I stood in a family room. I saw the dark outlines of sleek modern furniture—a couch, two recliners, and a large TV. Everything looked neat and orderly, everything in its place. A shelf full of highbrow fiction and nonfiction books I claimed I wanted to read but never did. A framed diploma from the University of Louisville. News and decorating magazines fanned out on the coffee table.

I listened. In the kitchen off the family room, a ceiling fan whirred, the pull chain rhythmically clacking with each revolution, which seemed somewhat odd for an empty house. But Amanda and I frequently left home with fans going, and otherwise, I heard nothing. I wanted to move fast, and get out. I doubted my slow work and multiple tries on the back door had alerted anyone, but in case they had, I needed to move quickly.

And something else could go wrong. What if the woman who lived here decided to leave yoga early? She might decide not to go at all. She might say, The hell with being healthy and flexible. I want to go home and watch TV and drink a glass of wine.

I knew the bedroom sat at the front of the house, the windows facing the street, so I headed that way. I still walked quietly and sleekly, even though I felt pretty certain no one was inside the house.

Why risk it?

It felt bizarre to be in a stranger’s home. Like the gravest violation of someone’s privacy. And I again cursed Blake for forcing me to do it, for putting me in the position of being an intruder.

Remember, he didn’t hold a gun to your head. . . .

You made this mess by driving that car that night. . . .

You made the mess by never coming clean about the accident. . . .

This night . . . and Dawn Steiner . . . all because of you . . .

The voice in my mind was right. Again.

If I felt like an intruder, a violator of a stranger’s privacy, it was my own doing. My own choosing.

I moved toward the front of the house, through the family room and past the kitchen, the floor gently creaking beneath my feet, and before I turned left down the hallway that led to the bedrooms, I saw something on the floor that made me stop.

At first I thought it was an animal. A large mouse or even a small rabbit.

Then I saw it was cloth. I bent down. A sock? A bandanna? Something that might have fallen out of a gym bag as the woman rushed to get to yoga?

No. It was a glove. A black glove.

I picked it up and examined it in the light that spilled through the small window at the top of the front door. Who would have a winter glove out at the beginning of April? Spring hadn’t fully erupted, but there was no need to wear gloves.