You’re not a murderer.

The shock was wearing off now, realization seeping into Nat’s consciousness. She hadn’t done it. At the center of her being, she’d known that she wasn’t capable of murder. And now, Celeste had verified it. Nat should have been angry, outraged even. She should have called Matthew Hawley and professed her innocence. But Nat had given up her right to an appeal when she’d accepted the plea deal. She could have phoned her mom at work, her dad in Vegas. She could have taken out an ad in the local paper, rented a billboard, screamed it from the rooftops. She was innocent! And yet, Nat sat, strangely, eerily still. Because who would believe her? And who would care? She was still a sugar baby with a dead sugar daddy.

Nat may have been disgraced, humiliated, labeled a killer, but she was not in jail. She was free. And Gabe was dead. Nat had not killed him, but she’d wanted to. Just because she hadn’t pulled the trigger herself, didn’t mean she hadn’t yearned for the bastard’s demise with every fiber of her being. Gabe had hurt, manipulated, and betrayed one too many people. And that person had killed him. It didn’t matter who it was.

With a steadier hand, she was able to pour herself a cup of tea, add milk and sugar. She took a sip of the sweet, creamy concoction, felt it warm her throat, her chest, her belly. But it was not just the liquid that was heating her from within. It was the knowledge of her innocence. Despite her horrible choices and moral foibles, she had not committed murder. Nat was not a killer. Even if she and Gabe’s wife were the only two people who knew it.

A giddy bubble of mirth tickled her chest. It was not quite joy but a jubilant sort of relief. Nat could forgive herself now. She could go on to rebuild her life; she could allow herself to be happy. One day, she would draw and paint again; her creativity had permission to return. Celeste Bernier had come to Blaine, and she had given Nat that gift.

She sipped more tea and listened to the soft spring rain tap against the windowpanes.

57

The Truth

When Celeste landed at JFK it was after 9:00 P.M., her evening evaporating due to the three-hour time change. Oleg was waiting for her in the town car. He gave her a quick hug of greeting, put her bags in the trunk, then navigated the big vehicle away from the frenetic airport. After they exchanged small talk about her trip, the traffic, the weather, Celeste lay her head back against the leather seat, tired from her cross-country journey. The meditation retreat, led by a guru she’d been following for some time, had been calming and centering. But all her Zen had flown out the window as soon as she’d arrived in Blaine, Washington. The meeting with Natalie Murphy had been edifying, but it had not gone as planned.