Sutton felt the blood draining from her head as the woman spoke, each word a nail to her heart. This was not what was supposed to happen. This was not how she meant for anything to go. A sick and deep nausea gripped her. She knew she was going to be ill. Sutton clapped a hand over her mouth.

“Please, the trash can.”

Badeau shoved it toward her with her foot.

But she didn’t get sick, just sat miserably, sweating, the gorge rising. She hadn’t eaten, there was nothing to throw up. Her stomach churned. What had happened? What was going on? A dead body, wearing her rings? She’d left them behind in Franklin, with...

Everything, crashing into place. The past month: the plans made, the precautions taken, the confidences given. The “plan” was for Sutton to get away from it all, to start a new life. To excise Ethan without the messiness of a separation and divorce. To get away from the man she was afraid of, the man she feared killed their child. Self-preservation, yes, but something more, something else. Punishment. For both of them. For what had happened, and what was to come.

Paris was the obvious choice. The place they’d talked about. The dream location. If you’re going to escape your life, you might as well do it right.

And now there were bodies, one wearing her rings, two more practically lying at her feet, and a horrible realization started deep within her.

Ethan, arrested.

Sutton, arrested.

Only one person knew what she’d planned. Had helped. Had encouraged. A shoulder to cry on, a compatriot in the plot. And now...

She had to get out of here. She had to get home. She had to fix this. Dear God, what had she done?

“Are you going to be unwell?” Badeau asked.

Sutton coiled her hair in her hand, lifting its mass off her neck, passing her hand quickly behind to fan herself. “Yes, I’m going to be unwell. How would you feel if someone accused you of murdering three people when you did no such thing?”

Badeau smiled, briefly. “It is warm in here. Would you like a drink of water?”

“Yes, I would.”

The door opened and a bottle of Evian was handed in. Sutton opened it and drank. She felt better. It was hot in the stifling little room. She hadn’t had any sleep, or food, and she was tired of being harassed. It wasn’t smart, speaking without counsel; she could hear Joel Robinson’s voice in her head, warning her off. Actually, it was terribly reckless, but she was sick and scared, and being pushed was never something she could handle. And truth be told, Sutton’s specialty was recklessness.