First, I had to attend to Maggie. The gun shot had startled her, and she was sobbing uncontrollably. Her wails came in stereo: from the monitor under Max’s body, and directly from the nursery. With the gun in my waistband, I hurried to her, picked her up, and rocked her gently. My presence calmed her, and soon enough, she nuzzled into my neck and fell asleep. I placed her tenderly back in her crib. Then I went to dispose of her mother’s body.

With an eye on Max, I pocketed the shell casing and wiped up the tiny pool of Freya’s blood with a paper towel. I was entirely sober now, adrenaline coursing through my system, allowing me to do what had to be done. I scooped Freya into my arms and carried her to the studio. She was such a tiny woman, but she felt remarkably heavy. I stumbled inside and went straight to the kiln room with my lifeless cargo, setting her down on the concrete floor. Freya had taught me to fire the gas kiln. It was not as simple as an electric kiln, but she insisted the results were better, especially when doing salt or soda firing. With the shelves removed, the receptacle was the perfect size for my petite victim. Max would have required dismembering; I shuddered at the thought.

I took the diamond rings from Freya’s fingers, the phone from her pocket, and placed her gently inside. Then I sealed the kiln and cranked the heat to the max, cone 10. Eventually it would reach 2,300 degrees Fahrenheit, significantly hotter than a cremation oven. Within a few hours, all that would be left of the gorgeous woman who had hurt so many people, who’d destroyed so many lives, would be a dusting of ash.

A wave of nausea hit me then, and I hurried outside to vomit behind a juniper bush. Tears streamed down my cheeks, but there was no time to fall apart. Wiping my mouth on my sleeve, I went back to the studio to turn off the lights and close the door. Freya had always insisted that all firings be monitored; gas kilns could be dangerous. But I couldn’t hang around, for obvious reasons. And the top of the line appliance had a thermocouple safety shut-off valve that would kick in eventually. I crept up to the house and peered through a kitchen window. Max was awake now, sitting on the floor with his head in his hands. He had been out for over fifteen minutes; this could be a serious brain injury. But if anyone knew how to deal with a concussion, it was Max. He’d call paramedics if he needed them. He’d summon me to look after Maggie, if he couldn’t cope. And he would wonder where his wife went.

But he would never know the truth. No one would.

• • •