I looked up Juliana’s number Saturday afternoon, as my world was imploding and it occurred to me that I needed help. Ten years later, there was still only one person I could trust. So after the man in black finally departed, leaving my husband’s body down in the garage, buried in snow, I looked up the married name, address, and phone number of my former best friend. I committed the information to memory, in order to eliminate the paper trail.

Shortly thereafter I built two small explosive devices, then loaded up the Denali and went for a drive.

My last acts as a free woman. I knew it even then. Brian had done something bad, but Sophie and I were going to be the ones punished. So I paid my own husband’s murderer fifty thousand dollars in order to gain twenty-four hours’ lead time. Then I used that time to desperately get two steps ahead.

Sunday morning, Shane had arrived and the games had begun. One hour later, beat within an inch of my life, head concussed, cheek fractured, I went from brilliant strategist to genuinely battered woman, dazed, confused, and somewhere in the back of my scrambled head, still dimly hoping that I’d been wrong about everything. Maybe Brian hadn’t died in front of my eyes. Maybe Sophie hadn’t been snatched out of her bed. Maybe next time I woke up, my world would be magically whole again and my husband and daughter would be by my side, holding my hands.

I never got that lucky.

Instead, I was confined to a hospital bed until Monday morning, when the police arrested me, and plan B kicked into gear.

All prison calls start with a recorded message to the receiver that the collect call has originated from a correctional institute. Would the other party accept the charges?

Million dollar question, I thought Monday night, as I stood in the commons area of the detainee unit and dialed Juliana’s number with shaking fingers. I was as surprised as anyone when Juliana said yes. Bet she surprised herself, too. And bet she wished, within thirty seconds, that she’d said no instead.

Given that all outgoing calls are recorded, I kept the conversation simple.

“What are friends for?” I stated, heart hammering. I heard Juliana suck in her breath.

“Tessa?”

“I could use a friend,” I continued, quickly now, before Juliana did something sensible, such as hang up. “Tomorrow afternoon. I’ll call again. What are friends for.”

Then I hung up, because the sound of Juliana’s voice had brought tears to my eyes, and you can’t afford to cry in prison.