Chapter One

The monsoon season in Phoenix is so unbearably hot that some have compared it to hell. Holly Cranston would be the first to agree. But the stifling heat and miserable humidity wasn’t the only thing that was making her feel like a wilted lily – it was the endless nights of insomnia.

At 2:00 a.m., she sat on the side of the bed, and ran her fingers through her shoulder-length blonde hair. A few minutes later, she was lying back down and rolling from side to side, in an attempt to sleep. But sleep didn’t come. It was 2:30 a.m., when she finally kicked the tangled sheets aside, and dragged herself out of bed. Clad only in her lightweight T-shirt and panties, the thirty-four-year-old mystery writer crossed the plush carpeting of her spacious master bedroom and headed downstairs to the den. Even in darkness, she knew the steps by heart. She’d been practicing the same routine now for two months, ever since that warm evening in May, when her husband, Eric, failed to come home for dinner. Their marriage hadn’t been on solid ground, but he’d always called if he was going to be late. His excuses had ranged from late-night meetings at the office, to catching a major league baseball game, to going out for a few drinks with friends. But that night, he hadn’t bothered to call. For months, her gut had been telling her that another woman was involved, but she hadn’t wanted to face the inevitable.

She lumbered into the den, flopped down on her recliner, and listened to the quiet tick of the overhead fan. Staring into the darkness, obliterated by the faint glow of the moon coming in through the blinds, she thought back to that night. A night when everything had finally come to a head. It was embedded deep into her brain – every moment – every word – every gesture. She’d been at her computer in her nighty, trying to put together a storyline for her third novel. But with worrying that Eric may have been in a car accident, or worse yet, was finding solace in another woman’s arms, it had been hard to concentrate. The messages she’d left on his cell phone had gone unanswered. It was almost midnight, when she’d heard the front door slam. A few seconds later, he’d come stumbling into her office, drunk out of his mind. Lipstick had been smeared on the collar of his wrinkled white shirt, and his thick head of brown hair, which he always kept precisely in place, was more than disheveled.

Holly had lunged at him, ready to claw his eyes out. “Where’ve you been, in the gutter with some bimbo?” she’d screamed, just inches from his face.

“She’s not a bimbo,” he had slurred indignantly, while holding her at arms length. “Amber might be twenty-three, but she’s a damn hard worker.”

“What is she? A stripper!”

“No! She’s a waitress.”

Before Holly had had the chance to respond, he’d blurted out, “I want a divorce! You don’t need me; you’re married to your writing.”

For Holly, it had been like living an episode in someone else’s life. It must be the booze talking. This couldn’t be happening to her. But it was. It had. He had replaced her with another woman, as easily as exchanging an article of clothing at a department store. The reality of the moment had made her head spin.

It had also sobered Eric up. He’d run his long thin fingers through his hair, tucked his shirt in his slacks, and seemed to be contemplating his next move. There had been eye contact for a brief moment – a moment in which she thought he’d come to his senses. But he hadn’t. Instead, he had marched upstairs, stuffed some clothes into a suitcase, and had gone in search of his wife. He had found her in the den staring out the window. “I’ll be back for the rest of my stuff later.”

“Are you sure this is what you want?” she had pleaded. “Was life really that terrible with me that you have to throw it all away?”

His remark, “You’ll be hearing from my divorce attorney,” had been laced with utter sarcasm. “You need to get a life,” had been his parting words. The slur in his voice was gone, but the scorn on his face was something she’d never forget. He had turned and walked out the door, without batting an eyelash, or looking back.

Two long and lonely days had passed since the night he’d left. At noon on the third day, Holly had been in her recliner watching the hands of the clock tick by, when the phone had rung. Her fingers had trembled as she’d picked up the receiver, not knowing what to expect. “Hello,” she’s said.

Eric’s response had been as cold as a frigid day. “Just wanted to let you know that I filed. If it’s all right with you, I’d like to keep the condo, and you can have the house. The rest of our assets can be worked out.”

The blood had rushed to her head, as all of the ugly pieces had begun falling in place. Both homes had been paid off with the proceeds from Holly’s best-selling books. The condo, a three-bedroom beauty in Mesa, had been purchased in December for an investment – at his insistence. It had become painfully clear, that he had wanted the condo so he’d have a place to live after he divorced her. Feathering his nest.

She’d slammed the phone down, and an attorney had been contacted. The papers had been drawn up, and a month later the divorce was final. All the love she had ever felt for him turned to resentment. The man had used her and then discarded her like yesterday’s garbage.

Holly had always been an upbeat and positive person, but these last two months had changed her. Still bitter that Eric had dumped her for another woman, she lost her confidence and rarely talked to anyone but her agent and sister. Leaving her house meant facing the world. She wasn’t ready for that yet. Now, as her eyes settled on the shadows caused from the moonlight, she wondered if time really does change everything….