Married To A Killer

The pancake batter sizzles the second it hits the hot griddle, and I'm already reaching for the spatula when Lia shrieks, "Mommy, mine's burning!" from her booster seat at the counter.

"It's not burning, baby. That's just the edges getting crispy, the way you like 'em." I flip the pancake with a flick of my wrist, and it lands dead center, golden and perfect, and honestly, I'm a little proud of myself. Three years of this morning routine and I've finally stopped splattering batter all over the stove.

Lauren's quieter this morning, her little chin propped on both fists while she watches me, blue eyes—Daddy's eyes—tracking every move. "Can I have a smiley face on mine?"

"Absolutely." I squeeze the plastic bottle of batter and draw two eyes and a crooked grin onto the griddle. "A little lopsided, but you get the picture."

She giggles, and the sound does something to my chest, that warm ache I still can't believe belongs to me. Five years old and they're already their own tiny humans, Lia with her wild curls escaping the ponytail I wrestled in ten minutes ago, Lauren with her princess pajama top still buttoned wrong because she insisted on doing it herself.

Jermey's arms slide around my waist from behind before I even hear him come down the stairs, his chest solid and warm against my back through the thin cotton of my sleep tee. He smells like soap and something under it that I can't ever name, woodsy and dark, the way the bayou smells after a hard rain.

"Mornin', darlin'." His voice is low, rumbly against the curve of my ear, and my knees go a little stupid like they always do.

"Morning. Coffee's already made."

"You're a saint." He presses a kiss to the side of my neck, slow and deliberate, his stubble scratching just enough to make me shiver. Then he pulls back and grabs his mug from the cabinet, and I flip another pancake, my face warm for no reason at all.

"Late shift tonight?" I keep my voice casual, but I'm already bracing for the answer.

"Shouldn't be. Just a couple hours of maintenance on the truck, maybe some paperwork." He sips his coffee, leaning against the counter like he belongs on the cover of some firefighter calendar, dark hair still sleep-messy, that razor-sharp jaw that makes all the church ladies fan themselves. "I'll be home in time to grill those burgers we talked about."

"Mommy, Daddy said burgers!" Lia bounces in her seat, and Lauren claps her sticky hands together.

"Burgers, burgers!"

I laugh, sliding their plates across the counter. "Okay, okay. Burgers it is. Now eat before it gets cold, both of you."

Jermey catches my eye over the rim of his mug, and for just a second, a half-breath, there's something flat in his stare. The way his eyes go sometimes when he thinks I'm not paying attention, like the color drains out of the blue and leaves something hollow. My stomach clenches, that quick nervous pinch I've been getting more and more lately, and I don't even know why.

Then he grins, all warmth again, and the moment's gone so fast I almost convince myself I imagined it.

"Better get moving." He drains his coffee, sets the mug in the sink. "Chief wants me at the station early."

"Be safe out there, hero." I'm teasing him, but I mean it.

He winks, grabs his keys from the hook by the door, and I watch him go, all broad shoulders and easy confidence, my perfect husband in his perfect little town. And I should still feel lucky. I do. I swear I do.

An hour later, I'm wrestling the double stroller out of the back of the SUV while the twins argue in the backseat about whose turn it is to hold the snack bag.

"Mine!"

"Is *not*!"

"Is *too*, I had it first—"

"Girls, I'm gonna count to three." I yank the stroller free and pop it open with one hand, a skill I'm genuinely proud of. "One. Two. Thr—"

Lia shoves the bag at her sister, and Lauren snatches it with a huff that would make a teenager jealous.

"Thank you." I unbuckle them one at a time, hoisting Lauren onto my hip while Lia squirms down on her own. The morning's already sticky-hot, the air thick as soup, and my hair's doing that frizzy thing around my temples that I'm definitely gonna pay for later.

Ms. Clara's waiting at the classroom door like she always is, her graying bun pinned so tight it pulls her eyebrows up. "Good morning, Mrs. Anderson! And look at these two sweet peas, all ready for picture day."

*Picture day.* My brain short-circuits. "Oh, God. That's today?"

"Tomorrow, actually, but I sent the reminder home last week—"

"I know, I saw it, I just—" I smooth down Lia's wild ponytail, already calculating whether I can run to the Piggly Wiggly and grab two matching outfits before noon. "They'll be ready. I promise."

Ms. Clara laughs, patting my arm. "Honey, you're doing fine. Nobody expects perfection."

Which is sweet of her to say, but it's not true. Not in this town. Not when you're married to Jermey Anderson, the man who pulled two kids out of a burning trailer last spring and carried them both, one under each arm, like they weighed nothing. The man everyone calls a hero without a hint of irony.

Another mom—Carla something, I can never remember her last name—stops me on my way back to the car. "Maria! I heard Jermey's organizing the fall fundraiser this year. Tell him my husband said he can count on us for the dunk tank again." She lowers her voice like she's sharing state secrets. "Honestly, half the ladies in this town just show up to see him get wet."

I laugh, the automatic polite laugh I've perfected. "I'll let him know."

She leans in closer. "You're a lucky woman, you know that?"

"I know."

I say it the same way I always do, bright and sincere, because I am lucky. I have the gorgeous husband who still looks at me like I'm twenty-one, the healthy babies, the Craftsman on Bayou Lane with the big porch swing and the backyard that slopes down to the water. I have the life every girl in Biloxi dreamed about while she was scrubbing grease off her daddy's garage floor.

But when I glance toward the street, Betty Lou Hargrove's sitting on her porch across from the school, her binoculars right there on the little iron table beside her sweet tea, and she's watching me. Not in a friendly way, exactly. More like she's waiting for something.

I wave. She waves back, a slow lift of her hand, her face unreadable.

The heat prickles at the back of my neck, and I tell myself it's just the weather.

The burgers are charcoal by the time Jermey finally pulls into the driveway.

"I'm sorry, babe." He kills the engine of his pickup and swings out, still in his uniform pants and the faded FD Willowbrook tee that's practically painted onto his chest. "Ladder drill went long. Chief had us running the whole damn thing three times."

"Three times?" Lia's already bouncing at his ankles. "Did you climb all the way up?"

"All the way to the top, baby girl. Touched the sky." He scoops her up, spins her around until she's shrieking with laughter, and then Lauren's there too, both of them hanging off his arms like little monkeys.

"Okay, okay, let Daddy breathe." I wave the spatula toward the grill. "Burgers are a little crispy, but they're still edible."

He sets the girls down, presses a kiss to my cheek that lingers a beat too long. "Crispy's my favorite."

We eat on the back porch, the screen door slapping shut every time one of the twins runs inside for more ketchup, and the bayou's doing its evening thing—frogs croaking, something splashing out near the cypress knees, the whole world golden in the last light. Jermey tells fire stories. The good ones, the ones that make him look like a hero without making him sound like he's bragging. The little boy he carried out of a wreck on Highway 27, the old man whose porch collapsed and whose dog Jermey found hiding under the house, the barn fire where he and Big Mike worked the hose for six hours straight and saved half the livestock.

"Is that real, Daddy?" Lia's eyes are huge, her burger forgotten.

"Every word, baby." He grins, and it's the grin that makes the whole town trust him with their lives.

I'm still smiling when I carry the girls up for their bath, still warm from the easy normalcy of it all, from the way he'd rested his hand on my knee under the table, the way Lauren had fallen asleep against his arm and he'd just let her, not moving for twenty minutes.

"One more story," Lia begs from the tub, water sloshing over the edge.

"Nope. One story, one bath, that's the rule." I wrap her in a towel, and she's already half-asleep by the time I get her pajamas on, her head heavy against my shoulder.

I tuck them both in, kiss their foreheads, breathe in that baby-soap-and-little-girl smell that I want to freeze in a jar and keep forever. "Goodnight, my loves. Mommy's right downstairs if you need anything."

"Goodnight." It's a sleepy chorus, two identical voices already fading.

I pull their door mostly shut, just the way they like it, a crack of hallway light spilling across the rug. And when I turn around, Jermey's standing at the end of the hall, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, watching me.

Not moving. Not smiling. Just watching.

My heart kicks. "Hey. You scared me."

"Didn't mean to." His voice is soft, but his eyes aren't. They're that flat blue again, the hollow one, and for a second I can't breathe right. "You're good with them."

"They're easy to be good with."

He pushes off the wall, closes the distance between us in two strides, and his hand cups my jaw, thumb brushing my cheekbone. Gentle. Almost reverent.

"You're perfect," he murmurs, and the word should make me melt. It always used to.

But tonight it lands wrong. Tonight it sounds less like a compliment and more like something else entirely.

He kisses my forehead, slow, and then he's gone, down the stairs, his boots heavy on the old wood, and I'm left standing in the hallway with my pulse thudding in my throat for reasons I can't name.

I follow him down eventually, because I always do. I clear the plates, rinse the ketchup off, load the dishwasher. I'm reaching for the sponge to wipe down the counters when I see them.

His work boots. Tossed by the back door, the way he leaves them every night, except these aren't just dusty. They're caked in something dark, almost black, wet enough to leave smudges on the floor tile. Mud, I tell myself. Just mud from the bayou. He's always tramping around down there, checking on his boat, doing God knows what.

I pick one up, heavy and damp and cold, and the smell hits me. Metal. Sharp and coppery, under the mud. Under the river rot.

My stomach lurches, but I don't know why. There's no reason. No reason at all.

I set the boot back down, wipe my hands on my jeans, and flip off the kitchen light, my bare feet silent on the wood floor as I head upstairs.