Julia: That super-nice couple that is so very helpful, those neighbors that “keep to themselves,” the guy you carpool with, the woman with the adorable dog … they’re all suspects?

Helen: I’m sorry, babe. I know you like your murderers nice and obvious. But if every serial killer were a creepy loner, they’d never find any victims.

Julia: Bad guys should totally wear name tags.

CHAPTER

13

FOUR MONTHS OLD, and Grace still woke at least once a night. I heard her stir on the baby monitor and opened my eyes just enough to check the time, two hours past midnight and three since her last feeding. I’d perfected the art of sleepwalking down the hall, nursing her in the glider, and returning her to her crib without fully waking up myself. When I rolled out of bed, I realized it was empty. Michael must still be out with Brady.

But it was a weekend, and they’d been drinking. Lena was out of town, and I hadn’t felt like tagging along with Grace to watch sports and not drink beer.

He’d probably be in the bed by the time I got back.

I scooped up Grace’s little body with its flailing arms and settled into the chair, tucking a pillow underneath her for support. Grace nursed quickly, her eyes never opening, one hand clenching and unclenching next to her cheek. When she let go with a brief sigh, I raised her to my shoulder, patting her back firmly without jarring her. If I returned her to the crib without burping her, she’d be restless or even awake. But if I did everything right, I might get three or even four more blissful hours of sleep.

My cheek rested against her soft head and my own eyes were closing when I heard her expel a bubble of air and then another. I kissed her fuzzy hair and took a last inhale, gathering myself for a smooth transfer from my shoulder to her crib.

But then, in an instant, I knew we were not alone. A sharp scent cut through the sweet smell of infant and the haze of sleep deprivation and mind-drugging love. The smell of sweat. And I heard panting, harsh and rough.

Every nerve in my body flared to life with a single impulse—flight, flight, flight.

The door to the nursery flew open, but it was only Michael standing there, illuminated by the glow of Grace’s night-light and the baby monitor. His eyes were wide, unfocused, his face so pale it was almost green. His shirt was streaked with dark stains like he’d been working in the garden. He scanned the room, but not methodically as if checking to make sure everything was safe. His gaze darted from corner to corner as if he might surprise a danger lurking there, waiting to attack when he looked away.

“What’s wrong?” I shrank back, clutching Grace to my chest.