Chapter 1: Her Smile Before the Fall

My wife went on a group tour to Europe and ended up being assaulted by a foreign tour guide.

The day she left, she was all smiles—snapping selfies at the airport, suitcase plastered with stickers from every place she’d ever been. It was supposed to be the trip of a lifetime: fourteen countries in three weeks, bouncing from Paris to Rome to Prague with a bunch of strangers. I remember her waving at me from the security line, that big, infectious grin lighting up her whole face. Never in a million years did I think it’d end like this.

She couldn’t take the shame, so she ended her own life, thinking it was the only way to save her reputation.

In our town, folks still care about what the neighbors say. That’s just how it is here, I guess. The fear of being the center of gossip at the grocery store or whispered about at church weighs heavy. Even now, some wounds cut so deep you can’t even speak them out loud. She must’ve thought ending it was the only way to hold onto her dignity. God, I wish she’d talked to me first.

When I found out what had happened, I was overwhelmed with grief and swore I’d make that foreigner pay—no matter what.

I’d never felt so powerless. The pain tore through me like wildfire, burning away any sense of reason. I didn’t care about laws, or what might happen next. I just wanted revenge. Hell, all I could think about was making him pay. Nothing else mattered.

After she got back from that whirlwind trip—fourteen countries in three weeks—she barely said a word.

She didn’t even bother unpacking. Her suitcase just sat by the door, like she might bolt at any moment. She drifted around the house like a ghost, barely touching her food, her eyes fixed on some spot a million miles away. The TV was on, but she never looked up. Sometimes I’d catch the scent of her favorite mac and cheese from the kitchen, untouched, getting cold. She’d left a piece of herself somewhere overseas, and I couldn’t reach her.

I finally asked, "Weren’t you supposed to relax? How’d it get this bad?"

I tried to keep my voice gentle, but the words came out sharper than I meant. Damn it, I didn’t mean to sound so harsh. I reached for her hand, but she pulled away, clutching her sleeves tight around her trembling arms.

Her eyes were red and puffy, and she cried so hard her words barely made it out. "Kyle, you have no idea what I went through!"

She was shaking, her breath catching on every sob. The sound was raw, like something broken inside her. I wanted to hold her, fix everything, but hell if I knew how.

"That foreign tour guide… he snuck into my hotel room at night and…" She broke off, voice quivering. "He… he forced himself on me…"

The words hit me like a punch to the gut. My mind raced. None of it made sense. All I felt was cold fury rising up in my chest.

Then she broke down, sobbing even harder.

Her whole body convulsed, her hands covering her face. The room felt too small, the air thick with pain. I could barely breathe. I stood there, useless, wishing I could turn back time and protect her from it all.

Hearing this, rage exploded inside me—I saw red. I grabbed a coffee mug off the table and smashed it to pieces.

The sound of shattering ceramic echoed through the kitchen. I barely noticed the mess. Didn’t care. My fists clenched so hard my knuckles went white. I’d never felt so helpless—and so angry.

She unloaded on me. "Kyle Morgan, if you’re a real man, you’ll make that foreign bastard pay. Make him pay for what he did to your wife!"

Her voice was desperate, pleading. She looked at me with wild, tear-streaked eyes. She needed me. Needed me to be her avenger. I nodded, swallowing hard, feeling her trust pressing down on me like a weight I couldn’t lift.

I pulled her close. Tried to comfort her. God, I was useless. "Don’t worry, I won’t let this go. I promise I’ll make things right for you!"

She trembled in my embrace, her tears soaking my shirt. I held her tighter. Didn’t want to let go.

She nodded, said she was exhausted. For a second, she looked at me, eyes hollow, then turned and went to her room to rest.

She shuffled down the hall, barely lifting her feet. I watched her disappear behind the bedroom door, feeling like the world had tilted on its axis. I wanted to follow her, but something told me to give her space.

I sat in the living room, chain-smoking, my thoughts all over the place.

I hadn’t smoked in years, but I tore open a pack of Marlboros and lit one after another, the smoke curling around me. The TV flickered with some late-night rerun of Friends, but I couldn’t focus. My mind was a storm—rage, grief, confusion, everything tangled up until I could barely breathe.

A chair tipped over. Then something heavy hit the floor in the bedroom.

The noise snapped me out of my daze. My heart just stopped. For a split second, I prayed I’d imagined it, but deep down, I knew something was terribly wrong.

I rushed in. She was on the floor. The rope still swung from the ceiling fan.

I’ll never get that image out of my head. Her body crumpled on the floor, the rope swinging above her like a noose from some old Western. I dropped to my knees, my hands shaking as I reached for her.

My mind went blank. I ran over, grabbed her in my arms. Checked her breathing. She was already gone.

Her skin was cold, her lips blue. I pressed my ear to her chest, desperate for a heartbeat, but there was nothing. I screamed her name. Nothing.

I broke down, ugly-crying, clutching her as I wailed, "Emily, why?"

The sound of my own voice echoed off the walls. I rocked back and forth, holding her close, the tears soaking into her hair. It felt like the world had ended—right there, on that bedroom floor.