As Robin continued to read, her mom complimented Nikki on the bacon. “How do you get it so crispy without burning it?” she said, as though her husband’s killer’s suicide note weren’t sitting inches away.

Besides apologizing to the Bloom family, and saying he didn’t deserve someone as wonderful as his husband, Quentin had also gone into some detail about the events of that night: How he’d parked his car a block over and walked quietly to the Bloom residence, digital recorder in hand. How he’d surprised Mitchell in the kitchen as he prepared a sandwich, how Renee had heard them arguing and burst in with the gun and how Quentin had gotten it away from her and shot them both. All over an interview request. I wanted to speak to Mitchell Bloom to gain insight into human rage—something that’s long been festering within me, he had written. Ironically, that rage caught fire and transformed me that night, into something I’ve worked my whole life not to be. The presence of the gun made for the perfect storm. May God forgive me.

Mom and Nicola were discussing the best way to make eggs à la française. “Mom,” Robin said. “In Quentin Garrison’s suicide note, he said you brought the gun in the room. Did you?”

“He’s a liar,” Nicola said. But Robin didn’t even glance at her.

Her mother looked pale, her eyes sad. “No, he isn’t,” she said. “I did.”

Robin said, “You said Dad bought the gun.”

“It actually wasn’t Dad,” she said quietly. “It was Nikki.”

Robin looked at her. Nicola put a hand over Mom’s and squeezed. “It’s okay,” she whispered.

“There was an incident. It scared me. I called Nikki, and she advised me to purchase a firearm. She took me to a range so I could practice. Nikki’s a former police officer. She knows these things.”

Robin looked at Nicola. “What incident?” she said. “When?”

“Years and years ago. A man attacked her.”

“In a parking lot.” Mom gave Robin a tender smile. “You were away at college.”

“He attacked you?”

“He hit me. Nearly broke my jaw.”

“Trying to get her purse,” Nicola said.

“He hit me. There’s nothing like that feeling, Robin . . . A man’s fist. The cruelty of it. It’s worse than the pain.”

“Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

“Because thank God, I got away from him.”

“She fought back,” Nicola said.

“I didn’t want to scare you while you were away at school. And anyway, I hate guns. I was embarrassed to own one. I kept it hidden. I didn’t tell your father.”

“Why?”

“I didn’t tell anybody, honey. It was in the safe in the basement. I forgot I even had it.”

Robin had grown up in this house. She had no idea that her parents had a safe in the basement.