Seeking a fresh start, Mark Jamison moves to Seattle, Washington. He left his old life behind to find another wife--a perfect family-a ready-made family. But when his past catches up to him, will his future wife, Pam, believe any of it?
"You guys are up early," Pam said, checking the wall clock. "What's all this about?" Pam's eyes darted to the counter with white powder spread and the pans shoved in the dishwasher, hardly closing. "You guys..." Pam lowers her head, cackling to tears.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
"I was teaching Angie how to make pancakes," I said. Even my tongue couldn't wipe the shame I'd felt away from my lips. Cheating was wrong, right? It's not like I initiated sex with Angie. I had my arm twisted, so to speak, right? I didn't feel guilty about killing, but I felt like telling Pam about sleeping with her daughter. But then, I'd have to kill them both because she'd kick me out of the house, and I'd be labeled a creep. Sleeping with Angie would have its consequences, but I'd do my best to limit the damage.
"Are you okay, Mark?" Pam said, crinkling her eyes. "You look deep in thought."
"Me, deep in thought? I'll take that as a compliment." I cocked my head and gave a nervous laugh. "Listen, why don't you have a seat and eat something. Angie was on her way to deliver you breakfast in bed." As a kid, I wished I could bring my mother breakfast in bed—if only I hadn't killed her. Sometimes I'd feel guilty about killing them and other times, I'd be glad Mom couldn't beat the fuck out of me anymore. And my drunk Dad didn't help any. If I'd learned anything from my parents, it's that you can make your problems disappear by killing them. Sure, I'd lived in foster homes, but it beat living with Mom.
"Thank God it's Saturday," Pam said, stretching her arms heavenward to crack her back. "You know, it's been forever since someone made me breakfast."
"I taught my wife and..."
"Wife?" Pam said, raising a sly brow. "I thought you said you weren't married?"
Fuck, I thought. My narcissistic mask is slipping. "I didn't want to seem like damaged goods. A man in his 40s divorced is damaged goods, according to most women." I rattled off as if it were a scientific statistic.
"What happened to them?" Pam asked. "Death seems to follow you," Pam said, chuckling.
"I was at work..."
"And?" Pam shoved her hands in her back pockets. Her eyes widened and it was as if her ears perked to every word I said—as she lifted her gaze to mine. I wasn't used to women being this attentive. Usually, women would look at their watch or text as I spoke. Pam was different, though. Pam seemed to give a damn about what I said and what I wanted out of life. This quality is hard to find in a woman and giving a damn is much of what I'd been looking for in a woman.
I lowered my head. "It was a robbery that went bad. Some guys were after drugs. They broke into the wrong home. The same house number, just the wrong street. I blame myself for not being there. You know—a man is supposed to protect his family."
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
