I was going to find out everything I could about this case and any others like it. The police wouldn’t tell us anything, the journalists were scrambling, but they didn’t know any more than I did. What made a person a killer? Why would Brady have killed Lena, if he’d killed Lena? And how could Michael and I not have known?

Did I really know anyone?

On an ordinary morning, Michael would have asked how I planned to spend the day. I’d had my answer all ready: “Taking Grace to Mother Goose Story Time at the library.” And I would. Because I wasn’t a liar. I just wasn’t volunteering the whole truth.

He hadn’t asked anyway.

I pulled out of the driveway, pausing to savor the sight of a street free from reporters and white vans, but I couldn’t pretend things were back to normal. Yellow crime scene tape still crisscrossed Lena’s front door, and an unmarked police car was stationed in the driveway. As I turned onto the main street, I saw Rahmia on her way back from dropping Emir off at school. Under her pale-green hijab, her face was serious, and even Bibi seemed subdued. Rahmia glanced at my car, and then her eyes widened like I’d been marked with crime scene tape: Danger. I glanced in the rearview mirror, where my shiner was still abundantly clear, and I could see her concerned face retreating into the distance.

At the library, I went up and down the shelves with Grace in her stroller—really just a lightweight set of wheels and a handle that snapped onto her car seat. I filled the bottom with books about murderers and the murdered, the psychology of violence, psychopaths and how to recognize them. All the things someone like Dr. Lindsey must have studied. On one of these pages, there had to be an answer.

But after I checked them out, I realized I couldn’t take these books home. Even having them in my car was risky.

I texted Elizabeth: I need help with something. Can I come over?

Of course. Don’t use the buzzer, just knock. Theo must be sleeping. Elizabeth wasn’t a walk-right-in kind of person, unlike Lena. None of us were anymore. Even before Brady, there had been stories of home invasions, people tied up while their houses were ransacked, people shot as they answered the door, people followed into their garages.

So it was a relief to knock softly on Elizabeth’s door and hear her undo the dead bolt. I set Grace in her car seat just inside and ran back to get the armload of books.

Elizabeth looked from my face to the stack in my arms. “What’s going on?”