I pushed the papers away, as if they were scalding – a burning truth I’d never, ever wanted to uncover – but as I shoved them, a chain reaction: The stack of junk mail and catalogs struck the bottle of pinot noir. It clattered against the island, then rolled onto the floor, taking a wineglass with it, crashing to the ground, making me jump.

The bottle didn’t break, but the glass did, sending shards all over the floor, the wine surrounding it like a bloodstain.

I grabbed the Mass Mutual letter, folded it tightly, and shoved it into my pocket. I lunged for the wine bottle next, setting it back on the island where it had been.

I grabbed a wad of paper towels, tossing them onto the floor, then used another wad to sop up the mess on the island.

I froze.

The padded yellow envelope, the one that had been on the bottom of the stack of mail. It was unsealed. Something was peeking out from it.

Something familiar.

That marred corner of silk I knew so well. My mother’s scarf.

There was a grumble of gravel and the truck’s growling engine, a sound I would always associate with John, with a man I thought I’d known much better than I had. Fuck.

I had only moments before Vera returned, before she walked in on me in her kitchen, before she knew exactly how much I knew.

Why did she have my scarf?

With quivering fingers, I tugged at the piece of fabric, extracting it from the envelope.

The engine of the truck cut off. Only a few more seconds and she’d be walking in, catching me.

As I pulled it out farther, the scarf unfurled, and there was a sudden clatter, unexpected, as stainless steel and red Lucite smashed against ceramic tile.

Then, my heartbeat so loud, banging against my ribs.

The knife I’d been missing was caked with blood.

The knife I’d been missing had been wrapped up in my mother’s scarf and stored in an envelope, ready to send to the police, ready to make my guilt complete.

Vera had used her key to get into my cottage. Vera had taken my knife. Vera had used it.

My stomach ached, and my chest seemed to constrict; I gasped for air, clawing at my throat with both hands. Only, Davis wasn’t holding me down now – she was.

Vera, the woman I’d thought would take care of me. The woman I’d thought was my friend. She’d killed her own husband. She had killed John. She had put everything in motion to try to make me go down for it.

Me, her friend. Me, the woman she’d promised to protect. Whom she’d said she loved.