I leaned against the sink, half-afraid I might throw up. This had all been so pointless, so awful. John hadn’t even been a bad person – it had been a rumor, a miscommunication, a child who didn’t want to be slut-shamed – and yet it had triggered something unfathomable, one step after the next.

Vera killing him.

Me killing her.

I flicked on the faucet, splashing cold water on my face, then looked in the mirror. My eyes were nearly as baggy as Rachel’s, my hair a mess. The few sips of wine I’d taken had already stained my lips. I had to pull myself together. This wasn’t my fault.

Vera had tried to frame me. Vera had believed the rumors about her husband. Vera had caused this all.

Vera had been my best friend.

Drying my skin on Rachel’s clean white hand towel, I opened the door, returning to the hall in time to see Dusty scratching at the shut door at the end of the hallway.

‘Dusty, no,’ I said, but before I could stop him, he’d gotten it open – it must not have been shut all the way – his furry body disappearing behind the door.

I took a few steps, then checked behind me. Rachel must still be in the kitchen.

Pushing the door open, I walked into her bedroom.

It was as clean and beautiful as the rest of her house, her bed covered in a white duvet edged in black. I swiveled my head, looking for Dusty, then saw an open door – her closet.

Inside, it was a mess, a welcome change from the rest of the place, hangers packed full of colorful dresses and tops, a dresser, its drawers half-open, already-worn clothing littering the few feet of floor space.

Dusty had tipped over a beat-up leather tote and was nosing around inside. ‘Dusty, no!’

I leaned down, pulling him off it. In his mouth was a plastic baggie filled with what looked like doggie beef jerky – Rachel must have brought it over when she visited Maggie and Pepper. ‘Bad dog,’ I said, but I almost wanted to laugh. Dusty had always been a pro at sniffing out a treat, used to lose it when Davis brought something new home.

I snatched the baggie, set Dusty down, and righted Rachel’s tote so it sat upright on the floor.

Then I paused.

On the top of the dresser, among tossed-aside jewelry and a pashmina scarf, was Vera.

Vera, the photo that had once hung on Rachel’s wall. And shoved into one corner of the frame, a Polaroid of the two of them – smiling, happy, maybe drunk – like Vera and I had been so many times.

My eyes trailed down, and beneath the frame I saw it:

A padded yellow envelope.

It looked just like the one I’d found at Vera’s. Same size. Same shape.

Unsealed.