The ADA had called Celeste’s cell phone, interrupting an idyllic afternoon of rosé and cards with Violet. The defense had learned that Gabe had hired someone to kill his sugar baby. Celeste’s husband was not only adulterous and duplicitous; he was capable of murder to cover his tracks. With this new information, the prosecution felt that amending the plea deal was the safest choice. Natalie Murphy would plead guilty to second-degree manslaughter.

If the case had gone to trial, Celeste knew it would have turned into a media frenzy. “The Sugar Daddy Murder,” they’d have called it, splashing the gory and salacious details across websites, newspapers, even television shows. Violet already knew that her father had been shot down in the street, that the woman he’d paid to be his girlfriend had been charged with the crime, that the very same girlfriend had been fostering a relationship with Violet. But there would be more . . . intimate, personal, sexual details that would tear her daughter apart. The plea deal was a relief.

Celeste was tempted to stay away permanently, to hide away with her daughter and forget about their life in America. But now, she was on a plane bound for JFK. Her husband’s killer was going to be sentenced, and Celeste had to be there. In two days, she would stand up in court and she would read her victim-impact statement. She knew the power that crime victims held in sentencing hearings. The DA could recommend a punishment, but it was ultimately up to the judge to impose a prison term. If Celeste’s words were powerful enough, her pain well articulated, she could influence what happened to Natalie Murphy.

Judge Amanda Wollner was presiding over the case. Celeste knew the petite septuagenarian professionally from her time serving the court. Wollner was tough, a feminist. Celeste wasn’t sure how that lens might color the judge’s view of Natalie Murphy, if it would impact the judge’s sentencing decision. But Celeste was a passionate and convincing orator. She’d had to be, as defense counsel for the racially profiled, the unjustly accused. Her words would affect the punishment doled out to Gabe’s murderer. She was sure of it.

Celeste had been loath to leave Violet alone as she traveled. Luckily, her sister, Claudette, and her brother-in-law, Pierre, had offered to stay with Violet in the old stone house. Celeste’s daughter would be doted on, fussed over; she didn’t need to worry about her. And this trip to New York would allow Celeste to handle some financial issues and meet with a real estate agent. She was going to sell Gabe’s city apartment. Though her husband had been murdered blocks from his Upper East Side pied-à-terre, the place had an evil, toxic energy. Had Gabe entertained Natalie there? Made love to her in the bed Celeste sometimes shared with him? How many other women—girls—had he serviced in that apartment? She’d keep the farmhouse, for now. It had been a happy home for Celeste and her daughter, punctuated by her husband’s tense weekend visits. If Violet wanted to start over, somewhere else, they would . . . France or Switzerland or back to Quebec. They could go west, to California or British Columbia. They could move to Iceland or Denmark. Celeste would go to the ends of the earth to heal her daughter.