As far as I can see, one of two people must have murdered Damon Blundy—his wife, Hannah, or King Edward. Except that adds up to more than two possible people, since King Edward could be anyone.

What if King Edward is Adam?

No, that’s absurd. Adam was at work when Damon Blundy was murdered. Wasn’t he? Just because he’s an IT genius and he defends my parents, that doesn’t mean anything. He likes to give people the benefit of the doubt—that’s a good thing. He’s a good man, one who wouldn’t fake an online affair lasting more than two years with his own wife. In order for him to have answered my Intimate Links ad in 2010, Melissa would have had to have told him I’d mentioned the site to her, and that she was suspicious. No, she wouldn’t have done that. Not then. She still felt too guilty then about moving in with Lee.

Adam could have grown suspicious all by himself, I suppose. All the time I spent on my computer and on my phone . . .

Where was Lee when Damon was murdered? Was he at work, like Adam?

I shove the thought violently out of my mind. My brother is not King Edward. Unthinkable.

Melissa’s ruled out, since King Edward I know—knew—is unambiguously a man.

What if he was a man hired and instructed by a woman? By Melissa. A man with a blue BMW and blond streaks in his hair, who maybe didn’t follow a rented car all the way from Spilling to Highgate but knew Melissa’s address anyway . . .

My stomach heaves like a fragile ship on a churning, storm-tossed sea, threatening to overturn.

I mustn’t let myself speculate in all directions. It will drive me crazy.

Crazier.

If I call Adam’s work and try to find out if he was there on Monday morning or not, what does that say about me?

The blindfold. I’ve been assuming it was so that I wouldn’t see his face and say, “But you’re not Damon Blundy.” It never occurred to me that it might have been to stop me saying more than that: “You’re not Damon Blundy. You’re . . .”

Who?

I pick up my phone and start to draft an email. There’s a voice in my head telling me not to, that it’s the worst thing I could possibly do, but it’s not a persuasive voice. It’s panicky, insecure, reciting lines it learned by rote a long time ago that have since become meaningless.