She listened to the sound of her husband’s voice. She loved him. Too much—that’s what Clare had once told her: “You love him too much.”

“Yes,” she managed to say. “I’m here.” She raked the photos and the note together, aligned their edges, and hid them back in the envelope.

“What was it?” he asked her.

“What?” Eileen pressed the flap of the envelope down over the sharp brass tabs and spread them flat.

“The envelope? Quotes from Carl?” he reminded her. “Are you okay?” She could tell from his tone that he was referring to Clare’s death. He was asking if she was okay. He was implying that maybe she wasn’t, because she had learned a few hours ago that her sister had shot herself. He had no idea what she’d just seen.

“Eileen? Can you hear me?”

“Yes. It was just insurance sales stuff…from Carl.”

They had been married almost fifteen years. They had three children. She loved him more than she should—too much. “Sorry,” she choked. “Um, they’re actually boarding. I made a mistake about the times.”

“Are you sure you should be traveling alone right now?”

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t sound fine.”

“Eric… I have to go. They’re boarding my flight,” she said.

She hung up and placed her phone facedown on the table next to the envelope. Near her spine, a black hole cracked open and spread across her back, through her stomach, wrapped around her heart, pressed her lungs. An empty space of loss so large, her whole life fell inside out.

Eileen closed her eyes, willed herself to breathe, and swallowed back the agony clawing its way up her throat. The images of her husband fucking Lauren Andrews were burned into her field of vision, as if she had been staring at the sun. Their entwined limbs, his naked ass, her spread legs. Eric on top of her, behind her. His exposed throat, her full tits. Expressions contorted at the height of orgasm.

And worse. Their bodies spooned, outlined by only the drape of a sheet, faces slack with sleep. Eric’s arm hung over Lauren’s thin waist, her cropped brown hair spread across the pillow they shared, his lips resting at the base of her neck.

Eileen put her hands over her face, pressed her eyes, willed the scenes to disappear. Images she knew she would never unsee.

“You love him too much,” Clare had once said.

Chapter 5

Clare

Two years before her death

It was all a show, big talk, playing the part. Once Clare had convinced Simon she wouldn’t go online and start a public grudge match with Donna Mehan, she was free to retreat to the solitude and safety of her study. With only her little Charlie to bear witness, she locked her door, took a deep breath, and turned off her Clare Collins act.