Detecting Danger (Refuge Cove #1)

Prologue

One Year Earlier

The smell of garlic and tomatoes filled the kitchen as Millie Anderson stirred the pasta sauce.

Biscuit, her cocker spaniel, lay in his bed by the pantry, watching her with those soulful brown eyes that seemed to understand more than a dog should.

Steam rose from the pot, fogging the window above the sink.

Outside, the sun was setting over their neighborhood, where each house had a neat lawn and a two-car garage.

It was the kind of street where people waved to each other and stopped to chat as they walked their dogs on the pristine sidewalks.

Everything was picture perfect . . . just like Garrick liked it.

At the thought, Millie straightened her sweater then ran a hand through her hair. She’d taken extra time to style it in long waves. She’d carefully applied her makeup.

She needed to look nice for her husband when he returned home.

She adjusted the heat and reached for the wooden spoon, her movements practiced and precise. Garrick would be home any minute. Dinner needed to be ready—not too early, not too late. Just right.

The pasta was al dente. She’d checked it twice.

The salad was in the fridge, already dressed. Garlic bread was warming in the oven.

She didn’t have to check the clock to know he was close.

The tightening in her chest was warning enough.

Biscuit lifted his head from his bed, ears perked. He’d learned to read the signs too—the way Millie’s movements became sharper, more careful when Garrick was near.

The dog stood and padded over to her, pressing against her legs.

She heard Garrick’s car in the driveway, and her shoulders tensed automatically.

She forced her shoulders down, forced her expression into something calm and welcoming as the garage door rumbled open.

You’re fine. Everything’s fine. Just don’t mess up.

The door leading from the garage opened, and Garrick stepped into the kitchen. He was still in his suit from work, tie loosened, briefcase in hand.

Her husband was handsome, successful, and the kind of man people envied her for marrying. At one time, she’d thought she was so lucky.

She’d been wrong.

“Hi, honey.” She kept her voice light. “Dinner’s almost ready. How was your day?”

“Long.” He set his briefcase on the counter. “What are we having?”

“Pasta primavera. Your favorite.”

He moved to the stove and lifted the lid on the sauce pot, peering inside.

Millie’s pulse quickened as she waited for his reaction.

“Smells good,” he finally said.

She exhaled slowly. “I’m glad. Do you want to change first or—?”

“I’ll eat now. I’m starving.” He replaced the lid and moved toward the dining room. “Is the table set?”

“Yes. I just need to drain the pasta, and we’re ready.”

“Perfect.”

Millie worked quickly, draining the noodles, plating the food, carrying everything to the dining room where Garrick had already seated himself at the head of the table. She set his plate in front of him—careful not to let the edge touch his placemat—and took her own seat.

He picked up his fork and took a bite.

Millie waited, her hands folded in her lap.

He chewed slowly. Swallowed. Took another bite.

“It’s good,” he finally said.

Relief flooded her. “I’m glad you like it.”

She’d thrown away two other pots of sauce as she tried to get this perfect.

They ate in silence for a few minutes. Millie forced herself to take small bites, to appear relaxed, even though her stomach was knotted too tight to taste anything.

“By the way, I ran into Jeff Brennan today,” Garrick said, reaching for his water glass. “You know Jeff, right? From the office.”

Millie’s fork paused halfway to her mouth. She knew who the man was. “Oh?”

“He mentioned he saw you at the gym this morning.” Garrick took a sip of water, his calculated gaze on her.

She carefully set her fork down, anxious about where this was going. “I go most mornings. You know that.”

“Do I?” His tone had shifted. Just slightly.

But it was enough to put her on edge.

“Yes,” she said. “I’ve been going for months. It helps me stay healthy.”

“Healthy.” He set his glass down with more force than necessary. Water sloshed over the rim. “Interesting choice of words.”

Her throat tightened. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, Jeff showed me a picture of the two of you together.”

Millie’s stomach fluttered. She’d feared this might happen. Had rationalized that she was overreacting.

She should have known better.

“Jeff thought it would be fun to take a selfie to show you,” she explained. “It wasn’t my idea. It was his. And it was innocent.”

And she’d known it was a terrible idea, but to refuse would only raise more questions.

So she’d tried to look casual. She’d kept her distance from the man in the photo. Had raised her hands in two thumbs ups.

The photo was clearly friendly and fun, meant to be lighthearted.

Of course, Garrick wouldn’t take it that way.

“It was his idea, was it?” Garrick repeated, anger punctuating each word. “He happened to show me in the break room in front of three other people.”

“He didn’t mean anything by it.”

“I saw what you were wearing.”

She blinked, trying to understand what he was saying. She hadn’t expected the conversation to take this turn. “I don’t—what was I wearing?”

“Black leggings and a blue tank top.” Garrick’s jaw tightened.

“Garrick, I wear workout clothes to the gym. Everyone does.”

“Not everyone has my colleague staring at them.”

“He wasn’t staring—”

“I think you wanted him to notice.”

She felt the color drain from her face. “That’s not true—”

“Isn’t it?” He pushed his plate away, still half full. “You know what I think?”

The world went still around her. “What?”

“I think you like the attention. I think you go to that gym—in those tight clothes—hoping men will look at you.”

“No, I don’t. I go to work out. That’s all.”

“Then why that gym?” His voice grew louder. “There are three other gyms closer to our house. But you drive twenty minutes to go to the one where my colleagues have memberships.”

“I didn’t know—”

“Don’t lie to me, Millie.” He stood abruptly, his chair scraping loudly against the hardwood. “Everyone from the office goes there. You know that.”

She stood too, her heart hammering. “I chose it because it has good equipment—”

“You chose it because you wanted to be seen.” He moved around the table toward her. “You wanted men to notice you. To want you.”

“No. Garrick, that’s not—”

“Then explain it to me.” His face was red now. “Explain why my wife is parading around in front of my coworkers in skin-tight workout clothes.”

“They’re not skin-tight. They’re normal—”

He grabbed her plate and hurled it across the room.

Millie flinched as it shattered against the wall, pasta and sauce spraying across the floor and the white wainscoting she’d painted last spring.

She had to turn down the heat before things turned really ugly.

She rubbed her wrist, remembering the last time that had happened.

Please, Lord. Not again. Please!

“Garrick—”

“Don’t.” He pointed at her, his face red. “Don’t you dare try to justify this.”

She took a step back, her hands raised instinctively. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—I’ll find a different gym. I promise.”

“You always promise.” He moved toward her, and she backed up until she hit the wall. “But nothing ever changes, does it?”

“It will. I’ll . . . I’ll cancel my membership tomorrow. I won’t go back—”

“You’ll what, Millie?” He was inches from her now, his voice dropping to something low and dangerous. “You’ll stop embarrassing me? Stop disrespecting me? How many times have I heard that?”

She couldn’t answer. Couldn’t move. Her back was pressed against the wall, and he was so close she could feel the heat of his anger radiating off him.

Biscuit stood and let out a low growl.

“It’s okay, boy,” she murmured. “It’s okay. Stay.”

Biscuit sat, his attention on her as he waited for another command.

Garrick’s hand shot out, and she flinched—hard—turning her face away and raising her arms to protect herself.

But he didn’t hit her.

Instead, his palm slammed against the wall beside her head, making her jump.

“Look at you,” he said, his voice almost tender now. “Cowering like I’m some kind of monster. Is that what you think I am?”

She shook her head, tears burning her eyes. There was no good way to respond—nothing she could say that wouldn’t have consequences.

“Answer me.”

“No,” she whispered. “You’re not a monster.”

“That’s right.” He leaned in closer, his breath hot against her ear. “I’m your husband. And all I ask is that you respect me. That you don’t humiliate me in front of my colleagues. Is that really too much to ask?”

“No. I’m sorry.”

He stayed there for another moment—close enough for his breath to heat her skin—before he finally stepped back.

“Clean this up,” he said, gesturing to the mess on the floor. “I’m going to take a shower.”

He walked out of the dining room without looking back.

Millie stayed frozen against the wall, her whole body shaking, until she heard his footsteps on the stairs.

Only after Garrick’s footsteps faded up the stairs did Biscuit creep forward. He pressed his nose against Millie’s knee, offering the only comfort he could.

She was just thankful Garrick never went after the dog. So thankful.

She slid down to the floor, pulled her knees to her chest, and tried to remember how to breathe.

She buried her face in Biscuit’s fur and let herself cry—just for a moment—before she had to pull herself together and clean up the mess.

After a moment, she forced herself to stand. To find the broom and dustpan. To scrub the sauce off the wall before it stained.

To be the wife Garrick wanted her to be.

Because if she wasn’t—if she failed again—next time, his hand might not stop at the wall.