There was a world of difference between “I can’t do this” and “I can’t do this anymore.” A simple mistake. One word. But it reframed everything.

“I can’t do this—period,” Nora repeated. “What’s ‘this’? He can’t mean his suicide because he just said he was going to do it.”

“He was talking about doing something else,” Cyrus said. “I’m going to kill myself because I can’t do…what?”

Nora only shook her head. Maybe when they figured that out, this fucking case would finally be over.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Cyrus returned to his apartment. Paulina had asked him over for dinner, and though he’d been tempted to say “yes,” he told her he had to work on the case. He knew they were close. He didn’t want to stop. Not now.

Paulina was a born detective’s spouse. She said, “You do what you have to do. I’ll save you the leftovers for tomorrow.”

God damn, he loved that woman.

Back in his apartment, Cyrus spread out a plain white towel on his kitchen table and placed everything on it in a line.

Pink envelope with the butterfly sticker.

Car keys.

Rumi poem about the butterflies.

The chastity device.

Then Cyrus typed and printed out a timeline of events, beginning with the trip to Grand Isle in June, the engagement party in July, and coming up on today, finding the keys in the mailbox.

He sat at the kitchen chair and looked one by one by one by one at the items on the table. Then he closed his eyes and began to breathe deliberately. Breathe in for four—one, two, three, four—hold it for three at the top—one, two, three—breathe out for four and hold it for three at the bottom.

One.

Two.

Three.

Cyrus did this again and again, until he’d breathed himself so deep into his mind that he couldn’t see or feel his own body anymore.

But he didn’t need his body, just his brain. His brain and the river that ran wild through it.

When he opened his inner eye, he was already in the river.

This had never happened before. Always he’d come to the river, waded in, found what he needed to find there. Now he was knee-deep in the river.

And the water was rising.

Already it had risen from his knees to his waist. He had to get out before it was up to his neck. He started forward and found he couldn’t get out. Something had him around the ankle. He lifted his foot. A chain was wrapped around his leg, a chain padlocked shut.

Okay, so he needed the key. They had a key. They’d found the key.

He patted around his pockets. There, in the breast pocket of his suit.

He took the key out of his pocket again and opened his hand. The key turned into a butterfly and flew away.

Cyrus opened his eyes.

He collapsed back in his kitchen chair, breathing hard. Didn’t take a psychologist to tell him what he’d seen deep in his own mind—fear. Fear this case was going to kill him if he didn’t unlock the secret like they’d unlocked the padlock.