Back when Derek’s late nights at the office became overnights. Back when his cologne changed from sandalwood to something cheap and musky. Back when he stopped asking how my dying mother was doing and started asking how long the probate process usually took.
“This is Sarah Mitchell,” I said. My voice sounded foreign to my own ears—low, level, dangerous. “The locks have been changed. I need you here now.”
The voice on the other end was deep and gravelly. “I’m five minutes out. Don’t engage. Just wait.”
“Twenty minutes,” I said to the air, hanging up.
Derek was already heading back inside, probably to celebrate his conquest with Vanessa. To laugh about how easy it was to discard eight years of marriage. He slammed the heavy oak door—the door my father had refinished the summer before he died.
I walked over to my suitcase, righted it, and sat down.
Mrs. Patterson hurried across her lawn. She was seventy-two, with bad knees, but she moved with the speed of a medic. She carried a folding chair and a bottle of cold water. She didn’t say a word. She just set the chair next to me, cracked the water seal, and squeezed my shoulder. Her grip was iron.
I looked at Mr. Kowalski on the porch. He caught my eye and nodded—a single, sharp dip of his chin. Jenny Morrison hadn’t lowered her phone. Her face was grim, her jaw set.
