Odilie had told her friends—women she drank with and read books with, who were mostly the wives of her husband’s business partners, foisted on her because of Tom’s insistence on insularity—that she was visiting her father who had recently undergone surgery, which wasn’t a lie. But her dad was doing just fine. It was Odilie who seemed in need of some kind of medical intervention; that was what her mother said in so many words. “Something’s not right,” a dismissive mutter, because even grown-up Odilie was still only worthy of a murmur.

Odilie spent her days in Novi talking to Vera MacDonald.

Or, rather, her inner Vera. You really need to change your life, Odilie. Get rid of that husband. Be your own woman; foster that independence. Tom is only holding you back. You have so much to live for, Odilie. So much you can do with yourself. Tom, he never wanted a wife who could be herself. You need to rise to your own occasion and be your own person.

She would argue with Vera, tell her how that wasn’t possible. How any which way she looked at it, she felt like she lost. Getting out from under Tom’s thumb was an insurmountable task. She was too weak. She had no spine. No economic independence.

Remember that meeting you had with the lawyers back when you were getting married.

Odilie answered that yes, she did.

Remember that clause: in untimely death, you and any children would receive all of Tom’s assets.

Odilie froze in bed, her hands gripping the covers. No, no, I don’t remember that clause.

Sure you do, Vera answered. Tom is indifferent. He’s a snoop. He’s a greedy pig who will only ever care about his business. He has no attachment to his own daughter, for God’s sake. Why should he deserve to keep on breathing when he’s not making this world or your home a better place?

Odilie shifted away from Penelope in the bed, heard a little moan escape her mouth as she didn’t feel the warmth of her mother beside her. He’s a person. A living, breathing person. He’s the father of my child. No one deserves to die.

Vera was silent in Odilie’s head before speaking again. Take some power back. It’ll be easy. No one will ever accuse you of wrongdoing. Make it look like a suicide, like he couldn’t get his new project off the ground, that he’d been wallowing in some severe depressive episode, which he’d been too afraid to tell anyone about. A man like that? They’ll say he has everything, so he was probably too scared to ask for help. Too ashamed.

It’ll be easy, I promise. A simple solution. He’ll be dead, he’ll be out of your way and you can start afresh.