‘Evidence,’ Oli murmurs, wiping her nose and eyes. ‘There’s no actual evidence.’ Even in her own mind she is circling around the clues, not quite letting thoughts bind together. She’s aware of the desperate way her brain is trying to counteract the possibility that Dean is far from the person she thought he was. Surely, surely, the police examined every aspect of Isabelle’s death until they were satisfied he had nothing to do with it. The husband is usually under suspicion, but Dean was never a suspect, never linked to Bouris. Pages of Isabelle’s diaries roll through her thoughts. Is John O’Brien behind all this? Did he somehow recruit Dean when they used to work together? Amy and Kate appear in her mind again, and she shakes her head. No, no. She just can’t see it. He’s not capable of this kind of evil. Even if O’Brien is involved, she’s sure Dean isn’t.

Another thought slams in: the twins might not be his biological children. Maybe Isabelle used donor sperm. If the girls aren’t his, does that change things? Probably not. It certainly hadn’t stopped Oli’s father.

More tears come. Since the moment she met Dean, their connection has been intense and primal. Although muted over time, dulled by domesticity and proximity, it is still undeniable. But what if it’s a trick? What if she’s somehow drawn to danger because of what happened to her?

She sways, her knees threatening to buckle. Smoke hits her lungs, and she holds it there for a moment. The rosebushes along the front garden bed are perfectly spaced, giant white buds on the brink of bursting open. Dean loves those roses. Last year, when she was still living in her apartment, he would bring her one every week and present it to her when she opened the door. A sweet, small gesture that drove her crazy. They are probably Isabelle’s roses.

When they first started seeing each other again, Dean never mentioned Isabelle. After a few weeks of bliss, of Oli pinching herself, she got up the courage to ask him about his dead wife.

I need to move on from Isabelle. I want to build a future with you, Oli.

And she lapped it up. She didn’t want to press it, didn’t want to ruin the magic. But he has lied to her—not once, but over and over. And she was so desperate to believe him. How pathetic.

She tries to remember the conversation they had when he asked her to move in. The scene flickers in her mind’s eye, and it’s hard to grab on to the exact words, but she remembers one sentence clearly: If you decide you do want a baby, I’m in. I’d do that for you. Discomfort squeezes her insides as she remembers the rush of pleasure that bloomed in her chest.