My hands were completely steady as I turned off my headlights and coasted to a stop along the dirt shoulder.
I slipped the gun into my coat pocket, grabbed the brass key, and stepped out into the dry desert heat.
The air was dead silent, save for the hum of the air conditioning unit running at the side of the house. I tiptoed up the concrete steps to the front door.
The brass key fit smoothly into the lock.
Click.
I turned the handle and pushed the door open.
Inside, the house smelled of dust, old wood, and fresh paint. Sunlight from the patio reflected dimly off plastic-wrapped furniture.
Then I heard the voices coming from the back room.
“You don’t understand, Melanie,” Lucas’s voice was low, smooth, and dangerously calm—the exact tone he used when trying to gaslight me. “I did this for us. For our baby.”
