It took ten minutes to reach the address Blake had given me. The house sat in the middle of a block in a relatively new subdivision, the houses midsized and almost identical. SUVs and sedans filled the driveways, and soccer balls and swing sets occupied the backyards. Someone Amanda used to work with lived a few streets away, and we had gone to a Fourth of July party at her house shortly after it was built.

I arrived at nine fifty. It wasn’t clear to me if the woman in question was leaving before ten or right at ten on the nose, so I rolled past the house, taking a look. The front porch light glowed like a tiny moon, illuminating the house number, but the rest of the place looked dark. She’d probably already left for her yoga class, but if Blake said ten was the time, I intended to stick to that. I circled the block one more time, hoping against hope I drove in a nonsuspicious way.

The second time around, the stress started to get the better of me. My palms grew wet where they pressed against the steering wheel. Sweat trickled down my side underneath the gym clothes I’d put on to perpetuate the lie I’d told to Amanda. My mouth was dry, my heart fluttering in my chest like that of a scared kitten. I needed gas too, but I ignored the gauge. I could deal with that on the way home when all the nonsense was over.

Between Blake’s request and the looming threat of exposure from Dawn Steiner, I was a jangled tangle of nerves.

I studied the houses lining the street, houses where families slept or watched TV or read together in comfortable family rooms, and I wished more than anything I could be home with Amanda, watching some silly movie, each of us with an ear trained toward the baby monitor and the sound of Henry’s gentle breathing.

Just leave. Just turn around and get out. Tell Blake to go to hell.

I passed the woman’s house, still dark, still empty looking.

Just hit the gas and go.

Did I know for sure Blake would really tell anyone and everyone about the accident from college, the one that had killed Maggie Steiner and injured her sister Emily?

I couldn’t say anything with certainty.

And that was always the problem with Blake—his unpredictability. If he wanted to, he could tell my coworkers. He could tell my partners in the Pig. He could go to the media.

He could tell Amanda. Far too easily. All he had to do was drive over, knock on the door, and tell her. He could be sitting in front of our house right now, waiting to tell her.