Hey. R U at the apartment?

So breezy, so casual. Gabe had responded.

I’m at a jazz club on 89th. What’s up?

Nothing. Staying with friends tonite. Might come by tomorrow.

OK

The conversation had raised no red flags when the police examined Gabe’s phone. With the multitude of venomous missives from Natalie, Gabe’s daughter just “checking in” had seemed innocuous. But it was the call that woke Celeste from a fitful sleep at 1:13 A.M., that was damning.

“Mom . . .” Her daughter’s voice was small, trembling, broken. “I’ve done something terrible.”

Somehow, Celeste had remained calm, instructing her daughter to return to her friend’s party, to wipe down the gun she had liberated from a bedside table, and put it back. She’d told Violet to take a shower, to try to get some sleep, to act like everything was normal. The revelers were all wasted; they didn’t keep track of the guests’ comings and goings. Violet could slip seamlessly back into the debauchery, her alibi set. And then, Celeste formulated her plan.

The weight of the memory pressed on her chest and she took a deep breath. Oleg, alerted by the sound, met her eyes in the rearview mirror.

“You okay?”

“I’m fine,” she said, smiling at her friend, her confidant, her accomplice. “Thank you.”

Framing Natalie Murphy for Gabe Turnmill’s murder had seemed the best solution. As a former defense attorney, Celeste knew the system, knew how investigations worked. With Natalie’s harassing calls and threats on Gabe’s phone, she would be the logical suspect. But Celeste also knew that physical evidence would need to be planted, and it would take her over two hours to reach the scene of the crime. So she had called the only person she could trust, the only person who might be able to help her.

She hadn’t been sure that Oleg would cooperate; he seemed to pity Nat as a troubled, small-town girl caught up in a rich man’s web. But Celeste had convinced him. Natalie was sick, unstable, and, according to Oleg, armed. She needed help—medication, therapy, and lots of it. She would get it while incarcerated. And Violet had to be protected. She was an innocent child driven to commit a horrific crime by her father’s unforgivable behavior. Celeste could live without her husband; but she would not survive without her daughter.

The fact that Gabe had asked Oleg to arrange a hit on Natalie Murphy (God, Celeste’s husband had no scruples) proved an unexpected advantage. Oleg had introduced Gabe to a “handler of problems,” a “hit man.” It was his cousin Max, the man with the light green eyes, the man who had beaten Cole Doberinsky at Gabe’s behest. Max had never intended to hurt Natalie. In fact, he had been following her that night to ensure her safety. Gabe wanted the girl dead, and Oleg wanted her protected. Max had trailed Nat to a bar and then to a nightclub. When he’d gotten the call from his cousin, he’d known what to do.