I stepped inside, leaving the box where it was, and locked the front door behind me. With Grace up on my shoulder, I hurried to the back door and double-checked that it was locked. She gave a milky burp that left dampness against my neck. I held her close and glanced up at the security box against the back wall. I knew all the cameras were gone, and the morning light shone clearly across everything in my line of sight, from the living room sofa and Grace’s play mat to the gleaming kitchen counters straight to the front door.

But I still felt watched, as if Lena could surveil me without any equipment at all.

Even the tone of the postcard, unafraid, cheeky, sounded like Lena, and I was flooded with a mix of contradictory emotions. This Lena was simultaneously the friend I’d loved and the wife of a murderer, at the very least. With her vitality and her strength, there was no way she’d been a passive victim in thrall to her husband. She’d been the planner, the organizer, and that meant that every dead runaway, every terrified old man, had to be laid at her feet. I knew that.

And she was reaching out to me.

Unlike Aimee’s note, this postcard wasn’t mocking; it invited me to participate. It was an outstretched hand, not a raised middle finger.

Slipping into the bedroom, I started to set the postcard down on the dresser, but I didn’t want Michael to see it and suffer another shock. He wasn’t asleep, but he was engrossed in something on his phone, the light of the tiny screen casting his face in relief. He took one look at me, and the lines of resignation deepened around his eyes. He didn’t even have to ask, What now?

I just told him. And we started to pack.

At the police station, they separated us, sending Michael and Alondra with the FBI agent and his partner to go through another gauntlet of questions. Lugging Grace in her carrier, I followed Detective Clark into another room, where a selection of items was spread out on the table. Even out of context, a jolt of recognition pierced me.

“Can you identify any of these?” Detective Clark asked.

Of course I could. Lena’s phone in its battered utilitarian case. Were my last texts to her still on it? A pair of oversized sunglasses in a brand she used to call “drugstore not designer.” Her wallet, which I knew would be neatly organized with a few bills and carefully folded receipts. I had been so sure that postcard meant she was alive, but now, seeing her personal items lying there on the table …

“Where did you find these?” I asked Detective Clark. There was something else, a torn piece of paper, behind the sunglasses.

“Do you recognize them?” she countered.