When I return to the kitchen, I smell frying eggs, which makes my stomach growl in spite of my semi-hangover. It reminds me of Sam’s attempt to cook an omelet for breakfast a few months ago. He put too many eggs in the pan, and the center of the omelet was completely raw while the outside was dark brown. We nicknamed it “Salmonella Surprise.” We laughed a lot that morning. (And had corn flakes for breakfast.)

I can’t believe Sam is sleeping with Monica. How could he?

“Have a seat, Abby dear,” Gertie says. She’s wearing Sam’s “I ate some pie” apron and moving eggs around the frying pan. She picks up the pan and scrapes the eggs onto two plates. She brings my plate out to the dining table, then limps back to bring out a glass of orange juice. “Breakfast is served!”

I don’t know if I’m hungry, but I don’t want to seem ungrateful so I sit down. At the very least, I’m incredibly thirsty, so I down the orange juice in three big gulps. It makes my pounding headache feel ever so slightly better.

I dig into the eggs a little more reluctantly, but after the first bite, I’m shoveling them into my mouth. They’re actually really good. Much better than Salmonella Surprise.

“What do you think?” Gertie asks, grinning at me across the time.

“You need to show my husband how to make this,” I say. Although I suspect Sam will never try to make me eggs ever again. Those days are over.

“I’d be happy to.” Gertie winks at me, and I can’t help but notice that up close she doesn’t have as many wrinkles around her eyes as I’d expect her to. I always thought of Gertie as pushing seventy, but now I think she’s likely closer to sixty. It’s a shame that she hurt her hip so badly at such a young age. I still wonder if Monica was responsible—I’ll probably never know the truth.

I’ve nearly cleaned my plate of delicious eggs when the doorbell rings again.

Gertie looks up from her own plate of eggs. “Are you expecting someone, Abby?”

I shake my head no. Maybe this time it really is the police. I wipe my mouth with the napkin Gertie brought me, then get to my feet to check the door. When I see Monica standing in front of the door, I nearly pretend not to be home.

I don’t want to be alone with Monica. Mrs. Johnson’s terrifying stories are still ringing in my ears. I don’t trust that woman for a second. She almost certainly killed Denise in cold blood.

But then again, Gertie is here. She wouldn’t try anything in front of a witness.

Would she?