Prologue
Four Years Ago
He’s late.
(James Church Cason is never late.)
He’s stuck in traffic. He’s lost. Something happened.
(Nothing keeps Church from what he wants. Ever.)
He loves me. He wouldn’t do this to me.
(But do Iknowthat? Beyond a shadow of a doubt? Do I really know him well enough to say?)
He’s not coming.
And on that point, I’m forced to finally face the truth.
He’s not coming.
“Would you like to try him again?” the woman next to me asks kindly, nodding down at the phone in my hand. She’s a stranger—someone employed by the church to facilitate wedding ceremonies—and her warmth and concern are blistering. I’m blistered with it. My face is hot, my eyes are seared with unshed tears, my voice is burnt and dry when I speak.
“No, thank you,” I rasp. “I think—I think it won’t do much good. I’m so sorry, but do you have any water?”
I hate the tenderness in her eyes when she nods, because it brings me that much closer to breaking, and I can’t break. I won’t. Not yet and not here. I look over at my little brother, twelve and fidgeting in his tuxedo, his blue eyes wide with worry. I offer him a wobbly smile.
“It’s going to be okay,” I say, reaching out to squeeze his hand. “At least no boring ceremony to sit through, hey?”
He looks like he’s about to cry, and that also brings me closer to the brink, so I look away. Through the cracked door that separates the narthex from the nave.
There’s only a smattering of people inside—fifteen, maybe, in a church that could seat five hundred. They’re all here for me—fellow volunteers at the museum and friends from college. No family other than Jax, because our mother died a few years back and our father is a piece of shit who’d rather get stoned than do anything else.
No one is here for Church. No one. There’s no sight of his parents, his brother, the niece who was supposed to be the flower girl, the sister who was supposed to do a reading. No friends. No other sharply dressed professors or sun-drenched archaeologist types.
Stupid, Charley. You’ve been stupid.
The vicar clears his throat and begins making his way down the aisle to me, to the great interest of the worried guests, and when he slips in through the door, he takes my hand.
“My dear,” he starts, and he doesn’t have to finish. He’s been waiting up by the altar for almost an hour. I know what he’s going to say.
“Yes,” I say. “I should—I need to go.”
“Of course,” he says, just as kindly as the event planner had. “I’ll tell the guests. Something vague, naturally.”
Well, he could hardly be specific, could he? Since evenIdon’t know why my wedding is missing its groom.
“Thank you,” I say. My eyes are burning something fierce, and I know I only have minutes before I disintegrate. “Is there a side door I can—”
The event planner returns with a cup of water and an expression of supreme discomfort. “Ms. Tenpenny,” she starts, using the water as an excuse not to meet my gaze, “there is a driver out front—your fiancé’s driver.”
There’s a collective wince as we all think the same thing. Is someone still your fiancé after they leave you at the altar?
“Er, Mr. Cason’s driver, I mean,” she hurriedly revises. “He says Mr. Cason sent him to give you a ride to your home.”
Church sent his driver.
On our wedding day.