Celeste hadn’t expected to tell the girl the truth about Gabe’s murder. And she hadn’t, not really. But she’d had to say something to assuage Natalie’s guilt. The young woman had looked so shattered, so pathetic. Remorse over what she’d done was gnawing away at the girl’s confidence and vitality. Her tearful outburst had twisted Celeste’s innards, provoking a distinctly maternal response. The words were out before she could censor them.

You’re not a murderer.

What did Natalie Murphy think? It didn’t matter. Celeste knew the young woman had no legal recourse. She’d forfeited her right to appeal when she’d taken the plea deal. Natalie would logically suppose that it was Celeste who had shot Gabe. He’d lied to and betrayed his wife—just like he had Natalie. And he’d been doing it to Celeste for years. She had an abundance of reasons to want him dead.

The first inkling Celeste had had that her husband was a lying, cheating, duplicitous bastard was about seven years ago. A pretty blond paralegal had brought a brief to their Hamptons house. Gabe had tried to brush it off as an overzealous colleague eager to please, but Celeste knew there was more to it. She read it in her husband’s panic, in the woman’s desperate expression, in their tense but familiar body language.

She’d planned to confront Gabe when Violet was away at her summer wilderness camp. (Her daughter couldn’t know about her father’s indiscretions, her parents’ marital discord. She’d already shown signs of rebellious behavior.) Celeste would give Gabe an ultimatum: fidelity or divorce. She wanted the marriage to work—they shared a history, they had a child together—but she would not be a cuckold. Gabe would deny the affair; her husband’s significant ego would prevent him falling on his sword. But she’d suggest counseling, where they could discuss the distance between them, get their relationship back on track.

And then Celeste had gotten sick, and all her energy and focus had gone into surviving. She had assumed that her husband would stop his philandering in the face of his wife’s diagnosis. And Gabe had, for a time. But when Celeste went into remission, his affairs had resumed. It was Suze Weintraub who’d elucidated Celeste’s fears when she invited her for coffee.

“I hate to be the bearer of bad news,” Suze said, after pleasantries and chit chat, “but Michael and I were at a show the other night. We saw Gabe there.”

Celeste nodded. She knew what was coming.

“He was sitting with a young woman—a pretty brunette, barely out of her teens. They were together . . . whispering in each other’s ears, holding hands, I saw them kiss.”

The coffee turned to acid in Celeste’s stomach, burning her chest and her throat.

“Michael and I bumped into him in the lobby at intermission. He played it cool, but I know what I saw. I even took a photo.”

The svelte woman passed her phone to Celeste for perusal. In profile, Celeste saw a dark-haired girl, barely older than Violet, with fair skin and delicate features. She was staring adoringly at Gabe, who looked handsome, confident, and happy basking in the girl’s obvious veneration. She could see the sparkle in his blue eyes.