I was set off that night at Joanie’s book party, an inescapable rage that I don’t think I’d let myself feel, ever, in the totality of time since the murder/suicide. Sure, I’d been angry. I’d pitied myself for the hatred flung my way. I’d hidden from the world, made myself small, did everything I could to stop that disdain, and had harbored resentment about it.

But this anger, it was something different, bubbling and poisonous and on the verge of boiling over, scalding anything that was in its proximity.

Joanie’s husband had told me that Tom had sought out an affair as a ploy. I was a pawn in a marriage with a woman who probably didn’t even care whether he’d had an affair. My life ruined just because this fucking idiot wanted to make his wife antsy. Not because he, misguidedly, wanted to find love in the wrong place, not like every other cheating man out there who was bored of domesticity. No. This psychopath wanted to gaslight his wife, instead accidentally fell for me and then killed her and himself.

I’d reentered the book party with a smile plastered on my face, my hands shaking, the ice clinking in my glass. I couldn’t help myself; I’d pulled Page aside and told her what Colin had said. She’d given me a pointed glance. “His motivations don’t really help me right now, do they?” then melted back into the crowd ready to have Joanie sign her book.

So while Page is ostensibly trying to get to know her dead sister, I want to get as much information I can about who the hell Tom was, what kind of sick fuck would ruin so many lives. It won’t bring Odilie back. But it could help me. It could help Quinn’s story, to fully reveal what Tom’s game plan had been, what his history was, whether there were other women out there who had been charmed and cheated and physically hurt by him, who might be afraid to talk.

Which is why I’ve been calling every day, all day, for an appointment to speak with Tom’s brother. He’s an anthropology professor in Connecticut, a former college baseball star turned academic. Page was right; he had been in Central America, on sabbatical in Nicaragua, had avoided the entire shitstorm in the States. But he was back now and was entirely unwilling to connect with me. One morning, with all the time I have, I hop on the train and go to confront him in person.