“Why would Clint need my commander’s verification for taxes?” I asked.
Gavin laughed in that condescending way I had come to hate.
“You handle the wilderness, sweetheart. Let me handle money. I left an updated power of attorney on the desk. Sign it before you leave for training. It’ll make things easier while you’re gone.”
I glanced at the manila envelope on the desk. A cold warning moved through me.
I wanted to trust my husband.
But when I picked up the envelope, my thumb brushed against something waxy. On the back flap was a bright red lipstick mark.
Not mine.
Alyssa Miller’s.
Gavin’s wealthy client.
The pieces came together fast—his secrecy, his sudden urgency, the financial papers, the way he smiled at me like I was already gone.
Still, I did not yet understand how far his betrayal had gone.
A week later, Gavin called a trip to Montana an “anniversary weekend.” He said he wanted to repair our marriage. He drove us deep into the mountains, to an old family cabin far from the nearest road.
The moment I stepped inside, the door slammed behind me.
I turned and ran for it, but the knob would not move.
Then I heard the heavy scrape of a padlock outside.
“Gavin!” I shouted. “Open the door!”
Through the frosted window, I saw him standing on the porch.
He was not alone.
Alyssa stood beside him in a white fur coat, smiling with those same red lips.
Gavin held up my satellite phone and my winter parka.
“It was never about your career, Morgan,” he called over the rising wind. “It was about the money. The life insurance, the pension, the house. You’re worth more to me dead than alive.”
Alyssa laughed softly. “Come on, babe. We have a memorial to plan.”
Gavin looked at me one last time.
“By morning, the storm will do the work. They’ll think you wandered off during training. Rest in peace, Lieutenant.”
