March 19, 1944

I’m a pipe on the verge of combusting when my husband comes home, my cheeks flushed hot with anger. He’s late, which used to be an unusual habit but has become more typical of him in recent times.

Since the moment Sera went to bed, I’ve been in my rocking chair, glaring out the window and stewing in my fury, planning all the harsh words I would dare say to him.

He’s always been hot-tempered, but my wrath has proven to burn brighter a time or two.

The front door shuts behind him, and John comes sauntering toward me, several envelopes in his hand. His eyes are red, and once he’s near enough, I detect a faint whiff of booze.

My husband has always been conventionally handsome, with short, light-brown hair that is as thick as it is soft and always seems to be effortlessly windswept. Unusual light-brown eyes, a square jawline, an aristocratic nose, and an incredibly charming smile. When we were teens, he had birds lining up for him, hoping for just a minute of his attention. He’s always been tall, handsome, and wealthy.

Now, only two of those things are true.

“You have a letter from Daisy,” he announces, dropping an envelope onto the footstool in front of me, familiar handwriting scribed over it. She and I have been best friends for nearly three decades. We write to each other often since she moved to Spokane. However, Daisy is the least of my concerns right now.

“Did you happen to promise our daughter a luxury car?” I ask, my tone dangerously sweet.

He grins and tugs at his tie, exhaustion weighing down the corners of his lips. John has always been a hardworking man, yet his spending habits have proven to work harder.

“She’s nearly fourteen. Gives her somethin’ to work towards,” he says casually. As if he’s not getting our little girl’s hopes up only to let her down so cruelly.

“You want to explain how on earth we’re going to afford that?”

His brow furrows. “Genevieve, what are you on about?”

“We received a letter from the debt collector. We can’t afford the mortgage payments right now, let alone food. So why would you promise her a car?”

His face drops, guilt instantly coloring his eyes.

“Baby—”

“Don’t you dare address me that way, Johnathan. When were you going to tell me?”

“There’s no need to get bent out of shape, Gigi. I’m going to get it all back, I promise you,” he swears, coming to crouch in front of me before taking hold of my hands. He stares up at me with a softness I see only when he requires my forgiveness.

I’m seconds away from blowing a gasket.

“Where did it go? With your inheritance and business, you’ve always made more than enough to support us. And yet there’s nothing to show for this money spent.”

He never came home with lavish gifts for Sera and me. Hasn’t bought any new vehicles. No expensive jewelry or any impromptu vacations. And he so clearly hasn’t paid off the house yet. It doesn’t make any sense!

He works to swallow, radiating a nervous energy.

“I had a few too many poker nights with Frank,” he admits.

I’m shaking my head in disbelief before he can finish. “John, you didn’t,” I breathe. “You gambled away our life savings!”

“Keep your voice down,” he shushes, a tinge of anger in his tone. Truly, I believe he’s only embarrassed.

As he should be.

“How do you expect to recover?” I ask, lowering my voice for Sera’s sake.

“I—I don’t know,” he admits. “I could count cards or—”

I stand abruptly, tossing my journal onto the chair before I pace the checkered floor, so overwhelmed that I can no longer sit still.

I’ve married a dip.

“Do you realize how unbelievably dangerous that is? John, if you’re caught, you could end up in the hoosegow—or worse, you could . . .” I can’t even bear to finish that sentence.

He could be killed, and Sera and I would be stranded.

Worse yet, what if they came for us instead?

Maybe that man outside the window was a debt collector. But did he come from an agency, or is he a part of something more sinister?

It’s not my own life I’m concerned about, but Sera’s.

I can’t even begin to fathom how he could put her in such a position.

He steps toward me, holding his hands out in a calm down gesture.

“I swear to you, no matter how I do it, I’ll make everything back tenfold. Soon, our pockets will be so deep, we won’t know what to do with all of it. I’m so close to getting this game down.”

I’m not stupid enough to believe him.

When a gambler promises to make back everything he’s squandered through more gambling, then he’s well and truly lost.

But what am I supposed to do? I’m a housewife with no skills of my own. John has refused to allow me to work, preferring I take care of the house and our daughter. But Sera is older now, so if he keeps this up, I may have no choice.

For now, I am as bound to my husband as he is bound to a poker chip.

I give him my back, staring at the home that was supposed to embrace this family yet has only borne witness to sorrow. Tears well in my eyes, and helplessness takes root.

We are so much worse off than I imagined. If he had frivolous spending habits, we could sell those things and recoup our losses. But our money is tucked in the pockets of other men, and they won’t be so kind about returning it.

“Gigi,” he pleads, but I hold up a hand, silencing him.

“You’re destroying this family, Johnathan,” I choke out, the words as unstable as my heart rate. “And I have no choice but to let you.”

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