ed at the curb in front of the Turner house

was a marriage certificate. The name read Karyn Turner,

pered, his voice thick with unshed tears, "

ll day. A tiny, fragile warmth flickered i

flanked by Karyn, who was already eyeing

She wore a pale yellow dress, two sizes too big and years out of s

irony settled over her. In a way, it was perfect. A husband who couldn't see her would grant her a level of freedom and anonymity she'd never had. She

wling stone mansion surrounded by acres of manicured lawns. A woman with a severe bun and a face like granite was waiting at the entran

rcase, and into the master bedroom. The room was vast and cold, decorated in shades of gr

on the floor when a low, cold voice cu

e Karyn

He wasn't in a wheelchair. He stood tall, leaning lightly o

ractice kept her face smooth. She immediately shifted into ch

rtificate. "Hello," she said, pitching her voice y

ith unnerving accuracy, and cupped her chin. His fingers were cold, his grip firm, forcing her to look up at hi

ed his lips. "No," he said, each

he had planned for, had been built on the fact that he was blind. She ha

rrifying than a shout. "She wears Chanel No. 5. You smell of cheap soap. And most importantly-"

and they had just demoli

nd, pure survival

t out a piercing wail-a sound of

aaa

ainst the expensive rug, her arms flailing. "Bad man!" she shrieked, her wo

ild tangle, and smeared the tears and snot ru

that it stopped Donovan cold. The sharp, cutting questions he had been about to ask died on his lips. H

. Her face twisted in disgust at the sig

Barnaby to her chest and screamed at Donov

posing figure, looking down at the pathetic creature on his floor. For the first time, a sliver of doubt e