I steer Chet’s Jeep around the last hairpin turn on the driveway, and there it is, the sleek box of steel and glass hanging from rocks high above the glittering lake. I remember the first time I saw it, from the passenger seat of Paul’s fancy SUV, the excitement I felt when I counted all the windows and doors. Twelve, and that was only across the front side.

By now it’s winter, and the wind is achingly cold as I make my way to the front door, icing over my skin and rustling the plants in the pots on either side of the stoop. Hellebores, Katherine’s favorite. I know, because I heard it on “Gone Swimming,” episode 5 of Grant’s podcast, along with the fact that she was a master gardener, ate cold pizza for breakfast and detested country music. Silly, trifling details I’d been longing to hear for so long, and I heard them from a stranger.

But thanks to the podcast, media attention has been brutal. Reporters chasing me through town, ambushing me at the coffee shop and in the grocery store, shoving microphones like furry ice cream cones under my nose. My answer to them is the same every time—“no comment”—but like Micah once said, they’re a persistent bunch.

The people in town have been kinder, rallying around me when things get too crazy, herding me into one of the shops and letting me escape through the back door. Oh, sure, they still whisper about me behind my back, still give me sideways glances, but Chet says they’re coming around, and so is Sam. Especially now that I’ve moved back to his—no, my side of the hill, his icy demeanor is starting to thaw. We’re not back to being friends yet, but we’ll get there.

He hasn’t said as much, but I can tell Sam respects me for refusing to take part in Grant’s podcast, even though he offered me a number that made my eyes bulge. Chet called me crazy when he heard, but I don’t expect him or anybody else to understand. I’m done profiting from Paul Keller.

Paul opens the door and I take him in, his familiar face with a few more wrinkles, the thread of gray at his temple, and I brace for the pang—sadness combined with lingering bitterness for the lies and betrayals he brought into our marriage. But Paul did the right thing that day I went to see him at the police station, and I owe it to our daughter to do the same.

“How are you? You look good.” His gaze dips to our daughter in my belly, a little small for her five months, but otherwise perfect.

“I feel good. The doctor says everything’s right on schedule.” I pull a slip of paper from my bag, small and gray and grainy. “Here, I brought you a picture.”