Then Tessa sat forward, her manicured hand gripping the dashboard so hard her knuckles bleached. “Rowan, pull over.”
Gravel cracked like gunfire under the tires as I hit the brakes. “Look,” Tessa purred, a sickeningly sweet satisfaction dripping from the word. “Isn’t that your ex-wife?”
I followed her gaze. My breath caught in my throat like shards of glass. Maren. For one heartbeat, I barely recognized the woman squinting beneath the glare of the sun. The Maren I remembered wore silk to charity galas and carried herself with quiet grace. This Maren wore a dust-stained t-shirt and exhaustion so deep it made my own bones ache.
But none of that mattered once I noticed the babies. Twins. Tiny. Sleeping beneath pale blue caps. Their cheeks were round, their curls light, almost white-blond in the sun. The exact same color my father’s hair had been in every old family photograph hanging in my study.
