yes! I knew I’d get it.

She paused and leaned back again, rolling her pencil through her fingers. “I think the nightmares are because you’re suppressing the memories of being dead, of what you experienced, the feeling you had during this time. You’ll have to deal with it sooner or later, or it’s going to break you.”

“Doctor Berk,” I said, tiredly and with a sudden urge for pears. “I really do appreciate what you’re trying to do here, but me dying was just that. I died. I was brought back. It’s over. End of story. I don’t remember anything, and honestly, I don’t want to. The only thing that matters is that I woke up, and” —I stood—“I really need to get home and take care of my kid. See you around.”

After stopping off at the store, I drove home, put the groceries away, kicked off my shoes and socks, and then waited for Emma on the front porch swing with a cereal bowl full of chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream. After the day I’d had, I deserved a little comfort food. I put Doctor Berk completely out of my mind and started obsessing again about my decision to transfer to a desk job.

I just sat there, slowly swinging and spooning ice cream into my mouth. The cold felt good on the small cuts that remained on the inside of my lip and cheek, and it helped with the stiffness in my mouth and jaw. The cookie dough bits didn’t hurt, either.

Truth was, I was nervous. Nervous to tell Emma of the decision I’d made and what she’d think about it.

Part of me felt like I was letting my brother down and even letting Emma down by giving up my part in keeping our city safe, but another part of me felt sure I was making the right move, and, more importantly, that Emma would appreciate not having to worry about me and all the dangers that came with my job.

A brand-new black-and-tan Ford F-250 pickup slowed as it approached the house. It parked directly across the narrow neighborhood street from my driveway. There were no houses across the street, just a sidewalk and then the green grass of a large baseball field, a walking path, and soccer fields. Sometimes at dawn, when the nightmares would wake me, I’d make some decaf and sit on the porch swing, watching the mist hover above the fields, and try to clear my mind.

I’d never seen this vehicle in the neighborhood before. The ignition shut off and the door popped open. The spoon paused in my mouth, and I stopped the swing with my toe.

It was Will. My ex.

Before I could drum up something sarcastic to think concerning the new truck, old feelings and memories swept through me and made my stomach flip like some lovesick teen. God, he looked good—another spoonful of ice cream made it to my mouth—really, really good.

Will was six-three, athletic, and had a smile that could melt snow. From his working outside, the sun had lightened his brown hair and streaked it golden in places. He kept it short, complementing the faint stubble that grew along a strong jaw, stubborn chin, and surprisingly soft lips.

He must’ve been out at a job site because there was dirt on his khakis and light blue button-down shirt. The two top buttons were undone, and the sleeves were rolled to just below his elbows. Jesus, I loved when he did that. It was like the cherry on a man-sundae to see his tanned, muscled forearms and his strong hands.

He shut the door and walked up the driveway.

Heart thumping wildly, I darted into the house, ran to the sink, set the bowl down, and then hurried to the front door, opening it before he could knock and trying to not seem out of breath. For a brief second, a flash of surprise went through his stormy gray-blue eyes. The sun had begun its descent over the park, a beam bathing me in a wash of heat.

Will’s blunt gaze swept over me as I blocked the doorway, my blood pressure rising. He let his eyes linger on the parts of me he’d always loved, and I wanted to shrink away because my nipples chose that moment to turn as hard as glass beads. Thanks a lot, ladies. With an evil eye, I crossed my arms over my chest and stood aside.

“Charlie,” he said in a deep Southern drawl, bestowing a wonderful blend of faded cologne and masculine skin on my sense of smell as he passed by.

I padded behind him into the kitchen. “What are you doing here?”

He glanced around the space, checking on things, making sure everything was in order; that nothing needed to be fixed. Then he turned to me, leaning his hip on the edge of the granite countertop and crossing his arms over his chest. I could almost hear the sounds of a construction site, and it gave me a sudden flash of Will standing in front of a two-by-four frame of a new house with blueprints spread across the hood of his truck.

Now he was a successful builder and architect and had just started his own firm. Just like he’d always dreamed. And he must be doing pretty well if the new truck was any indication. My mistrust came to the surface. Had he earned the truck and the success on his own merits … or was he dabbling in black crafting again?

“I can’t come by just to check on you?”

I swallowed, trying to temper the loud buzz of awareness gripping me. “You never come by to ‘check on me.’” I walked past him to the fridge to get two bottled waters, handing him one and then taking a stance on the other side of the kitchen table. His Adam’s apple slid up and down along his throat with every swallow. He had such a nice throat.

Snap out of it, Charlie!

After the day I’d had, I was exhausted, beaten, and at my weakest. And I knew it. Damn Will and his timing. Irritated, I asked, “So, where’d you get the truck?”

His lips thinned, and he let out a tired exhale. “How many times do I have to say it, Charlie? I haven’t practiced since that night.”

That night was eight months ago when he’d boasted to a Master Crafter that no one could use coercion on him—that he’d become too skilled and strong. The stakes: his marriage oath.

Guess who lost?

She had him naked and in bed in under two minutes.

He came clean the next morning. He’d called it black crafting’s version of rape. I called it cheating and lying and a damn good reason to divorce.

“Ever hear of letting go?” He faked a lightbulb moment. “Oh, no, wait. Then you’d actually have to forgive me. God forbid.” He tossed his head back and swallowed about half the bottle. “It’s not my fault you went and beat the shit out of her. And it’s not my fault she tried to have you killed for it.” Immediately, the mistake of his words spawned a weighty silence that broke only when he scrubbed a hand down his face and sighed.

Tried? I blinked at him and forced my jaw not to drop. I did go and confront her, but she threw the first punch; I just finished things. And she didn’t just try to have me killed, she succeeded. The ghoul I’d chased down the back alley in Underground eight months ago had been working for her, and he’d completed his job with all the finesse of a brutal killer. I died that night because, in a roundabout way, of Will’s addiction to black crafting. The man I loved. The man I trusted.

I ignored the comment. “So again: What are you doing here?”

He rubbed the inside corners of his eyes and then pinched the bridge of his nose, letting out a loud sigh. My hard outer shell cracked just a little. He seemed beat.

“Look, Charlie …” He fidgeted with the water bottle, looking down as though he was nervous.

Will, nervous? I studied him more closely. He opened his mouth, got out one syllable, and then closed it. Instantly, alarm bells sounded in my head.

He cleared his throat. “I heard about the Mott case. Does Emma know?”

There was no doubt in my mind he’d changed the subject. Will had something that he didn’t know how to say, and the only thing that could make him this nervous was … a disturbing sense of numbness dropped into my gut. “Oh, my God, are you getting remarried?”