My own grief was a hole, the absence of Lena. And I could imagine only two choices, both of them paths that led to darker places. The first was that she had never gone on a trip. The police had checked with her aunt, and not only had Lena not visited, but there’d been no plans for nor talk of a visit, not according to the aunt. Those texts Lena had sent me didn’t mean she was alive. They could have come from anyone.

No, not anyone. From Brady.

The thought I was avoiding, coinciding with the first path, was that Brady had killed Lena, the same way he might have killed a dozen others. That he’d used her phone to buy himself some time or delay suspicion. That he’d disposed of her body before he’d started dismembering the young woman, the one Michael had seen. After all, a killer who could do that to a stranger, a human with whom he had no history, would be more than capable of doing it to his wife.

My hand trembled, and the edge of the putty knife scored the spackle. I scooped more up and pressed it on, then scraped it smooth again, willing my hand to be steady.

My friend with her flaming hair, her larger-than-life personality, her laugh that rolled like thunder, was dead and buried somewhere she might never be found. That was an absence that couldn’t be filled, a loss I couldn’t wrap my head around.

But there was a second path, one the police were also considering. I could tell from the questions they’d asked, the way they’d walked me through my calendar, examined my texts with Lena, asked about specific dates and places.

Lena could have been involved as well. No, not involved; that was just my mind trying to mitigate her responsibility. Lena, my friend, might be a killer like her husband.

This patch was as smooth as I could make it, but the texture wasn’t the same as the wall around it. I picked up the plastic tub and read the directions. Let dry, then paint. Grace had dozed off, her head lolling on its side. I’d see if we had the right color.

When I opened the garage door, the heat rolled over me. Paint cans from the previous homeowners were lined up against the wall, along with a box of leftover tile and some spare shingles. Our garage wasn’t neat and orderly like Lena and Brady’s. Some unopened boxes still sat in a corner, along with the bikes we’d brought but hadn’t ridden since the move, Grace’s stroller base, and a jumble of miscellany—an old pair of Michael’s running shoes, a battered tool box, empty packaging and old Christmas decorations and unused gardening tools and bug sprays.