Helen: It’s never too late for witness tampering, my friend. Plus, law enforcement now has proof that Lena was complicit, is alive, and is out to save her man. Remember they’d built up this whole contractor business? They had a fleet of vans, dozens of employees, and plenty of cash money. The police never identified which van dropped off the package, because, let’s face it, without a business logo, all white work vans look the same.

Julia: Creepy. They all look creepy.

Helen: So the FBI take the nonmurderous neighbors back into the station for more interviews, run over all the details again, and then they break the news: “You’re still in danger. We need you to go into protective custody until we lock this thing down.”

Julia: Although if you and I had been killing together happily for years and then you blew it by inviting some rando over when I was out of town, I wouldn’t be blaming the rando.

Helen: Sweetie, I’d never commit murder with anyone but you.

CHAPTER

22

“The package is from Lena,” I whispered.

I turned around, scanning the street, as though the postcard had been handed to me. Brady was in custody; I knew he was safely away. But this card was from the Fort Bend Museum, practically in Sugar Land.

Alondra said, “How do you know it was from her? When was it sent, and from where?”

I said, “Her handwriting, and it’s the Fort Bend Museum.”

The museum postcard was more than a callback to the card I’d received the first time Lena and I went walking, the first time I’d told a friend about my past. The postcard, the location, was a threat.

Then Alondra started to curse, slowly and deliberately, the way some people might take a deep breath to clear their head. Finally, she said, “Okay. When Michael goes to the police station, you and Grace go too. I’ll meet you there. But I want you to pack first. Do that right now. Pack for a week or so. I’m going to call that station and make the situation abundantly clear. They should’ve sent someone to escort you.”

“I could call the local constable, the one assigned to our neighborhood.”

“Do that. And I’ll call the station.” She spoke to someone in the room with her; I couldn’t quite hear what she was saying. Then her voice came through clearly again. “Check your doors, call that constable, and don’t open up to anyone but him. When he arrives, have him follow you to the station. You and Michael.”

“Wait.” But she had already clicked off.