She had no idea the depths people went to hurt each other, the way love could turn so quickly into violence. ‘You can’t be the witness,’ I said. ‘You can’t be the only one, at least.’

‘What are you saying?’ John’s eyebrows furrowed.

‘I’m saying, if you were actually going to fake your death, you’d need a witness who was unbiased, who wasn’t married to someone being sued, who wasn’t completely wrapped up personally and financially in all of this.’

They stared, waiting.

‘You’d need me.’

FOURTEEN

I woke the next morning with a pounding headache, the previous night’s discussion seeming far-fetched in the harsh light of day, a whiskey-fueled flight of imagination.

But as I made my way to the kitchen, brewed coffee, and urged Dusty out the doggie door and into the fenced bit of yard, the night replayed in my head: how a makeshift plan had bloomed between us, rising like steam on Manhattan’s streets. Me, their witness. Me, involved. Me, with them.

I took a bitter sip of coffee, willing it to go straight to my head. Even if I wanted to help them, how could I risk it? I’d been so careful. I’d pulled the damn thing off. Davis didn’t know where I was. Could I really chance blowing that all up for an idea so wild?

Around two, my hangover began to ease, and I left the cottage, Dusty leashed up for a proper walk. On the road, I turned left, away from Vera and John’s.

Maggie’s front door burst open as soon as I walked past. ‘Lucy,’ she called eagerly. ‘You have perfect timing!’

‘About to walk Pepper?’ Her conveniently timed dog walks had become a bit of a habit, but as long as I didn’t mention Vera or John, they always went fairly smoothly. Maggie was a little clingy, sure, but she was harmless, only wanted a friend.

‘No,’ she said, shaking her head but smiling, happy as a kid in a candy store. ‘Come in for a second.’ She motioned to Dusty. ‘Bring him, too.’ She turned before I could protest. Tugging on Dusty’s leash, I followed.

Her house was small but quaint, all brick on the outside, all patterns and prints within. It was decorated just as you’d expect it – chintz pillows against rose-colored sofas, blue-and-white teacups and china on display, oriental rugs beneath carved wooden furnishings scraped up at the edges. As if someone had gotten lost at an antiques store, using nothing but a credit card to find their way out – the quilt she’d gotten for Rachel, the one that still sat on my bed, would fit right in.

And then, there she was, as if my very thought had summoned her – Rachel, standing in the entrance to Maggie’s kitchen.