“We’d have to prove you knew your life was in imminent danger when you shot Gabe Turnmill. I know you have no memory of that night, but we might be able to build a case for it.”

Might.

“But if the jury doesn’t buy it, you’ll be convicted of second-degree murder. That means a minimum of fifteen years.”

No one spoke for a moment, allowing Nat to process the information. If she went to trial and won, she’d be a free woman. She could pick up where her life had left off—with school and friends and dreams for the future—before Gabe Turnmill destroyed everything. Or she could start over, do something completely new, in a new city where no one knew her sordid history.

But if she lost, she’d be behind bars until she was nearly forty.

Her attorney continued. “The prosecution will come down hard on you at trial. Your paid arrangement with the deceased will be dragged into court.”

“There will be a lot more media interest, too,” the female associate added. “You and your family will be put under the microscope.”

“And trials take time,” Hawley continued. “They take money. We’ll need months to build a case. It could be a year until we go to court. It could be more.”

The strangled noise that came from Allana’s throat was barely audible, but Nat heard it. And she sensed her mother’s inner turmoil. Her mom would be weighing her daughter’s chances of acquittal against the damage her long absence would do to her marriage, her young children, her bank account.

Nat couldn’t make her mother put her life on hold any longer. It was too selfish, too damaging for her young siblings. She couldn’t take any more of her father’s money. Because the revelation that Gabe had hired someone to kill her had clarified things. Gabe had hated her enough to want her dead, and she him. They had loved and loathed each other with the same ferocious passion. Despite the stained T-shirt she couldn’t explain, despite her clouded memory, she knew that she was capable of shooting Gabe in the face. And she knew that he deserved it.

“I’ll take the deal,” she said. “I’ll confess to manslaughter.”

54

The Return

When Celeste first heard that her husband’s murderer had accepted a plea deal, she was in France. She and Violet had flown to Nice to visit Celeste’s sister. After a few days there, they’d moved to an old, stone house in a medieval mountain village in the Alpes Maritimes. It was less than a two-hour winding drive from the Côte d’Azur, but they rarely returned to the bustling tourist area. They stayed in their cliffside community, shopping at the weekend farmers’ market, where they bought ripe tomatoes and oily tapenade and chewy fougasse. Celeste cooked for them, simple, wholesome comfort food. They read, swam in the nearby river, napped, and talked.

Violet had been despondent when they’d first arrived. Her father’s death, in such a gruesome, violent manner, was distressing. Learning about Gabe’s affair with Natalie, the girl Violet had fallen for, was disgusting. Celeste’s only child was struggling to process Gabe’s murder and his betrayal. It would take time. But Celeste was confident that—with love, support and therapy—her daughter would be okay.