As Helen poured them both a drink, Arianne told her about her elder daughter’s sweet sixteen. Helen was barely listening. Only now did it sink in that tonight was her regular gym night, and that the robbery had therefore taken place exactly one week ago. It felt a lot longer than a week—more like a year. An eternity. She also suspected that she was still experiencing some form of shock—as if somebody else had taken control of her body. Her actions, the things she said, even her thoughts sounded like they were whispered by another person—a woman who looked like her from the outside, but whom she had met for the very first time this week. The only thing that felt real was her constant sense of remorse.

Everything had changed since the robbery. That was true of herself—the newly minted murderess who formerly wouldn’t have been able to flush a sick goldfish down the toilet because she found it too pitiful and morally objectionable—but the same could undoubtedly be said for Werner too. Down there in the basement, she knew he had forced himself to do things that must have shaken him to the depths of his being. Those sights, sounds, and smells would surely remain with him forever. What has been seen cannot be unseen. And they would never be able to discuss it with anybody else, only each other. That might have been romantic if their secret weren’t so horrifying—if their deeds weren’t so reprehensible.

“Mom? Where did you put the chicken nuggets?” Thom wandered into the kitchen with one of his friends in tow. He continued straight on into the hall. “In the basement freezer, I guess?”

“No!” The wineglasses fell from her hands and shattered on the hard kitchen floor.

Thom froze. Arianne looked up in surprise. For a moment, nobody spoke.

Helen looked at the mess on the floor. “Oh, sorry. I think I’ve been feeling a little stressed lately.”

“I’ll say,” remarked Thom. “You completely flipped out.”

She answered, as calmly as possible, “The chicken nuggets are up here, in the small freezer.”

Thom made a quarter turn and went to open the drawer under the refrigerator.

“But, Thom . . .”

He looked at her questioningly.

“Don’t go turning on the deep-fat fryer now—that’s for tonight, at the party.”

“Mom, it’s my birthday.”

“You heard me.”

“Ridiculous!” Thom left the kitchen, protesting loudly, closely followed by his friend. Helen heard the back door slam.

“What was all that about?” asked Arianne.

“Teenagers and their mood swings.”

“I was talking about you.”

Helen evaded her curious gaze and pulled a few sheets of paper towel from the roll. “Stress.”

“What’s stressing you out so much?”

She shook her head. “Don’t worry about it.”

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