I don’t like to say that the Hawking police were stupid, but they were stupid. They were so fixated on Max, on his fight with Freya, and on searching the main house, that they barely inspected the studio. They walked through it, climbed up into the attic, and opened the kiln. When they found it empty but for a tiny pile of ash, they closed the lid and walked away. They may have known that a cremation oven leaves approximately one cubic inch of ash per pound of body (I knew this because Freya had been commissioned to make an urn a few months back). But they didn’t know that incinerating a person at significantly higher temperature reduces that residue. And if they had sifted through the fine dust that once was Freya, they would have found it: a small misshapen disk the size of a large thumb print. It was an alloy of copper and lead, melted and then hardened. It was the bullet that had been buried in her heart.

It was the only souvenir I kept of the woman I’d loved so fiercely. Her phone and her rings were at the bottom of the Pacific, along with the gun and the shell casing. I’d taken Vik’s aluminum fishing boat out for the afternoon and jettisoned the evidence off the side. (No one thought my trip was unusual. Before Freya, I used to spend hours alone on the water under the auspices of fishing.) I burned the sex photos of Freya and Max, and then I laid low for a couple of weeks, photographing my siblings, enthusiastically eating my mother’s dal, acting normal. When I knew that no one could ever link me to Freya’s disappearance, I returned to the scene of the crime.

The for sale sign was already planted on the verge as I pulled into the driveway. Max was in the garage, packing up his boating gear, but he emerged when he heard my vehicle.

“You’re leaving,” I said, as I got out of my truck.

“Yep. The police cleared me. Did they talk to you?”

“For about five minutes. They wanted to know about Freya’s ‘state of mind.’ ”

Max nodded. It was clear to everyone that she’d been suicidal. “I’m going back to the Yukon,” he said.

“And Maggie?”

“She’s with Brian and Jamie. They’re her parents, now. She’ll be better off.”

I nodded my agreement.

We were both taciturn types, so there was a long tense silence while thoughts raced through my mind. Max had been unconscious when I shot Freya; he couldn’t know that I had killed her to save his daughter. Unless . . . somewhere in his injured brain, he had heard the gun go off. Unless, his sightless eyes had flickered open and witnessed what I had done. Did he know that I had considered, however briefly, incinerating his body, and running off with his wife?