Nat had to ask. “How’s Violet?”

Celeste’s expression hardened. “This has been hard on her, but she’s starting to heal. She’s been spending a lot of time in Europe. She’s trying to move forward.”

“I-I’m sorry,” Nat said, unable to articulate what she’d done with Violet: befriending her, flirting with her, kissing her.

“I can forgive you for your relationship with my husband,” Celeste retorted, “but I’ll never forgive you for going after my daughter.”

Tears clouded Nat’s vision. “I hate myself for everything I’ve done to you and to Violet.” Shame and self-loathing clogged her throat, making her voice hoarse and froggy. “I lost my way. I did horrible things, things I never thought I could do.”

Celeste said nothing, just watched as Nat groveled and sniveled. Her dark eyes were blank, unreadable. Did she hate Nat? Pity her? Both?

“I—I don’t remember pulling the trigger.” A sob shuddered through Nat’s chest. “I knew I wasn’t a good person, but I didn’t think I was a murderer.”

She was falling apart now, blubbering like a toddler. Nat was ashamed of her lack of composure but was powerless to contain her emotions. And still, Celeste stood, cool and impassive, observing Nat’s emotional breakdown.

And then, the woman’s hand shot out and grabbed Natalie’s. It felt smooth and cool and strong.

“You’re not a murderer.”

She squeezed Nat’s fingers hard and then she left.

Nat couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe. All she could do was stand in the doorway and watch Gabe’s widow walk calmly through the cool spring rain to her car. Nat stood mute and still as Violet’s mother backed out of the driveway and sped off. Back to New York. Or Europe. Back to her daughter. When the car was out of sight, Nat finally, gently, closed the door.

She moved to the kitchen table on legs rubbery with shock and disbelief. Spots swam before her eyes, making her grope blindly for a chair. Lowering herself into it, she reached for the teapot, but her hands were trembling, rattling the delicate china so hard she feared it would break. She set the pot back down, pressed her hands to her sides.

You’re not a murderer.

But Nat remembered Gabe’s bloodless face pleading for his life. She recalled the loud bang of the gun. And she had hated him. God, how she’d hated him. Enough to kill him. But . . . what if she hadn’t? What if the images in her mind weren’t memories, but simply . . . fantasies?

And yet, Gabe was dead. Someone had killed him. If not Nat, then who? Who else had hated him enough to take his life? And who had hated Nat enough to send her down for his murder? Celeste was a lawyer. She would know how to frame someone. But was the striking matriarch capable of killing her husband? Of planting evidence at the scene? How would Celeste have gotten Nat’s gun? Her T-shirt? Her necklace? And why, if Celeste wanted Nat to pay for Gabe’s murder, had she stood up for Nat in court?