Oli knows how this ends. She’s judged women in this very situation, women so blinded by love that they refuse to see what’s right in front of them. Worse, she has pitied them. Even now, she’s looking for excuses, ways that she might be wrong about Dean. Trying to reason around his lies, justify his actions. Stop it, she admonishes herself. Stop trying to fix this for him. Just get your things and get to Lily’s. You can work the rest out later.

She extinguishes her cigarette against the concrete pillar, leaving a black smudge on the white paint. The scent of fresh rain mixes with the dirty smoke, and she takes a few deep breaths. Pulls out her keys.

Rusty calls, and she doesn’t answer. She sends him a text saying she’s resting and will call later. The thought of talking to him right now makes her claustrophobic.

She slides the key into the door. A flash of light behind her is followed by thunder, cracking like a whip through the darkness. She spins around, hand at her throat. The sky opens. Sheets of water fall, turning the front yard a hazy white. Her hand slips down to feel the mad fluttering of her heart. It’s just a storm, she tells herself. They’ve been predicting it all week. But she has always hated storms. Hated what they help to conceal.

She enters the house, pulling the heavy door shut behind her, sealing out the chaos.

A text from Rusty: Can you talk? Just found out that Bouris’s missus bought a new house a few months after he was put away. It’s a big place. I’m trying to trace the cash but it gives some credit to your theory.

Another wave of tiredness hits. She was right: Bouris was paid to make the hit on Isabelle. Please find out what you can, she types back.