She loved Philip, but she’d only ever known one side of him. The other side was a monster.

She lifted her chin and stared at him with all the love that she could muster, forcing thoughts of Melissa and what he’d done to her out of her mind. For a moment, she needed to remember that her husband was also the man who’d given her Vivienne and Jay, who’d lifted her over the threshold of his carriage house, who’d danced and laughed and cooked and made love with her. She needed to remember the twenty years of mostly happy moments that they’d shared on the occasions that he’d been able to wrest himself from his restaurant.

Philip leaned down. His lips pressed against hers.

Imani was sure he’d taste it immediately. She grabbed the back of his head, holding it steady as she forced his lips open with her tongue. She pushed the oily liquid held in her cheeks into his mouth, a mother bird feeding a chick. He tried to back away, but she held on, kissing him harder, determined that every drop end up down his throat.

Philip shoved both hands into her chest. She stumbled back, grabbing on to a shelving unit to stop herself from falling. Her husband’s face was red. He headed toward her, fist raised, ready to knock her lights out.

Before he could act, his hands went around his throat. His mouth moved, trying to say something, to accuse her, perhaps. To ask why. No sound emerged. His throat was closing.

“I love you,” she shouted. “And I’ll call nine-one-one. But I need to find Tonya.”

She ran past Philip’s doubled-over body and into the kitchen. The banging was still audible, though fainter than before. Imani followed the steady pings, aware that they were a signal. Rats had not gotten into the ceiling. Someone was jostling the pipes.

The sound seemed to grow louder as she exited the kitchen into the main dining room. It was nearly empty, just stacked chairs and tables, a large bar, and a big open floor. No one was in here. Imani turned to the metal expanse at the room’s end.

The vault door was massive, a stainless-steel eye with a multi-pronged iris at its center. She ran toward it, removing her telephone from her pocket as she did. Emergency was three simple numbers.

The phone was ringing before her hand hit the wheel in the middle of the door. She wedged the cell between her shoulder and ear as she began to turn.

“Nine-one-one. What’s your emergency?”

“My husband is having a severe allergic reaction. He’s in his restaurant, Banque Gauche, and he must have eaten peanuts. You have to come. I don’t have an EpiPen.”

“Does he keep an EpiPen anywhere nearby, or Benadryl?”