In a moment he was inside, and immediately he smelled her. For skin lotion she used a secret homemade recipe that contained a touch of rose oil. To him she had always smelled like a spring bouquet. Nowadays he couldn’t see a rose without remembering its thorns. With her scent all around him, he felt his anger and strength drain away. It happened so quickly, he could hardly believe it. What if she were to see him and speak to him? He might break down and surrender. God, he was so pathetic he made himself sick.

He moved upstairs, his tennis shoes light on the wooden steps. He was shaken but still in control. On the second floor were four bedrooms. Jimmy slept in number two on the left. Amy was on the far right, in the master suite. The hallway had deep carpet. He could hear his heart but not his feet. He moved slow and steady, and then, with a start, he saw himself in a mirror at the end of the hall: his frumpy paint clothes, black gloves, black face mask. He looked like a fucking apparition.

The baby’s room: blue and cheerful, smiling angels staring down at sleeping Jimmy from all corners, figures Amy had no doubt painted while pregnant. On top of everything else she had been an excellent artist. What a time to remember her talents.

Matt stepped into the room and stared down at the child. He had assumed he would hate the sight of the little tyke but in truth the kid was kind of cute. He looked a lot like Amy, not at all like David. Matt was happy he was well-wrapped. He would be that much easier to carry. He would have been even more relaxed to know the kid had popped a sleeping pill after lunch.

Jimmy’s waking and crying was the single biggest uncertainty in his plan.

Matt bent and picked up the child. Jimmy stirred but did not open his eyes. Now was the time to get out of the house quick. Matt had no explanation for why he stopped at Amy’s bedroom door. He supposed he was tired of seeing his pain in the mirror. Now he could stare right at the source.

Amy rested on her back with her eyes closed. She wore blue shorts, a white T-shirt, and white socks. Her tan legs were smooth and toned and her breasts full. Her long lashes flickered as if she dreamed. Her dark hair was shorter than he remembered but otherwise she had not changed.

She was all he had thought about for so long that he feared he would long for her even in the grave. Revenge guaranteed him no peace—it might just damn them both. He stared at her for a precious minute, and she did not move once. He could not hear her breathe. In a sense, she was like him, he thought. She could have been dead.