My chest constricted. I couldn’t breathe. With hands on my knees, I bent over, gasping while the corners of my vision darkened. Owen was gone. Dead. Forever. I couldn’t pull him back. I couldn’t fix what I’d done. And now, when it was too late, the reality caved in on me.

A car’s headlights crested the hill behind me, scaring me. I shouldn’t be seen out here on the street. I ducked into the bushes, hiding until the vehicle passed. I waited, watched . . . breathed. At least I wasn’t panicking anymore.

One more message, if I could handle it.

“Strong, be strong.” I’d never had any use for motivational speakers, but right now I could have really used one. “You can do this, Mac.”

I held my finger over the voicemail icon, shaking violently. It was Owen again, but this time more lucid. As I listened, I realized this voicemail could cause me a lot of trouble. I considered deleting it, then wondered if the cops could retrieve it and how they would interpret it. But I didn’t have time to worry about that. I had to prepare for the performance of a lifetime. Though, with the emotional overload surging through me, it wouldn’t be difficult.

My dark house loomed up ahead on the sleepy street, and I briskly jogged the rest of the way home. When I entered, I headed straight upstairs, cell phone in hand, my nerves shot. I paused briefly on the landing as I glanced into Aria’s room. Her door was ajar. She was sleeping soundly. The long night, the lack of rest, the anxiety, Owen’s peaceful face, the knife slicing across his neck, the phone message, the staging, the regret, the extreme guilt . . . it was all sloshing over me now, drowning me. As I entered our bedroom, I knew I had to finish this, rise above it, push ahead. It was the only way out, so I dialed the number.

“9-1-1. What’s your emergency?” the operator asked.

I hadn’t gotten a word out before I fell into sobs. “My husband’s been attacked. It’s his throat—he was cut across the throat. Please hurry!” It wasn’t difficult letting my voice naturally lose control, because I could feel myself slipping, my reality falling apart. It was all coming to a head.

“Ma’am, try to remain calm. Is the perpetrator still in the house?”

“No, no, I don’t think so.”

“Is your husband still breathing?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

“What’s the address, ma’am?”

I gave her my home address, then ran to the master bathroom and grabbed a handful of towels, pressing them against his neck to soak up any blood, since that’s what a frantic wife who just found her husband’s throat slit would do.

“An ambulance is on its way.”