That might explain the discoloration in the throat, the blood on the lips. She hopes it was quick and Danielle didn’t suffer, but she probably did. A shattering blow to the throat, fighting to breathe and unable to, then the darkness. A strangulation without the hands closing around the throat. Iris shudders. Takes another sip of wine.

Did she see any potential weapon on the ground? She didn’t. Something heavy or blunt but narrow enough to strike the throat. Rock, pipe, wrench, bat? Or was the fatal blow delivered by a fist?

A blow. And her husband looking like a punching bag in the time between the body being found and Iris getting home from the police station.

Kyle is lying to her. Lying to them all.

Of course he’s not lying. He fell. He fell, just like he said.

Their home phone rings again, as it has done all day, and she lets it. They all let it. The phone machine announces the caller—a friend, another mom who is on school committees with Iris—and then the inevitable message begins: calling because she just heard, it’s so terrible, did Julia really find the body, what can she do for Iris’s family, for Ned, bring dinner maybe, just let her know, please call back when she has a minute. Listen, rinse, repeat. She stopped writing down who had called her at message number fifteen, three hours ago.

Grant comes downstairs. He looks haggard, tired. He was close to Danielle; she adored him, the baby they’d brought back together from Russia. She’s been so worried about Julia, she hasn’t worried about Grant.

“You hungry, baby? We’ll eat soon,” she says to him. He’s always hungry; he’s a fourteen-year-old boy.

“Not particularly. Can I go see Mike? I want to be sure he’s all right. I mean…not all right—he can’t be—but…” They’re all stumbling for the correct words.

“Mike might not be up for company right now,” Iris says. “I’m taking them dinner tomorrow night; do you want to come with me?”

Grant nods. Then he sits down on the couch, across from the window. From the kitchen they can hear the soft murmurs of Julia and Kyle talking.

“Mom?”

“Yes?”

“Who do you think killed her? I think we should talk about theories.”

A cold finger of fear flicks her spine. Theories. She curses every network and streaming crime drama she’s ever let him watch. Of course, Grant is the type to think about who did it rather than deal with the emotional fallout of a murder. “I have no idea.” She makes her voice clipped.

“You must have an idea.”

“Grant.”

“The police will think it’s Mike. They always suspect the boyfriend. But why would he kill her in the park?”