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from there.”
    Caleb stood at the counter, trying to stay still. He heard Simmons come back inside, and even the lieutenant seemed to recognize the need to be quiet.
    â€œI don’t even feel like I know who he is anymore,” Catherine said. “We fight more than we do anything else. Lately, I just catch myself thinking that . . . that this is not the man I wanna grow old with.”
    Turning, Caleb saw Simmons give a jerk of the head. It was time to leave. Yeah, that was the best plan right now—to leave before it got worse. But how much worse could it get?
    â€œCatherine, I am so sorry. I had no idea it was that bad.”
    â€œIt’s all right,” she said to Robin. “I . . . I’m just tired of playing this game, you know? We’ve been heading in different directions for a while.”
    â€œSo, what’re you gonna do?”
    Caleb held his breath, straining to hear his wife’s answer.
    Silence.
    Simmons was gesturing, trying to curtain Caleb’s eavesdropping.
    Still not a word.
    Well, Caleb figured, that was about right. Catherine had been giving him nothing for weeks now—no affection, no understanding, and certainly nothing close to a civil conversation. Was it wrong of him to expect those things in his own home?
    He eased outside with his wallet and carefully closed the door. He climbed behind the Sierra’s steering wheel, turned the key, and cranked up the stereo. Simmons, to his credit, nodded his chin with the music and made no comment.

CHAPTER 6
    I n the station weight room, Simmons completed his final bench press and sat up for a breather. Sweat was glistening on his forehead and dripping down his jaw. His stereo was plugged in beside him, blaring music and keeping the adrenaline flowing.
    On a nearby universal machine, Caleb churned out the rest of his reps, letting the weights smash against each other—up, down, clang . . . up, down, clanggg —as he worked out his frustration.
    At last he sat up, panting. “My triceps are burning.”
    â€œYou’re complaining?” Simmons said. “Man, I think those weights are ready to apologize for whatever they did wrong to you.”
    Caleb smirked, then reached for his Gatorade. Simmons turned down the music and wiped at his neck with a towel.
    â€œIt ain’t working, Michael,” Caleb said. “How is it that I get respect everywhere I go except in my own house?”
    â€œI’ve been there. That’s a hard place to be.”
    â€œWhat’d you do about it?”
    â€œI realized that it wasn’t my marriage that was broken. I just didn’t know how to make it work.”
    â€œWhat does that mean?”
    Simmons thought about it a moment, then pointed to a treadmill. “That treadmill’s not broken, but if you don’t know how to run it, it ain’t gonna work for you.”
    â€œWhat? Are you saying I need counseling?”
    â€œWell, I think everybody needs counseling.”
    â€œHey.” Caleb raised a finger. “Look, man. I am not about to go talk to somebody I don’t even know, about something that’s none of their business.”
    â€œAll right. Well, Catherine does need to respect you. But just remember that a woman’s like a rose. If you treat her right, she’ll bloom. If you don’t, she’ll wilt.”
    â€œWhere’d you get that?”
    Simmons took a sip of his juice and grinned. “Counseling.”
    Caleb threw his empty bottle at Simmons, who only smiled as Caleb smirked and looked away.
    CATHERINE WAS STRAIGHTENING up the house. She and Robin had shared Papa John’s pizza after a relaxing, soul-sharing afternoon. On top of that, Catherine had bought some beautiful candles. She lit one now, trying to set a mood, to establish some atmosphere in this cold, immaculate dungeon. The house was like one of those model homes—presentable, even impressive on the surface, yet empty and