As I drove home, my mind was spinning. Parker hadn’t broken down and confessed to killing Hannah, but was that really such a surprise? If he had hurt her, he’d kept it a secret for over twenty-five years now. No, the part that I couldn’t figure out was: Why did Parker want me to talk to James? Did James know what Parker had done? Had he helped him cover it up? Had he helped Parker move Hannah’s body, to bury her in a place where she’d remain hidden for the next two and a half decades? It seemed impossible. I knew James loved Parker like a brother, but he’d loved Hannah, too.

I was missing something. Something important.

The one thing I knew was this: it was time for James to tell me what he really knew—everything he knew—about the night Hannah disappeared.

I arrived home at four o’clock. There was still a cluster of reporters camped out in front of the house, but my arrival didn’t cause much of a stir—by now, they knew who drove which car, and they weren’t interested in me. James and Hannah were the stars of this show. I was just a supporting act.

James’s sedan was parked in the driveway, though, which surprised me. He never came home from work this early. I figured Parker had probably called to warn him. It didn’t matter.

I went inside. “James?” I called out, my voice echoing in the large foyer.

The airy openness of our home had been one of its selling points when James and I had bought it. I’d been pregnant with Paige at the time. I remembered worrying that the living room was a touch too small, and that the pool in the backyard would be a safety hazard with a small child running around. But James had pointed out how large and open the kitchen was, how beautiful the hardwood floors were, and how the first thing we’d do was install a safety fence around the pool. He’d convinced me, and I’d never regretted our decision.

In fact, before this week, I’d never regretted anything about my marriage. Did that make me the world’s biggest fool?

“James!” I called again, this time louder.

“I’m in the living room.”

I walked into the living room, which had, after all, not been too small. On the contrary, it was a cozy space that we’d filled with comfortable couches and chairs, pretty pictures hanging on the walls. During the holidays, we always put our Christmas tree up in the far corner, right across from where James was sitting now.

“You’re home early,” I said.

“More than half of my patients cancelled their appointments. A few more just didn’t show up.”

I walked in the room, and sat in a wing chair, facing my husband.

“We need to talk.”