How well do you really know your best friend?

Kat Grant and Alice Campbell have a friendship forged in shared confidences and long lunches lubricated by expensive wine. Though they’re very different women—the artsy socialite and the struggling suburbanite—they’re each other’s rocks. But even rocks crumble under pressure. Like when Kat’s financier husband, Howard, plunges to his death from the second-floor balcony of their South Florida mansion.

Howard was a jerk, a drunk, a bully and, police say, a murder victim. The questions begin piling up. Like why Kat has suddenly gone dark: no calls, no texts and no chance her wealthy family will let Alice see her. Why investigators are looking so hard in Alice’s direction. Who stands to get hurt next. And who is the cool liar—the masterful manipulator behind it all.

MARGOT HUNT is the pseudonym of a bestselling writer of twelve previous novels. Her work has been praised by Publishers Weekly, Booklist and Kirkus Reviews. Best Friends Forever is her first psychological thriller.

www.MargotHunt.com

Best Friends Forever

Margot Hunt

Copyright

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2018

Copyright © Whitney Gaskell 2018

Whitney Gaskell asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © January 2018 ISBN: 9781474074506

Praise for Best Friends Forever

Best Friends Forever is a clever thriller that asks how far we’ll go to protect our friends. Margot Hunt will keep you guessing until the final, satisfying twist.”

—Alafair Burke, New York Times bestselling author of The Ex

“Margot Hunt’s richly drawn women wrap their hands around your throat and don’t let go. A suspenseful page-turner that kept me puzzling over who did it until the last few pages. Fantastic!”

—Cate Holahan, author of The Widower’s Wife, a Kirkus Reviews Best Book of 2016

“Friends or husbands? Who do women tell more truth? Give more allegiance? Margot Hunt shocks and astounds as she explores these tugs of loyalty in Best Friends Forever, a psychological thriller that kept me off balance even after turning the last page.”

—Randy Susan Meyers, bestselling author of The Widow of Wall Street

“[Best Friends Forever] constantly pushes forward, asking readers to question every conclusion and warning them to never completely trust anyone.... The characters are well-drawn, speaking easily for themselves and standing out as unique people who feel real.”

—Kirkus Reviews

Friends have drifted in and out of my life over the years.

This book is dedicated to those special few that stuck around.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Title Page

Copyright

Praise

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Imagine you’re shipwrecked on an island inhabited by only Knights and Knaves. Knights always tell the truth. Knaves always lie. There is no way to distinguish between the two just by looking at them. The only way to separate the liars from the truth-tellers is by asking them questions.

For example, suppose you encounter two islanders. Let’s call them A and B. You ask A, “Are you a Knight or a Knave?”

A responds by saying, “At least one of us is a Knave.”

B is silent.

Who is a Knight and who is a Knave?

The answer is easy. A cannot be a Knave, because if so, his statement would be truthful, and Knaves always lie. Therefore A must be a Knight, and telling the truth. Which would mean B is a Knave.

In real life, of course, there are no such things as Knights, those absolute keepers of the truth.

Everyone lies about something.

1

It was a perfectly normal school morning in the Campbell household—disorganized, chaotic and at least one of my children was running around half-naked—right up until the moment the police arrived at our front door to question me in connection with the death of Howard Grant.

Before the doorbell rang—before everything changed—my most pressing concern was not to overcook the eggs I was scrambling for our breakfast.

I had learned through practice and error that the key to perfectly scrambled eggs was to keep the heat low. As I slowly stirred the eggs with a flat whisk, a flash of movement outside caught my eye. I turned to glance out the kitchen window, which overlooked our side yard and the street beyond. Our next-door neighbor Judy Ward was walking her fat dachshund, Rocket, down the sidewalk. Judy was carrying a green plastic bag of dog poop in one hand and Rocket’s leash in the other. The dog was panting so heavily, he looked like he was about to keel over.

“Mom, where’re my shorts?” Liam yelled from his room, which was located on the other side of our one-story house. When I didn’t answer, he shouted again. “Mom! I can’t find my uniform shorts!”

I drew in a deep breath and counted to five to stop myself from yelling back that if my son needed something, he should walk across the house and ask me politely. Sure enough, the thud-thud-thud of large thirteen-year-old feet stampeded across our ceramic tile floor. Liam appeared in the kitchen, wearing only a navy polo shirt with his school logo on it and white cotton briefs. Liam had my husband’s unruly dark curls and lopsided smile, but his wide, pale blue eyes and long, straight nose came from me. He was getting so tall, officially a teenager, but still child enough to run around in his underwear. I loved him so, this wild boy of mine.

“I can’t find any clean shorts,” Liam said. He balanced on one leg like a crane and began to hop in place.

“Why are you hopping?”

“Because I can,” Liam said carelessly. “Have you seen my shorts?”

“Did you look in the dryer?”

Liam snapped his fingers. “The dryer,” he repeated, drawing out the word and then hopping out of the room. I smiled, watching him go.

“Breakfast will be ready in five minutes. And don’t forget your belt,” I called after him. Despite going to the same school with the same dress code for seven years, Liam still forgot to put on a belt at least every other day.

“I know!” he yelled back.

I turned the burner off under the eggs, pulled out a loaf of whole wheat bread from the pantry and started on the toast. I noticed that the pears in the wire fruit bowl were starting to look bruised. I picked one up, and the flesh gave way, my fingers sinking into the rotten fruit. I shuddered and tossed it in the garbage.

“Mom?”

This time it was my daughter calling for me. Bridget, at eleven, was more organized than her older brother would ever be. She was already dressed in her school uniform, the same blue polo with the crest embroidered on the left chest, tucked neatly into a knee-length khaki skirt. Her long strawberry blond hair—just a shade lighter than mine—was tied back in a low ponytail, and she was holding a piece of white poster board with pictures and snippets of text neatly glued to it. It was her state capital report, which she had diligently worked on for the past two evenings.

“How are you going to bring that into school?” I asked as I turned to the sink to wash my hands. “I don’t think it will fit in your backpack.”

“It won’t,” Bridget confirmed. “But it’s going to get all bent if I carry it in like this.”

“Maybe we can roll it up and put a rubber band around it,” I suggested. “Go see if Dad has one in the office.”

“Okay.” Bridget trooped off toward our home office. Todd habitually checked his email on the desktop computer there every morning as he drank his coffee.

“Liam, did you find your shorts?” I called out.

“Oh, right. I forgot to look,” he responded. There was another flurry of heavy footsteps, the metallic thwack of the dryer door being opened and slammed closed. “Got ’em!”

Bridget returned, this time with Todd trailing her. My husband was a tall, broad-shouldered man with milk-pale skin and dark eyes. Todd’s dark hair was still thick, but it was becoming increasingly streaked with gray. I’d also noticed that lately he’d started wearing his tortoiseshell reading glasses more frequently.

“I don’t have any rubber bands,” Todd said.

“Oh, no! What are we going to do?” Bridget asked fretfully, her voice thin and sharp. Yes, my daughter was far more organized than my son, but her moods shifted so much faster. Joy one moment, tears the next. I worried constantly that the stormy emotional seas she traversed each day would one day capsize her.

“Don’t worry,” I soothed her. “Can’t you use a hair elastic?”

Bridget brightened at this suggestion. “Oh, yeah! I didn’t think of that!” she said and scuttled off to the bathroom the children shared to find one of the four million hair elastics that lived in the flotsam and jetsam of the drawers there.

Todd smiled at me. “Good save,” he said, crinkles appearing at the corners of his eyes. He rested a hand on my shoulder.

“I have my moments,” I said, turning back to the sink so that his hand fell away.

Todd had been trying lately. I had to give him credit for that, even if I wasn’t particularly charmed by his efforts. I wondered, fleetingly, if our marriage would ever return to the warm, secure place it had once been.

But then, before I could become too maudlin, remembering past happiness and the unlikeliness of its return, the doorbell rang. I looked up, wondering who it was. No one ever rang the doorbell before nine.

“Who do you think that is?” Todd asked.

I bit back my involuntary response. How should I know? Censoring oneself was necessary to a happy marriage. Or, in our case, to keeping an unhappy marriage from spiraling even further downward.

Don’t mess with one another, Dr. Keller, our marriage counselor, had suggested. Don’t drink too much. Don’t pick fights.

Don’t be too truthful, I’d privately added to the list. Honesty was overrated, especially within the boundaries of a troubled marriage. Actually, these days, I was starting to think that couples therapy itself was overrated. Was it really necessary to pay Dr. Keller an exorbitant rate just so we could have someone watch as we salted each other’s wounds once a week? Nothing ever scabbed over and healed when you kept picking at it. There was an undeniable wisdom to the old saying Least said, sooner mended.

I made a mental note to cancel our next session.

“It’s probably one of the neighbors,” I said. “Maybe someone has a dead car battery and needs a jump.”

Todd nodded and went off to answer the door just as the toast popped up. Whoever was at the house, they were arriving just as breakfast was ready. I checked the toast and decided to drop it down for further browning.

I heard the low murmur of Todd as he spoke, but I didn’t recognize the voices that responded. One male, one female, I thought. I couldn’t hear what Todd said in reply, but something about his tone sounded off. The smell of burning bread filled my nose. I popped the toast up. It was now charred black. I swore softly, feeling another flash of irritation at the interruption to our morning routine.

“Are you okay, Mom?” Bridget asked, appearing in the kitchen.

“I’m fine.”

“Gross,” Bridget said. “Burned?”

“Burned,” I confirmed.

“I’m not eating that,” Bridget said, pointing an accusatory finger.

“No one’s asking you to.” I plucked the bread out of the toaster and tossed it in the garbage can. “I’ll make some more.”

“Who are those people Daddy’s talking to?”

“I’m not sure,” I said. “Why?”

“He looks worried,” Bridget said.

I inserted a few fresh slices of bread into the toaster and put a lid on the pan of eggs to keep them warm.

“I’ll find out what’s going on,” I said. “Are your hands clean? No? Go wash them. Breakfast is almost ready.”

I passed through the open-plan living room with its well-worn brown leather sofas and floral wool rug, all overdue for replacement, out to the front hall. Todd was standing slightly to one side of the open door, so I had a clear view of the man and woman on our front step. Both were dressed in suits that looked too warm for a sunny April Florida morning. The automatic sprinklers switched on then and began spraying water across the browning lawn with rat-a-tat-tat efficiency.

“Who is it?” I asked.

Todd turned to me. Bridget was right, he did look worried.

“They’re police officers,” he said. “Detectives...” Todd’s voice trailed off as he turned back to look at our visitors. “Sorry, I’ve forgotten your names.”

“I’m Detective Alex Demer.” The detective was tall and bulky and had dark, pockmarked skin and a closely cropped beard. “And this is Sergeant Sofia Oliver.”

“I’m Alice Campbell,” I replied. Neither of them offered a hand to shake, so I followed their lead.

Oliver was the younger of the two. She was petite and fine-boned, and her auburn hair was cut short in a pixie style. Her lips rounded down, and her eyes were flinty. My best friend, Kat, would call it a “resting bitch face.” In Oliver’s case, it was an accurate description.

“Th-they want to talk to you about Howard Grant,” Todd stammered.

Howard Grant. Kat’s husband. Or, to be more accurate, her late husband. Howard had died three days earlier. The shock of his death still hit me anew every time I thought of it.

“Oh, right. Of course. You’re with the Jupiter Island Police?” I guessed. Kat and Howard lived—or in Howard’s case, had lived—on tony Jupiter Island. While their home was close geographically to where we lived, in the Town of Jupiter, the island was its own separate and quite exclusive municipality.

“The Jupiter Island Public Safety Department,” Sergeant Oliver corrected me, her tone needlessly officious.

“Actually, Sergeant Oliver is with the Jupiter Island Public Safety Department,” Detective Demer said. “I’m with the Florida Department of Law Enforcement based in Tallahassee. I’ve been temporarily assigned to look into Howard Grant’s death.”

“I thought Howard’s death was an accident,” I said.

Detective Demer gazed down at me, his expression inscrutable. “That’s what we’re looking into. And that’s why we need to speak with you.”

“Of course. Please, come in,” I said, stepping aside to give them room.

Todd shook his head, and I could tell from his expression that I was missing something important.

“Alice, they want you to go with them,” my husband emphasized. “To the police station.”

“Really?” I looked at the police officers. “Why?”

Demer held up a placating hand. “It’s nothing to worry about, Mrs. Campbell. Your name came up in the course of our investigation, and we have some questions for you. It’s all very routine.”

I nodded slowly. I didn’t understand why the conversation couldn’t take place in our living room. And if they wanted me to come to them, why hadn’t they just called? What was the point of showing up on my doorstep first thing in the morning?

“What’s going on?” Liam asked, appearing behind me. He had his shorts on now, thankfully, but was still not wearing a belt.

“Nothing,” I said. “The eggs are ready. Go serve yourself. I’ll be right in. And don’t forget to put on a belt.”

“I’m sorry if we’ve come at a bad time,” Demer said. He did look as though he regretted the imposition. Maybe he had children of his own back in Tallahassee and knew how chaotic the mornings could be. I nodded and smiled faintly to signal that I understood he was just doing his job.

“When would you like me to come in?” I asked.

“As soon as possible,” Oliver snapped. In contrast to her colleague, she didn’t seem at all sheepish about appearing on my doorstep before 8:00 a.m. and disrupting our routine. “In fact, we’d like you to come with us now.”

I shook my head. “That’s impossible. I have to finish helping my children get ready for school and then drive them in. I can meet you after that.”

“How long will that be?” Demer asked.

In truth, it took me only twenty minutes to complete the school run. But I was currently wearing a ratty old T-shirt of Todd’s and a pair of jogging shorts. I’d never put much thought into what one wore to a police interview, but I was fairly sure this was not the ideal outfit.

“Where is the Jupiter Island Public Safety Department located?” I asked, wondering why it couldn’t just be called a police department. Was that somehow offensive to the extremely wealthy residents of Jupiter Island? Were police necessary only for regular citizens? The marked differences between the very rich and everyone else reared up at the oddest times, even in our so-called equal society.

“On Bunker Hill Road in the old town hall building,” Oliver said.

I mentally calculated how long it would take me to get the kids off to school, get dressed and drive there. “I could be there in two hours.”

The police officers exchanged a look, but Demer nodded.

“We’ll see you then,” he said.

Once the front door was closed and we were alone again, my husband looked anxiously at me.

“What’s going on? Why do the police want to talk to you?” Todd hissed, keeping his voice low so Liam and Bridget wouldn’t hear. Children have superhuman hearing when it comes to picking up on any brewing parental conflict.

“I have no idea,” I said. “But Howard’s death was...odd.” An understatement, to say the least. “I’m sure they have to investigate. Make sure there wasn’t any...I don’t know, foul play.”

Foul play. It was such a melodramatic phrase, like something out of an Agatha Christie novel. Murderous vicars and little old ladies who put arsenic in the tea.

“But why do they think you’d know anything about it?”

“I’m sure they don’t.” I shrugged. “But they obviously know that Kat and I are friends.”

“I don’t think you should speak to the police without having an attorney present.”

“What? Why? I’m not a suspect,” I said.

“How do you know?”

“Because that would be insane,” I said. I shook my head. “Look, I’m sure they have to investigate, even when the death was clearly accidental. It’s certainly nothing to worry about.”

“Then why are the police at our door at eight in the morning,” Todd pointed out.

“I have no idea, but there’s no reason to overreact,” I said, turning away. “I have to go check on the kids. If I don’t pay attention, Liam eats all the toast and none of his eggs, and Bridget doesn’t eat anything at all.”

My husband grabbed my arm and spun me back toward him. He leaned forward, his face close to mine, and whispered, “What’s going on? Did Kat have something to do with Howard’s death?”

His breath was hot and smelled of coffee. I pulled my arm out of his grip and took a step back. “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course she didn’t.”

Todd wasn’t sure if he should believe me. I could tell by the way he was searching my face, looking for some trace of a lie in the way I blinked my eyes or clenched my jaw.

Like a visitor to the island of Knights and Knaves, Todd wanted to try his hand at ferreting out the liars.

I felt a stab of fear and hoped I was more convincing when I spoke to the police.

2

Jupiter Island was a long, narrow barrier island north of Palm Beach. There were only a few access points to reach it from the mainland, which I assumed was by design to ensure the privacy of its well-heeled residents. I approached it from the south, driving up US Highway 1, taking a right just past the Jupiter Lighthouse, then heading north up the island on Beach Road.

I drove past the tall condo buildings of Palm Beach County. They abruptly stopped, signaling that I’d passed into Martin County with its more stringent zoning laws. I passed through the Blowing Rocks Preserve, where the road was lined with short palm trees and bushy sea grape shrubs. Just past the preserve and tourist parking, the private houses began. Some were visible from the road, others sheltered behind gates and privacy hedges. All were large and ostentatious. The houses to the east fronted the Atlantic Ocean, while the ones to the west faced the Intracoastal Waterway. Each property had a twee white sign set by the curb, displaying the family name or the name of the house—Sand Castle or Shangri-La—or the more practical, if somewhat pointed, Service Entrance.

Kat’s house was on the left about a mile past the preserve, set back at the end of a gravel drive. I wondered if she was home, and I thought about stopping and checking on her before I went to the police station. I’d called her twice on my way over to the island, but she hadn’t picked up. This wasn’t entirely unusual. Unlike most people of the modern world, Kat had only a tenuous connection to her cell phone. She didn’t always pick up when I called, and she frequently ignored texts for hours, or even a day.

We’d spoken only once, briefly, since Howard’s death. Kat had been in London to meet with several artists whose work she was considering carrying in her gallery. She’d called me from Heathrow while she was waiting for her flight home. Kat had been subdued, which wasn’t surprising. The police had tracked her down at her hotel in London only hours earlier to notify her that Howard was dead. The housekeeper had found his body lying facedown on the back patio.

“Are you okay?” I’d asked.

“No,” she’d said. “But I will be. At least, I think I will.”

“I wish you didn’t have to be on your own right now.”

“I usually hate the flight back from Europe, but I’m sort of glad that I’ll have this time to pull myself together. There will be so much to do once I get home,” Kat said.

“Have you spoken to Amanda?” I asked. Kat’s daughter was in her first year of medical school at Emory, in Atlanta.

“I’m going to wait until I get home,” Kat explained. “She’s studying for a big test in her anatomy class. I don’t want to upset her.”

“You probably won’t be able to avoid upsetting her,” I said as gently as I could.

“I know, but I’d like to at least put off telling her until after her exam is over.” Kat sighed. “Marguerite was apparently hysterical. It must have been awful for her, finding him like that. What does it mean when the housekeeper has shed more tears for my dead husband than I have?”

“It probably means you’re in shock,” I said.

Kat’s flight had been called then, and she had to hang up. I hadn’t spoken to her since. I’d tried calling and texting her a few times, but she hadn’t responded. I knew she was probably busy planning the funeral and dealing with her relatives. Stopping by now, uninvited, at a house in mourning seemed intrusive. I drove by.

I arrived at the Jupiter Island Public Safety Department. It was located in a charming yellow building with green shutters, lush landscaping and neat hedgerows, and across the street from one of the holes of the Jupiter Island Club’s pristinely manicured golf course. I parked my ancient Volvo in a small lot just to the left of where the island’s two fire trucks were housed.

I checked my phone, but Kat still hadn’t responded. I sent her a text:

At Jupiter island police. They asked me 2 come in 4 interview about Howard. Not sure what’s going on, but will try to be helpful. Hope ur ok. xx.

I dropped my phone into my bag and climbed out of my car into the Florida sunshine. It was an unusually warm morning, and I had dressed for it in a light blue linen shirtdress and flat brown sandals. But the fabric was already starting to wilt in the heat, and perspiration beaded on my forehead. There was a flagpole in front of the building with an American flag at full mast. A light breeze caused the pulley to bang with a metallic rhythm against the pole.

As I entered the police station, a frigid blast of air-conditioning hit me. The waiting room area was small and, apart from some chairs and a table scattered with magazines, empty. Jupiter Island did not appear to be a hotbed of criminal activity.

I walked up to the middle-aged woman sitting at the reception desk. She wore a floral dress rather than a police uniform, and her glasses hung around her neck on a beaded cord. There was a small brass dish shaped like a pineapple and filled with candy on her desk.

“How can I help you, dear?” she asked.

“I’m here to see Detective Alex Demer. My name is Alice Campbell,” I said.

“Of course,” she said, smiling up at me. “He’s expecting you.”

I had deliberately not asked for Oliver. I hadn’t liked her, and I hoped she wouldn’t be there for the interview. But then I remembered the whole good cop–bad cop phenomenon. Maybe she’d been purposely rude so I’d open up to the more sympathetic Demer. Or was that just something from the movies?

The receptionist told me to take a seat, but I waited only a few minutes before Detective Demer came out to greet me, holding a paper coffee cup in one hand. His height should have made him imposing, but for some reason, he wasn’t. Perhaps it was his rumpled suit or his ugly tie, or the fact that his eyes looked tired and bloodshot. I wondered if his unkempt appearance was a result of living out of a hotel or if he always looked like this. Did he have a wife at home who did his laundry and picked up his dry cleaning? Or did he live in a bachelor pad with dirty dishes piled in the sink? I glanced at the detective’s left hand. He wasn’t wearing a wedding band.

“Mrs. Campbell, thank you for coming in,” he said, extending the hand that wasn’t holding the coffee cup.

I stood and shook his hand. “Of course.”

“Come on back. I’m working out of the conference room,” he said, nodding toward the hallway he’d just emerged from.

I followed him. The building didn’t look anything like the police stations did on urban cop movies, with the huge cement-floored rooms furnished with rows of industrial desks and perps handcuffed to chairs. Instead it looked like the office of an insurance company, with subdued furnishings and a low-pile beige carpet. We passed a few small offices, most of which were empty. Sergeant Oliver sat in one, and she looked up when we passed.

“Mrs. Campbell is here,” Demer said to her.

“I see that. I’ll be right in,” Oliver replied.

The detective led me to a small conference room and gestured for me to sit at a rectangular table with a shiny cherry finish. Sun was streaming in through two windows, and Demer adjusted the blinds so the light wouldn’t be in my eyes.

“Can I get you anything to drink?” he asked. “Coffee? Although I wouldn’t, if I were you.” He held up his Starbucks cup. “I’m not a coffee snob by any stretch, so you can imagine how bad it would have to be to get me to spend five bucks on this. We also have soda and bottled water.”

“Water would be great,” I answered.

“Sure thing. I’ll be right back.”

Demer left just as Oliver strode in. She had removed her suit jacket and rolled up the sleeves of her blue oxford button-down. Her face was bare of makeup, and the only jewelry she wore was a pair of small gold hoop earrings. She took a seat across from me, dropping a notebook on the table.

“You took your time getting here,” she said. The bad cop was officially on the scene.

I wondered if she was always this bad-tempered or if there was something about this particular case bothering her. Was it contempt for the extremely wealthy area her department policed? But if so, why choose to work here over a grittier but surely more exciting law enforcement agency, like in West Palm or even Miami? Or did her anger stem from Demer’s presence? Maybe she was angry that he had been brought in from Tallahassee to work on an investigation that she had expected to take the lead on.

I chose not to respond to her comment. Instead I looked back at her steadily, wanting to make it clear early on that I would not be bullied.

“I heard you’re some sort of a writer,” Oliver said, folding her arms over her chest.

I nodded. “I’m the author of a series of books of logic puzzles for children.”

“How’d you come up with that idea?”

“It’s my background. I was an associate professor in the mathematics department at the University of Miami.”

The sergeant’s eyebrows arched.

“But you’re not a professor now?” she asked.

“No.”

“Did you, like, get fired or something?” She gave a contemptuous snort. I knew she was purposely trying to needle me, but I didn’t know why. Either she was just an unpleasant person or she wanted to see how I’d react to her barbs.

I smiled without warmth. “I stopped teaching after my daughter was born.”

“And why was that?” Oliver leaned forward, her elbows braced on the table.

“Personal choice.” There hadn’t actually been much of a choice, but I wasn’t about to get into that now.

The door opened and Demer came in. He glanced from Oliver to me and back again.

“Everything okay in here?”

“Sergeant Oliver has been asking me about my work experience,” I said. “But I assume that’s not what you wanted to talk to me about.”

“No, it’s not,” Demer agreed. He handed me a bottle of water and sat down next to Oliver. The detective placed a folder on the table and flipped it open. “Thank you for taking time out of your schedule to come talk with us.”

“Of course. Although I’m still not sure how I can help you.”

“Why don’t you let us worry about that?” Oliver interjected.

I pressed my lips together and folded my hands in my lap. Demer’s eyes flitted in the direction of his partner. I sensed that he wasn’t on board with her interview technique. Maybe he didn’t like the good cop–bad cop dynamic any more than I did. Or maybe this was part of their act, too.

“As you know, we’re investigating the death of Howard Grant...” Demer began.

I nodded.

“As I’m sure you know, the cause of his death was unusual,” the detective continued. He glanced up at me. “I’m assuming you know how he died.”

“Yes.” I couldn’t help but shiver. “It was pretty awful.”

“How well did you know Mr. Grant?” Demer asked.

I paused, not quite sure how to answer this. I had actually spent very little time with Howard over the years. But Kat had confided so much to me about her husband and their marriage that in some ways I knew him intimately.

“I knew Howard, of course, and we would occasionally be at social events together,” I said carefully. “But Kat was the one I was friends with—is the one I’m friends with. I knew Howard only because he was married to Kat.”

“So you consider yourself and Mr. Grant to be, what—social acquaintances?” Demer asked.

I nodded. “I suppose that’s the best description.”

“Were you ever alone with him?” Demer continued.

“No.” Then I hesitated, realizing this wasn’t quite true. “I mean, there were a few times when I was at their house and Kat would leave the room for one reason or another. But we never spent any significant time alone together.”

“Would you say that Howard Grant was a heavy drinker?” the detective asked.

“Yes.”

“How would you define that? What a heavy drinker is, I mean,” he qualified.

“I’m not an expert on the subject, but from what I observed, I’d say that Howard was an alcoholic,” I told the detective. “Almost every time I saw him, he was drinking.”

“But you just said that you saw Mr. Grant only at social events,” Oliver cut in. “Times when drinking alcoholic beverages wouldn’t be unusual.”

“That’s true. But even then, he drank quite a bit more than I would consider a normal amount. And Kat and I are close. She was concerned about how much he drank.” It felt odd disclosing this confidence—Kat and I had always guarded each other’s secrets—but I didn’t see any way around it. “Wasn’t he drinking the night he died?”

“At the time of his death, Mr. Grant had a blood alcohol level of .30. Do you know what that means?” Demer folded his hands on the table and looked steadily at me.

“That sounds high.”

“It is. For a man his height and weight, he would have consumed around eleven drinks in a three-hour period. Most people would have passed out by that point.”

I nodded. “I guess that’s how he fell off the balcony.”

“But, see, that’s the thing we keep going back to. Why was he even out on his balcony? If he’d had that much to drink, so much that he should have passed out, why was he outside in the first place? Did he suddenly get the urge to go look at the stars?” Demer said.

“And more to the point, how did he fall over the railing?” Oliver chimed in.

I frowned. “You just said he was so drunk, it was surprising he was even conscious. Maybe he leaned over the railing and blacked out.”

I shifted in my seat. I might not have liked Howard, or been close to him, but I certainly didn’t enjoy conjuring up the gruesome image of him toppling off the second-story balcony of his and Kat’s lavish Mediterranean-style house. The thought of his body falling heavily to the patio below, smashing against the Italian travertine, and the ambient lights around the pool illuminating his blood as it spread outward from his broken body made me queasy.

“Have you ever leaned over a railing?” Oliver stood. “The automatic tendency would be to brace yourself like this.” She demonstrated falling forward and splayed her hands out in front of her, catching them on the table. “It would actually take some effort to go over the railing. Even if you were drunk.” She shrugged. “Especially if you were drunk, since your coordination would be impaired.”

“So, what...you think Howard jumped?” I asked, arching my eyebrows. “You think he committed suicide?”

“No.” Demer leaned forward slightly, his brown bloodshot eyes fixed on me more intensely than I was comfortable with. “We definitely don’t think Howard Grant committed suicide.”

This stark statement hung between us. I felt a frisson of fear.

“Let’s start from the beginning,” Demer said. “How long have you known Katherine Grant?”

3

Three Years Earlier

“Attention, passengers on Flight 523 to West Palm Beach. We are experiencing mechanical difficulties with the aircraft that will cause a delay in our departure time. We will update you as soon as we get additional information. Thank you for your patience.”

I closed my eyes and breathed in deeply through my nose. It was the third time a delay had been announced over the crackling airport intercom.

“How much longer are we going to be stuck here?” Liam whined.

“Forever,” Bridget moaned.

I privately agreed with my daughter that it certainly did feel like we would be stuck there forever in airport purgatory. The terminal at JFK was crowded with holiday travelers. Everyone looked grumpy as they slumped on uncomfortable seats, their luggage and possessions scattered around them. When the announcement had begun, the herd had raised their heads hopefully, ears pricking up. At the news of another delay, shoulders sagged and groans rang out all around.

“Mom, my tablet is almost out of power,” Liam said, waving the device at me for emphasis.

Like most modern mothers, I firmly believed that my children should spend less time on electronics, staring at screens, and more time in the real, nondigital world. Looking at the scenery, interacting with real people, reading actual books. I was, however, willing to abandon these scruples completely when we were in crowded airports, only halfway through our journey, with no hope of being home before—I checked my watch and stifled another groan—midnight.

“Let’s find a place to charge up.” I looked around.

Liam nodded toward a bank of high stools in front of a counter equipped with touch screens and electrical outlets. Most of the spots were occupied, but miraculously one of the screens was free.

“Hurry. Let’s grab those stools.” I moved swiftly, pulling my small wheeled suitcase behind me. The kids took longer to gather up their belongings, so by the time they joined me, I had already claimed three stools, by sitting on one and putting bags down on the other two.

“Are you, like, using all of those?” a twentysomething girl asked, her voice a contemptuous squawk. She had squinty eyes ringed with black eyeliner and long, straight hair in an odd shade of pink-streaked blond.

“Yes, I am.” I nodded toward my approaching children. “My children are sitting here.”

The girl let out an exasperated snort, rolled her eyes and turned away. I felt a surge of petty pleasure at this small victory.

Once seated, Liam and Bridget were keenly interested in the touch screen. After they each plugged in their devices, they started tapping and discovered the screens offered very slow internet access as well as the ability to order food and drinks from a nearby restaurant in the terminal.

“Hey, Mom, can we get fries?” Liam asked.

“Only if there’s something resembling dinner on the same plate,” I said. “Do they have hamburgers?”

I got out my credit card while Liam tapped at the screen. He frowned. “It’s not working.”

“Maybe you’re tapping it too much,” I said. “Give it a chance.”

“It’s really slow,” the woman sitting next to us said. “It takes forever to place your order.”

“Did you get it to work?” I asked.

“Yes, finally. And not a moment too soon,” she said as a waiter arrived, bearing a single martini on a tray.

I looked at the drink and smiled—I loved martinis, and a drink seemed like the perfect antidote for the too-bright, too-crowded airport terminal.

The woman, I noticed then, seemed incongruously glamorous to the disheveled mass of weary travelers. I guessed that she was a bit older than I was, probably in her mid to late forties. She was very thin and had shiny dark hair cut into an angled chin-length bob. I’d always coveted a sleek bob, but it was a style I’d never be able to tame my wavy hair into. Her eyes were a startling bright blue, and her face was made up of interesting, strong lines—a long nose, full lips, square jaw. Her features were too angular to be truly pretty, but she was a very striking woman.

“A vodka martini, straight up, with a twist?” the waiter asked, setting the drink in front of her.

“Perfect,” the woman said, trying to give him a five-dollar bill.

The waiter raised his hands. “All tips have to be done electronically.”

The woman crinkled her nose. “Really? I didn’t know.” She tried to hand him the bill again. “Please, take it. I didn’t add one on my total, and I already checked out.”

The waiter shrugged and turned away.

The woman looked at me with a smile. “I guess I’ll have to order another one and double the tip.”

I looked at her drink again, this time covetously. “I’m jealous. That looks delicious. I wish I could have one.”

“You can,” she said. “Just tap the martini picture on your screen once it stops freezing up. And voilà! A drink magically appears.”

“I can’t,” I said, glancing over at Liam and Bridget. The screen was cooperating with them now, and they were entertaining themselves by ordering far more food than they would eat. I would need to delete half their selections before I swiped my credit card. “I’m here with my kids.”

“I’ve been there. Traveling with children should come with hazardous duty pay,” the woman said. “Trust me, you need a martini even more than I do.”

I hesitated. A drink sounded wonderful, but I was on my own with the children. We had spent the New Year with my parents in Syracuse. Todd had begged off the trip, claiming he had too much work to do. Although when I’d spoken to him the day before, he’d sounded deeply hungover from whatever party he’d been to on New Year’s Eve. It was not the first or the last time I would wonder how unfairly the parental burden fell. Men could get away with bacchanalian nights out, while their wives usually couldn’t unless it was preplanned under the pink polka-dotted banner of a Girls’ Night Out. In any event, on New Year’s Eve, my straitlaced academic parents had gone to bed early, as was their custom. I’d spent the night watching the ball drop at Times Square on television while my children—who’d insisted they were old enough to stay awake—slumbered heavily on the couch.

I decided this woman was right. I did deserve a martini.

Besides, Liam and Bridget were old enough that I didn’t have to monitor them like toddlers. And once we reached the airport in Florida, Todd would be there to drive us home.

“Are you on the flight to West Palm?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said. “If there ever is a flight to West Palm, that is. I’m starting to worry that we’ll be stuck here all night.”

“I’m on the same flight. And we’re not going anywhere anytime soon. Here, let me order you a drink,” she offered.

“No,” I demurred. “I can order one through my screen.”

“I don’t know, Mom,” Liam said dubiously. “It’s freezing up again.”

“I insist,” the woman said. “And you’d be doing me a favor, because now I can tip the waiter. How do you like your martini?”

“You really don’t have to buy me a drink,” I protested weakly.

She smiled, displaying two rows of very straight, very white teeth. “If you don’t tell me, I’ll have to guess, and I’ll probably get it wrong. That would be a tragedy.”

I laughed. “I like my vodka martinis straight up and very dirty,” I said.

She began tapping at her touch screen. It seemed to be working better than the one my children were using.

“Done and done,” she said.

“That’s very kind,” I said. “Thank you.”

“I’m Kat.” She extended a hand.

I shook it. “Alice.”

“Do you live in West Palm?”

“Close. I live in Jupiter.”

“Me, too!” Kat exclaimed. “Small world.”

“We’re practically neighbors,” I said.

Later I learned that Kat actually lived on Jupiter Island, which boasted the highest per capita income and highest median home sale price anywhere in the country. Higher than Manhattan. Higher than Marin County. It was where mega-rich sports stars lived. We weren’t anywhere close to being neighbors.

“And these are your children?” Kat inquired.

I introduced Liam and Bridget, who were, thankfully, very polite. Bridget even remembered to extend a hand, which Kat shook solemnly. Then there was a flurry of activity as the touch screen finally started working properly. I was able to edit the children’s dinner orders and swipe my credit card. By the time I turned my attention back to Kat, the waiter had appeared with my martini. He held out the tray and, with a flourish, neatly set the martini in front of Kat. She slid it over to me.

“Thank you,” I said to the waiter. Turning to Kat, I said, “And thank you.”

“Cheers,” Kat said, raising her glass to mine.

I took a sip of my drink. It was delicious and cold. A blue cheese–stuffed olive speared through the middle with a bamboo pick bobbed inside. I fished the olive out and bit into it.

“How long have you lived in Jupiter?” Kat asked.

“Eight years,” I said. I nodded at Bridget. “We moved there from Miami when my daughter was a baby.”

“Miami to Jupiter. That’s a big change.”

“It was. But a good change. I wanted to take some time off work while my children were little. And then my husband got an excellent offer to join an architectural firm in West Palm, so it all seemed, well, serendipitous.”

This was the Facebook version of our life, the one we liked to put on display, in which we appeared smart and in control of our lives. It left out the grittier details, like the real reason I’d left my job. And how every time I thought about the career I had left behind—probably so far behind by now I would never be able to get back to it—the pain of failure still cut deeply. That although it was true Todd had gotten a decent job offer from S+K Architects in downtown West Palm Beach, the job was not all he’d initially hoped it would be. Eight years later, he still hadn’t made partner or even received the large bonuses they’d hinted at when they hired him. The Florida real estate market had rebounded somewhat since the 2008 crash, but it had never gotten back to where it was in the early 2000s. Anyway, the partners at S+K had an inflated sense of the sort of projects their firm attracted. Most of their work was residential, with a few small but decent office building contracts. No one was hiring them to design the airports or shopping malls or museums Todd had once dreamed of. We had reached our late thirties with our marriage and family intact, but with most of the hopes and dreams of our younger selves in tatters. Life had not turned out as either of us had expected.

But this was not a conversation one had with a stranger in an airport.

“What are you taking time off from?” Kat asked, looking at me intently over the rim of her martini glass.

“I was an associate professor at the University of Miami,” I said. “I taught in the math department there.”

“Wow,” Kat said, looking impressed. I could feel my cheeks growing hot. “What did you teach?”

“Logic.”

“You mean like Mr. Spock?” Kat asked.

I smiled. “Not exactly, although he always was my favorite Star Trek character. I taught systemic reasoning.” Kat’s eyebrows knit together, and I knew she wanted an example. “Problems like...all humans are mortal. Kat is a human.” I gestured toward her with a wave of the hand. “Therefore Kat is mortal.”

Kat wrinkled her nose. “I don’t think I like that problem.”

“Sorry,” I said.

“I’m just kidding,” Kat said. “I think it’s fascinating. So these days you’re, what—illogical?”

I laughed. “Pretty much. That’s what being a stay-at-home mother feels like a lot of the time. But, no, actually I’m writing a book of logic puzzles for kids.” I surprised myself by telling her this. Hardly anyone knew about my little project, as I thought of it. I looked at it much like not telling anyone you’re pregnant until you get past the risky first trimester. I didn’t want everyone asking me about it if I failed to finish or publish the book. So why had I told Kat? Was I trying to show off?

Kat looked impressed. “Good for you.”

“What do you do?” I asked. I had already clocked her Louis Vuitton carry-on, her navy cashmere sweater, the diamond studs sparkling in her ears that I suspected were not cubic zirconia, like the pair I was wearing. If she was a stay-at-home mom, it was on a different level than the one I lived on. “You said you have kids?”

“Kid. One daughter, but she’s all grown up now. She’s premed at Vanderbilt. She obviously didn’t take after me, since I faint at the sight of blood.” Kat smiled. “I have an art gallery, which is probably about as far away from medicine as you can get.”

“Wow,” I said, intrigued. “What kind of art do you sell?”

“Mostly modern and contemporary, although my real passion is sculpture,” Kat said. “That’s why I came up to New York after Christmas. To tour some galleries, follow a few leads. Nothing panned out, but what are you going to do? How about you? Were you staying in the city?”

“No, we were in Syracuse, visiting family,” I said.

“You’re smarter than me. I don’t know what I was thinking going to Manhattan on New Year’s.” Kat rolled her eyes. “The crowds were insane. I finally gave up and spent the last two days holed up in my hotel room, eating room service and watching reality TV, which I really don’t get at all. Why does anyone find watching grown women wearing far too much makeup, going to awkward social events and throwing temper tantrums entertaining? It’s so bizarre. And why would anyone want to have someone following her around, filming her? That would be my worst nightmare.”

Her trip sounded incredibly glamorous to me. The idea of having two days to myself to luxuriate in a posh hotel, ordering room service and watching mindless television shows sounded like sheer decadence. I couldn’t remember the last time I had traveled without my husband or children.

“Total nightmare,” I agreed.

“Anyway—” Kat sighed and took a large sip of her drink “—New Year’s Eve is my least favorite holiday. I much prefer the cozy ones like Thanksgiving and Christmas, when you can curl up and relax at home all day.”

“Me, too,” I said, although I wasn’t sure about the relaxing part. Every year, the weeks that stretched from mid-October to late December devolved into a marathon of shopping, cooking, baking, sewing costumes and wrapping endless piles of presents, all while having to attend a never-ending series of school performances and holiday parties for every extracurricular activity the children were involved in.

There was another pause in our conversation as my children’s food arrived. A hamburger and fries for Liam, fried chicken tenders and fries for Bridget. Not a vegetable in sight. But then, my view on airport food was much like my view on airport electronics: anything goes. I took a moment to open Liam’s ketchup packs and cut Bridget’s chicken up with the dull plastic knife provided. By the time they were settled in, munching happily, and I turned back to Kat, she was grinning at me.

“What?” I asked.

“I just ordered us another round,” she said, tapping a short manicured nail against her martini glass.

“You didn’t!”

She giggled, and her girlishness surprised me. I almost demurred. My head was already starting to swirl from the first drink. But then I felt an uncharacteristic rush of recklessness. Why shouldn’t I have another cocktail? My children were safe and accounted for. I wasn’t driving.

“If we’re going to have another round, let me get it,” I said, digging out my wallet.

Kat waved me away. “Too late. Besides, you’re doing me a favor. I was bored to tears sitting here by myself before you came along.”

Over our second round of drinks, which I was careful to sip much more slowly, Kat and I got to know one another. She grew up in Palm Beach, and her parents and brother still lived there. She had studied art history at Tulane, and after graduation, she had landed a plum job with the Hirshhorn Museum at the Smithsonian in Washington, DC. She had worked there for two years before returning home to Florida to open her small art gallery near Worth Avenue in Palm Beach. She’d met her husband, Howard—who, she said with a dismissive wave of her hand, did “something in finance”—when he came into the gallery looking for a painting.

“He didn’t have any interest in art. He just had blank walls in his condo and was looking for investment pieces to hang there,” Kat explained.

“Did he end up buying one from you?”

“Yes, but at that point, he was more interested in trying to impress me than he was in the art.” Kat smiled, again displaying her straight white teeth. “It didn’t work, of course. But he eventually wore me down.”

“How long have you been married?”

“Eighteen wonderful years,” Kat answered, holding up her martini glass. “Or more like two wonderful years and sixteen mediocre ones. Oh, well. How about you?”

I thought Kat was probably kidding, since her tone was light, and I could already tell she had a sardonic sense of humor. But I had the feeling there was some truth hidden inside the joke.

I told her that I’d grown up in Syracuse and gone to the university there and then Cornell for graduate school. After I graduated, I accepted a job as an assistant professor at the University of Miami. Unlike Kat, I didn’t have a cute story about how I’d met my husband. Todd certainly didn’t woo me by buying expensive artwork, or whatever the equivalent would be in my line of work. Instead I’d met him at a rather pedestrian birthday party for one of my work colleagues. We chatted over plastic cups of boxed red wine and paper plates of previously frozen lasagna. A week later, Todd called and asked me out. On our first date, we went to the movies.

“Sometimes I wonder if the concept of marriage to one person for the rest of your life is unrealistic,” Kat mused.

I glanced at my children. They were both immersed in their electronic handheld games and weren’t paying any attention to us.

“I know what you mean,” I said, making sure to keep my voice low. “Everyone always says that marriage is something you have to work at. But I don’t think it’s possible to grasp what that means until you’ve been married for a while. The constant grind of it.”

“On my wedding day, my mother told me the secret to a happy marriage is to develop a blind eye and a forgiving heart,” Kat said. She rolled her eyes dramatically. “As you can probably imagine, that gave me all sorts of unwanted insights into my parents’ marriage.”

“She told you that on your wedding day?” I laughed. “I’m surprised you went through with it.”

“I know, but I really liked my dress,” Kat confessed. “I thought it was fabulous. It had this high neck and huge puffy sleeves.” She demonstrated by drawing circles in the air away from her arm. “Looking back, it was hideous, of course.”

“We are ready to begin boarding Flight 523 to West Palm Beach,” a female voice announced over the loudspeaker. A cheer went up from the ragged horde of travelers waiting by the gate. “We would like to invite our first-class passengers to board now.”

“That’s me,” Kat said, hopping off her stool and shouldering an expensive-looking orange leather handbag along with her designer carry-on. She was shorter than I had expected, even in high-heeled boots. Kat looked at me expectantly. “Are you coming?”

I laughed. “Oh, no. We’re not in first class. The Campbell family always flies steerage.”

“What a bummer,” Kat exclaimed. “I was hoping we’d be sitting near each other. It’s been fun talking to you.”

“You, too,” I said, feeling incredibly flattered by her warm words. “Bye.”

Kat strode off, seemingly unaffected by the alcohol. The two martinis had made me light-headed, and I fumbled with our bags as I got the children organized to board. When we walked onto the plane, Kat was comfortably ensconced in her plush first-class seat, studying a magazine. She didn’t look up as we passed by.

* * *

I probably would never have seen Kat again if not for a mishap at baggage claim when we reached Palm Beach International Airport.

Todd met us at the security checkpoint, kissed me hello and hugged Liam and Bridget. The family Campbell made our way to the baggage carousel just as it ground into motion and began spitting out suitcases. I noticed Kat on the other side of the carousel, standing alone while she waited for her bag. I wondered why her husband hadn’t met her but shrugged it off. Maybe he was out of town, or she had a car waiting to pick her up. Either way, it really wasn’t any of my business.

I watched as Kat grabbed her suitcase off the conveyor belt, snapped the pull handle up and turned to stride off in what I was already recognizing as her signature walk—a little faster than necessary, as though it perplexed her that everyone else was moving so slowly. Then I saw something fall out of her shoulder bag. Kat didn’t notice it.

“Kat,” I called after her, but she didn’t hear me. I turned to Todd. “I’ll be right back.”

Before my husband could respond, I darted forward and around the conveyor belt before anyone saw the dropped item. It was a wallet, made of leather and stamped with the same Hermes brand as her handbag. It probably cost more money than Todd and I currently had in our checking account. I bent down to pick it up just as a man—white-haired, potbellied and grunting with the effort—was moving toward it.

“It’s my friend’s,” I explained. “She dropped it.”

The man gaped at me, but I was already turning away to hurry after Kat. I reached her just as she got to the sliding glass exit doors.

“Kat!” I said. “Wait! You dropped your wallet.”

Kat turned, her eyes wide with surprise. I held up the Hermes wallet.

“Oh, no!” Kat exclaimed, taking it from me and pressing it to her chest. “I can’t believe I did that! Can you imagine what a disaster it would have been if I lost my wallet? All of my cards are in here. And my license. I can’t believe I was that stupid. Thank you so much, Alice.”

“It’s no problem. I’m just glad I saw it before someone else grabbed it.”

“I am, too! I can’t thank you enough.”

I waved her apology away and smiled. “It was nice meeting you earlier,” I said, and just as I was about to turn away and head back to my waiting family, Kat rested a hand on my arm to stop me.

“Let me take you to lunch,” Kat said. “So I can properly show my appreciation.”

“You really don’t have to do that. It wasn’t a big deal at all.”

“It is to me. Besides, I liked talking with you, too. It would be fun to get together again.” When Kat smiled, the angles of her face softened, and she looked suddenly younger and prettier.

“Okay,” I said impulsively. “I’d love to.”

We made vague plans to have lunch the following week and exchanged phone numbers. Kat squeezed my arm. “I’m looking forward to it.”

Todd and the children had retrieved our suitcases and were waiting for me back at the luggage carousel.

“Who was that?” Todd asked.

“Just a woman I met while we were delayed at JFK,” I said. “We might get together for lunch or something.”

“Aw, look at you. You made a friend,” Todd teased me.

I gave him a whack on the arm. “Come on, let’s get home. We’re exhausted.”

4

Three Years Earlier

The K-Gallery was located on Highway A1A on the island of Palm Beach, not far from Worth Avenue. It occupied the ground floor of a five-story building that was painted peach with elaborate white cornices. I probably would have missed it if the GPS in my car hadn’t insisted that I had arrived at the correct address. The only signage was a simple brass plate next to the door.

Feeling a little nervous in a way that strangely reminded me of being the new kid at school on the first day of classes, I opened the large glass-paned door, setting off a chime as I entered. K-Gallery had white walls and a dark hardwood floor. It was spacious and airy. Small sculptures of twisted metal wire were displayed on white pedestals. A series of large abstract canvases hung on the walls, painted in moody blues and stormy grays. They reminded me of the finger paintings my children had made when they were little, although I thought I probably shouldn’t mention that to Kat.

“Alice!” Kat called, sweeping into the room. She gave me a quick hug, which I returned. “I’m so glad we were able to get together.”

“I am, too.” I had been surprised but pleased when she called me a week after our flight back to West Palm Beach and invited me to lunch.

Kat was wearing an immaculate sleeveless white shift dress and black heeled sandals. I was glad I had opted to dress up for our lunch, wearing a cotton sweater and skirt I’d bought on clearance at J.Crew, instead of my usual uniform that consisted of a T-shirt and yoga pants.

Kat noticed that I was admiring the wire sculptures. “Aren’t they exquisite? They were done by an artist in Miami who welds in a storage locker with no air-conditioning, if you can believe it. I think he’s going to be the next big thing.”

“The paintings are incredible, too.”

“You think?” Kat tipped her head to one side, regarding the closest one, which featured wild swirls of olive green paint. “They’re by an English artist named Crispin Murray. He’s quite successful, and they sell wonderfully. But I have to admit, his paintings always remind me of the ones my daughter brought home when she was in preschool.”

I laughed. “I actually thought the exact same thing but was afraid it would sound gauche if I admitted as much. Especially since I don’t know anything about modern art.”

“Not at all! I can’t stand it when people get pompous about art, as though there’s only one valid opinion. Art is supposed to elicit a reaction from you. Or at least, good art is. And your reaction is as valid as anyone else’s.” Kat waved a hand. “Enough with the art talk. Let’s go eat. I’m starving.”

* * *

Kat suggested we eat at Renato’s, an Italian bistro on Worth Avenue. It was a glorious day, cool and sunny, so we decided to walk to the restaurant.

Even though Palm Beach was only a short drive from Jupiter, I hadn’t spent much time on the tony island. As we strolled down the sidewalk, I was struck by how picturesque it was, from the neat rows of royal palms to the luxury stores housed in Mediterranean-style buildings to the Rolls-Royces and Aston Martins parked on the street. My earlier nerves dissipated, replaced by a frothy, bubbling sense of well-being. Here there were no dishes to wash, no homework assignments to check over, no piles of laundry to fold. Only a delicious lunch to look forward to and, possibly, a new friendship.

We decided to sit in the elegant outdoor courtyard, which was filled with round tables dressed in starched white linens and surrounded by flowering bougainvillea. Our waiter, who was young and handsome with a slight build, beamed at Kat as he handed her a menu.

“Welcome back, Mrs. Grant.” He spoke with a slight Italian accent. “It’s nice to see you again.”

“You know I can’t stay away,” Kat said, returning his smile. “I’m craving the risotto.”

The waiter rolled his eyes upward. “It is sublime, no? Shall I bring you the wine list?”

Kat looked at me and asked mischievously, “What do you think? Should we?”

I almost never drank wine at lunch, other than the occasional indulgence on vacation. But I was suddenly feeling festive.

“Why not?” I said.

Kat ordered a bottle of something white and imported, and the waiter swiftly returned with the bottle in hand. After he went through the presentation of uncorking it, offering Kat a taste and filling our glasses, he set the bottle in a silver bucket of ice. Kat raised her glass to me.

“Cheers,” she said. “To new friendships.”

We clinked our glasses together. The wine was cold and crisp and delicious.

“Your gallery is beautiful,” I said.

“Thank you,” Kat said. I would later learn that Kat always accepted compliments with a simple thank-you. She did not brush them off with the self-deprecating remarks many women, including myself, fell back on. Kat was not an especially vain woman, but she was perfectly willing to accept compliments on her appearance, her taste, her home, as nothing more than an obvious truth.

“How long has your gallery been open?” I asked.

“It’s hard to believe, but nearly twenty years. I opened it when I was pregnant with Amanda, and she turned nineteen in November,” Kat said.

“I thought you said you met your husband at your gallery.” I immediately regretted this intrusive remark. The details of when she’d met her husband and when she’d given birth to her daughter were none of my business.

But Kat didn’t seem put out. She just smiled and said, “You have a good memory. Yes, I met Howard after Amanda was born.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”

“You didn’t. It’s not a secret. Well, it’s not a secret that Howard isn’t Amanda’s biological father. The truth is—” Kat leaned forward and dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper “—when I was living in DC, I had an affair with a married man. A politician, if you can believe it. I know, it was reckless. But I was young and selfish, and foolish enough to believe that my feelings were more important than his family.” She shook her head. “Looking back, I want to slap my younger self for being such a brat.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” I said. “Everyone makes bad choices when they’re young.”

“Yes,” Kat agreed. “But trust me, I deserve to be hard on myself. I did my best to convince him to leave his perfectly nice and blameless wife and their two young children. All because I was in love.”

“He was the one who was breaking his vows,” I said. “So he was more at fault than you were.”

I wasn’t sure why I was arguing the point. Of course, Kat was right. What she had done was selfish and destructive. But at the same time, twenty years of self-flagellation seemed a heavy price to pay. I’d also noticed that she hadn’t named her daughter’s father. I wondered if he was someone I would’ve known from the news.

“I’m sure you won’t be surprised to learn he didn’t turn out to be a good guy in the end,” Kat said. “When I told him I was pregnant, he ended the relationship. Actually, first he tried to talk me into having an abortion, and then, after I refused, he said he never wanted to see me again.”

“Wasn’t he worried you’d bring a paternity suit against him?”

“No.” Kat shook her dark, glossy head. “He knew I’d never do that. Anyway, I decided it was time to leave DC and headed home to Florida. My mother was horrified, of course—she’s easily horrified—but my father was more pragmatic. He said if I was going to be a single mother, I needed to have a business to support us, so he encouraged me to open K-Gallery.”

“Had you always wanted to open an art gallery?” I asked.

“Not really. Before I got pregnant, I was working at the Smithsonian and thought that if things didn’t work out with the married man, I would probably move to London or Paris, where I’d work as a curator for one of the great museums.” Kat rolled her eyes. “I’m sure whatever I imagined that life to be like was something out of a movie and not in any way rooted in reality. Romantic dinners at a Paris café, cocktails at the glamorous hotel bars, love affairs with handsome foreigners. I certainly wasn’t calculating in the long hours, toiling away in an office to build the sort of career I imagined myself having. It’s not like they hire twentysomethings to buy Renoirs or organize Rodin exhibits. And the simple truth is that I wasn’t ambitious or driven to succeed in that sort of world. There are too many hungrier candidates for those positions out there. So in the end, having my own gallery has suited me very well. I can exhibit art that interests me and close early for the day when I feel like it. And, of course, I had Amanda. The affair was a bad choice, obviously, but having her was not.”

I listened to Kat’s story with interest. I was impressed that she was self-aware enough to recognize and accept her limitations. But it was also true that unlike most of those hungrier would-be art curators, Kat had enough money to open her own art gallery in Palm Beach.

Our conversation was interrupted by the return of the handsome waiter, eager to take our order. Kat ordered the lobster risotto. I chose a decadent-sounding dish of fettuccine with grilled chicken in a light cream sauce. The waiter effusively praised our choices and hurried away.

“Amanda was just a few months old when I met Howard. So he’s the only father she’s ever known,” Kat said. She paused to take a sip of her wine. “Actually, Amanda is probably what brought us together. Howard was definitely not my type. But between having a baby and getting the gallery up and running, I was so overwhelmed. Hormonal, too, I suppose, and still nursing a broken heart. And Howard was just so—”

She stopped abruptly, searching to find the right word. I expected her to say something like kind or supportive or nurturing.

But instead she said, “Forceful.”

“Forceful,” I repeated. It did not seem, to me at least, to be a foundation for romance. Sexual excitement, perhaps, but that usually wasn’t enough of a basis for eighteen years of marriage. At least, I didn’t think it was.

“Yes. Howard’s primary motivation in every aspect of his life is to get what he wants when he wants it. He’s unapologetic about it.” Kat lifted her wineglass to her lips again. “And at that time, I was just so tired. Tired of making the decisions, tired of being in charge of everything, tired of my mother’s endless badgering that I needed to get married for Amanda’s sake. Not that Howard was ever all that interested in being a father.” Kat laughed. “But he was more than happy to step in and straighten out my life. Suddenly I was hiring an assistant for the gallery and a full-time nanny for the baby and then, somehow, planning a wedding. I think if I had ever stopped to catch my breath and really thought about what I was doing, I would never have gone through with it.”

“Which part?”

“The part where I married a man I wasn’t in love with,” Kat said. She lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “But I did. And here I still am eighteen years later.”

“Why are you still married?” Then, realizing that I might again be dangerously close to crossing a too-personal line, I raised a hand. “I’m sorry. That was intrusive. You don’t have to answer.”

“No, it’s fine. I just don’t have a good answer. A divorce would be messy and expensive...”

“And you had your daughter to think of,” I offered.

“Actually, I’m not sure how much our divorcing would bother Amanda. She and Howard have never been close. I’ve often wondered if that’s because she wasn’t his, at least not biologically,” Kat said.

“Did Howard adopt her?”

Kat nodded. “When Amanda was twelve. I thought it might bring them closer together, but...” She trailed off and shrugged. “It didn’t work out that way. I think Howard always resented the time and attention I gave to Amanda. And Amanda’s a smart girl. I’m sure she sensed it.”

I couldn’t imagine happily living with a man who resented my children. Todd might’ve had his failings, but he adored our Liam and Bridget as much as I did.

“Anyway, it’s not like I have any interest in joining the local singles scene. Online dating and all that,” Kat continued. She gave an exaggerated shudder. “It’s always seemed easier to keep the status quo. Anyway, that’s enough about me.” She smiled. “What about you?”

“I don’t have any plans to get divorced in the foreseeable future, either,” I said lightly.

“I meant your career. You said you used to teach at the University of Miami, right?” Kat said. “Logic, but not the Mr. Spock kind.”

I laughed, flattered that she’d remembered. “That’s right.”

“Why did you give it up?”

I hesitated. It wasn’t that I wanted to conceal the truth from Kat, especially when she had just been so forthcoming with me. But sharing my past would cast a pall on what had been until now such a lovely day.

Kat seemed to sense my discomfort. “Am I being intrusive?” she asked, borrowing my earlier line.

“No, not at all.” I took a deep breath. It was never a good idea to start any relationship with lies. “It’s just... It’s a sad story. My daughter Bridget had a twin sister. They were both born prematurely. Bridget was fine—is fine—but my other daughter...she didn’t make it.”

I had told this story dozens of times over the past eight years. It had gotten easier in some ways. The dark, suffocating grief that had crippled me in the days and weeks following my daughter’s death had eventually receded. I could now talk about my lost baby without instantly dissolving into tears. But the heavy weight of her absence in the world was still there. In a way, I treasured this. If I ever stopped missing her, it would mean that my daughter, the one who left the world before she could ever make her mark on it, would be forgotten forever.

Usually when I did tell people about her death, this was the point when they would lean forward, face creased with horrified sympathy. They would pat my arm and tell me how sorry they were, how much it must comfort me that Bridget survived. This was true, of course. I was lucky in many ways—I had two healthy children, and that was something no parent should ever take for granted. But it was also true that no bereaved parent ever wanted to hear that her living children made up for a dead one. It didn’t work that way.

But here again, Kat surprised me. “What was her name?”

“Meghan.” My voice cracked a bit. I cleared my throat. “Her name was Meghan.”

“Meghan,” Kat repeated. “That’s a beautiful name. Were she and Bridget identical twins?”

I nodded. “We were so surprised when they did the ultrasound.”

“Do you know what caused you to deliver early?”

“Placental abruption, although my doctors didn’t know what caused it. Everything was fine, all my checkups were great...and then suddenly everything wasn’t fine, and I was in labor two months ahead of schedule. But even then, even after the delivery, both babies were doing well at first. They were small, of course, and we knew they’d have to spend some time in the NICU. But the doctors kept reassuring us that they were doing well, that they’d be able to come home soon, so I wasn’t worried.”

I stopped and took a sip of wine to steady myself. That lack of worry, that blind trust in the doctors’ feckless pronouncements, still haunted me on the nights when I lay awake. Kat was silent, still looking at me, her focus absolute.

I continued. “Then Meghan had a brain hemorrhage. And she just...died.”

My mouth was suddenly unbearably dry. I reached for my water glass and took a large gulp from it. I could feel the pricks of unshed tears gathering in my eyes. I willed them away. If there was one thing Meghan’s death had taught me, it was that crying didn’t fix anything. It certainly didn’t bring back the person who was gone forever.

“That,” Kat said, “is a fucking nightmare.”

The unexpected profanity made me laugh and then choke slightly on the water. I dabbed at my mouth with my napkin.

“Are you okay?” Kat exclaimed, reaching a hand out.

I waved her off. “No, you’re right. It was a fucking nightmare.”

Kat relaxed back in her seat. “I’ll say. You were not only experiencing one of the worst things that can happen to any mother but also taking care of a newborn.” Kat shook her head and drained the rest of her wine. She reached for the bottle and poured each of us another large glass. “I’m so sorry you had to go through that. No wonder you left your job. It would have been too much for anyone to cope with. I can’t even imagine. I think I’d have a hard time just getting out of bed in the morning.”

“Oh, I struggled. That’s the thing about grief. It’s just...suffocating. Like you’re being buried alive. And even the easiest tasks, like showering or eating or even brushing your teeth, suddenly seem insurmountable.” Then I shook my head and smiled regretfully at Kat. “I’m sorry. This isn’t a very cheerful topic of conversation. I’m putting a damper on our lunch.”

“No, you’re not, not one bit. I asked you a question and you answered it honestly. Frankly, it’s refreshing to talk to someone who doesn’t feel the need to bullshit her way through life.” Kat patted my hand. “I’m glad I called you. I’m usually terrible about following through on things. But I have a feeling that you and I are going to be good friends.”

She raised her glass, and I clinked mine against hers.

“To new friendships,” I toasted.

* * *

“I am home and I have pizza,” I called out, using my foot to push open the back door that led into our house from the garage. My hands were filled with a grease-stained pizza box. Half cheese, half sausage and onion, with a side order of garlic knots.

“Mom’s home!” Liam hollered, not looking up from the Xbox game he was absorbed in.

“No, don’t get up,” I told him. “You don’t have to eat any pizza. There’ll be more for the rest of us.”

Liam rolled his eyes but grinned. He hopped up, gave me a quick hug and headed toward the kitchen. Bridget was there, sitting at the kitchen table, frowning down at her homework.

“Hi, honey,” I said, trying to remember if I’d even had homework in elementary school. I didn’t think so. Some in middle school. Both of my children came home from school every day with their backpacks full to bursting. “What are you working on?”

“Science,” she said moodily. “And it’s really hard.”

“Where’s Dad?”

“Right here,” Todd said, coming into the kitchen. He kissed me on the cheek and plucked the pizza box out of my hands. “We’re all starving.”

“Sorry I’m late,” I said. “Thanks for picking the kids up from school.”

Once I’d realized that lunch was extending into the late afternoon, I’d texted Todd from the restaurant and asked him to handle the school run. It meant that both kids had to wait in aftercare until Todd arrived.

“I hate staying late at school,” Bridget complained. “Where were you, anyway?”

“I was having lunch with a friend.”

“You’ve been at lunch all this time?” Liam asked. “It’s dark out!”

“After lunch, we went shopping, and then we had coffee.” I shrugged. “We started chatting and lost track of time.”

“Stop giving your mom a hard time,” Todd said. “She gets to have a day off every now and then.”

I smiled at my husband, feeling a surge of affection for him. “It was nice to do something out of the ordinary.”

“Lunch in Palm Beach compares favorably to laundry and the school run?” Todd teased.

I laughed. “Surprisingly, yes, it does.”

Todd grabbed plates and napkins while I poured glasses of water for everyone. Once we were seated at the table, I got reports from the children on their days. Liam shrugged and said his was okay, which was pretty much what he said every day, and then returned his attention to stuffing pizza in his mouth. Bridget launched into a very long story involving hurt feelings and drama over a game of four square played by her classmates that, in the end, had nothing to do with her at all, because she was on the opposite side of the playground when it happened.

“But if you weren’t participating in the game, why do you care that Annalise got so upset?” I asked. “I thought you didn’t even like Annalise.”

“I don’t like her. That’s the whole point,” Bridget said hotly.

I looked at Todd to see if he had any insight into these third-grade dramatics, but he just shrugged and shook his head. After dinner, the children cleared the plates and headed off to their nightly bedtime routines. Todd got a beer from the fridge.

“You had a nice time today?” he asked, sitting back down at the kitchen table.

I poured myself a glass of red wine and joined him.

“Yes, I did. Kat’s great. I’m glad she called me.”

“What’s she like?”

“She’s smart and funny and really has her act together. She owns the most beautiful modern art gallery.”

“You’re smart and funny,” Todd said loyally.

I smiled and put my hand on his arm. “It was nice having someone different to talk to. Almost everyone I know here I’ve met through the kids in one way or another. Moms from school, women from the playgroups the kids were in when they were little. Don’t get me wrong, they’re nice ladies. Or at least, most of them are. But every time I get together with any of them, the conversation revolves around the children. What the moms are doing at the PTA. Whom they’re friends with, whatever the latest drama is at school. It just gets so tedious.”

Todd’s eyebrows arched, but he didn’t speak.

“Don’t judge,” I said. I loved being a mother, but there were so many aspects of it, especially when my children were little, that I found mind-numbing. Singing the same cloying songs every week in the Mommy & Me class. Sitting on the cold tile floor during bath time. The hours spent at playgrounds being commanded over and over to “Watch me! Watch me!”

Having children was a wonderful, miraculous, soulful experience. Just not each and every moment of it. I found motherhood easier to cope with now that Liam and Bridget were older and more independent.

“It was nice to talk to someone about other things. About art and work and life,” I said.

Todd nodded and took a sip of his beer. “Does Kat have children?”

“Yes, a daughter, but she’s in college.”

“Kat’s older than you, then?”

“A bit, although she did say she had her daughter when she was young,” I explained. “I think she’s in her mid to late forties.”

“Do you think you’ll get together with her again?”

I rolled my wineglass in my fingers, the way I’d once been taught at a wine-tasting class, and watched the bloodred liquid stream down the inside of the glass.

“Yes,” I said. “I think I will.”

5

Present Day

“I’m curious about something,” Sergeant Oliver said. “Why did you think Howard Grant was suicidal? I thought you said you weren’t close.”

“We weren’t. And I never told you I thought he was suicidal. I thought that’s what Detective Demer was suggesting.”

“I don’t think he suggested that at all,” Oliver said, fixing her eyes on me. They were dark and flat, like a shark. I wondered again why she was being so hostile. Had she met Kat, not liked her and extended her dislike to me? Kat could be charming and funny, but I had also seen her turn suddenly cold and imperious, especially when she was challenged. It was not hard to imagine Oliver affecting her that way.

“I have a question,” I said. Oliver just stared at me, but Demer nodded, so I addressed him. “You said you were brought in from Tallahassee. Why was that?”

Demer glanced at Oliver. “It’s not uncommon for a small police department not to have any detectives on staff. Sometimes when there is a situation that requires a more in-depth investigation, they’ll request a detective on loan.”

“So, I’m not sure how this works. Are you and Oliver partners in this investigation?” I asked. “Or are you in charge, and she’s reporting to you?”

I knew instantly from the sour expression on Oliver’s face that they were not, in fact, partners. Demer was the lead, Oliver his unhappy subordinate.

“I’m taking point on the investigation for the time being,” Demer said mildly. “Let’s go back to your friendship with Katherine Grant. How long have you known each other?”

“Three years.”

“And you’re close friends?”

“Yes,” I said. “Very close.”

“How would you describe Katherine Grant?” Demer asked.

It was odd hearing Kat constantly referred to by her full name. She had always been Kat to me.

“How would I describe Kat?” I repeated. How did you distill someone you loved down to a few words? “She’s funny. Smart. Thoughtful. Loyal. Generous... Solid.”

Solid? Was that really Kat? I wasn’t so sure. Kat was more like quicksilver, shimmering and changing. You’d think you knew her, were sure you could predict absolutely what she’d do, and she’d still somehow find a way to surprise you. Oh, well, I had already said it. I couldn’t exactly take it back now, could I?

Oliver didn’t actually roll her eyes at my description, but I think it took all her willpower to avoid doing so. I sensed that she was not the sort of woman who’d ever had a best friend. Certainly not the kind of best friend who rubbed her pricked finger against yours to become your blood sister. I actually could relate. I had never been that sort of a woman before, either.

“Would you say that Howard and Katherine Grant had a happy marriage?” Demer asked.

I hesitated. The truthful answer would be no, they certainly did not. But I also didn’t see any benefit in telling the police that.

“I don’t think anyone on the outside ever truly knows what goes on inside a marriage,” I said carefully.

Demer smiled patiently. “No, probably not. I’m just asking for any impressions you might have formed from being around them.”

“That’s just it. Whenever I saw the two of them together, well, I was there, wasn’t I? Most married people behave differently when there are other people around. I know my husband and I do.”

It was a nonanswer, but if it frustrated Demer, he hid it well. Oliver, on the other hand, looked like she wanted to slap me.

“Fair enough,” Demer said. “Did Katherine ever complain about her husband?”

“Kat,” I corrected him.

“Excuse me?”

“She goes by Kat, not Katherine.”

“Okay. Kat, then. So, did she?”

“Complain about her husband?” I repeated. He nodded. “Sure, from time to time. I hate to break it to you, Detective, but most women complain about their husbands to their friends.”

The wonderful thing about this statement was that it had the benefit of being the absolute truth.

“Let’s get back to Howard Grant,” Demer said.

My patience was starting to fray. “I’ve already told you, I wasn’t close with Howard. I was friends with Kat. I suggest you talk to her if you want to know about her husband.”

“Oh, we’ve already talked to Katherine Grant,” Oliver inserted.

Something about this bald statement caused a flicker of concern at the edges of my consciousness. I wasn’t sure what exactly about it bothered me. Of course, it only made sense that they would interview Kat as part of their investigation, even if she was out of the country at the time of Howard’s death. But then, suddenly, I realized what the problem was. Kat hadn’t told me the police had been to see her. And we told each other everything, or almost everything. I knew when her insomnia was acting up, and when the dry cleaner ruined her favorite dress, and usually what she’d had for dinner the night before. So why didn’t she call to tell me the police had questioned her about her husband’s death?

“When did you speak with Kat?” I asked.

Demer shot Oliver a glance. She shrugged but didn’t say anything more. I suddenly had the distinct feeling that there was something more going on here. That the police had not asked me to come in simply to give them background information.

“What is this all about, anyway? Why are you asking me about Kat and Howard’s marriage?” I pressed.

“Like I said, we’re looking for background,” Demer said. “We’re just trying to make sure we’ve covered everything.”

“And they brought you all the way down here from Tallahassee to do that?” I asked.

Demer looked at me steadily but didn’t answer my question. It was clear there was something going on, some reason they had for questioning me, and I didn’t know what that was.

“Why don’t you tell us about when you first met Howard Grant?” Demer suggested.

“I’m not sure if I remember,” I said, thinking back. “It would have been three years ago.”

“Try,” the detective said. “Take your time.”

6

Three Years Earlier

“What are you doing in here?” Todd asked.

I started violently but managed not to scream. I was sitting in our home office, working on the computer with my back to the door that led off the front hallway. Our garage was on the opposite side of our one-story house, so I hadn’t heard Todd come home. I had always hated being startled. Horror movies, haunted houses, practical jokes—these were not among my favorite things. I also didn’t like the idea of someone entering my house without my being aware of it, even if that someone was my husband.

“Don’t sneak up on me like that,” I said, willing my heart rate to return to normal.

“Sorry,” Todd said mildly. He dropped a kiss on the top of my head, and I could smell the scent of sweat still clinging to his body.

“How was your match?” I asked.

“First, ask me this... Who is the king of tennis?”

“Who is the king of tennis?”

“Me! I am the king of tennis. I just pulled out the win in a third set tiebreaker.” Todd raised two triumphant fists over his head. “I ended the match with an ace. It was so sweet. Maybe the best match of my life.”

“Good job,” I dutifully supplied.

“Good job? Is that all you can say?”

“What else do you need from me?” I asked. “Congratulations on your win? Yay you?”

“A little enthusiasm would be nice. That’s the first time I’ve ever beaten Joe Hammond. He’s owned me until now.”

Todd was a tennis fanatic and competed weekly in a local league. It was basically a bunch of middle-aged men playing at night after work, but they took it so seriously that you might have thought they were training for Wimbledon. Still, I was glad Todd had an outlet. When work started to overwhelm him and he wasn’t able to play, my husband became tense and moody. Far better he took his stress out on a little yellow ball. However, there were some downsides to his hobby.

“Speaking of tennis,” I said, “I was going over the bills, and I wanted to ask you about something. Did you really spend $224 at an online tennis store? I was hoping that was a mistake on the bill.”

I could see from my husband’s sheepish expression that it was not. My spirits plummeted.

“I know, I know,” he said, holding his hands up. “It was an impulse purchase.”

“What was?”

“A new racquet. But it’s the racquet Federer plays with. I was just going to try it out—they let you take it out on a test run and then return it if you don’t like it—but I couldn’t not keep it. It’s the best racquet I’ve ever played with. It’s the racquet that helped me finally beat Joe Hammond! Anyway, it was on sale.”

Tension tightened my shoulders, and acid roiled in my stomach. I took a deep breath, trying to contain the anxiety, not to lose my temper.

“We can’t afford a purchase like that right now.” I pointed to the Visa statement I had pulled up on the computer. “Have you seen this lately? Our balance is over ten thousand dollars. That’s the limit. We’re now officially maxed out.”

I could have continued with a full accounting of our current financial struggles. We were a few weeks late paying the mortgage because the majority of Todd’s last paycheck had been swallowed up by an expensive car repair. The school tuition bill was due. Liam’s birthday was in two weeks and he had been begging for a laser tag party, which we couldn’t afford at the moment.

It was times like these, the nights when I was poring over the bills, trying to figure out where I could cut our already tight budget, that I tried to remember why I had ever given up my job. But almost as soon as the question floated up into my consciousness, I would remember anew, with a fresh jolt of pain. It hadn’t been a choice to stop working but a necessity. The grief I experienced after losing Meghan was a dark, smothering force that robbed me of my will to do just about anything. Eating, sleeping and showering were all equally unappealing options. But I had a three-year-old and a newborn to take care of. Falling off a cliff wasn’t a luxury I could indulge in.

I had arranged for a three-month maternity leave before I gave birth to the twins. When that time was up and I was still struggling, I went to see the dean of the math department. He suggested I take the rest of the semester off. But even when the grief started to recede and I slowly rejoined the world, going back to work still seemed like an impossible task. Then Todd was offered a job in West Palm Beach, which at the time seemed to offer a fresh start for our family.

But it also meant that we suddenly went from enjoying a comfortable two-income existence to living on one. We learned to make do while we waited for the raises and bonuses Todd had been promised when he was hired. We made up the difference with a series of credit cards we were paying only the minimum on each month to cover the unexpected expenses. A repair to the air-conditioning unit at our house. A cavity that needed filling. Tennis club memberships.

“It was only $200,” Todd said. He crossed his arms over his chest. “Besides, how much have you been spending on all of those lunches out with Kat?”

“I don’t spend $200 on lunch,” I retorted.

“No, but $30 a couple times a week adds up.”

“So it’s okay for you to burn through money on your tennis hobby, but I’m not allowed to have a social life?” I hated how thin and brittle I sounded. But I resented more that we couldn’t have the simplest conversation about our finances without it turning into a fight.

“I didn’t say that. Jesus, why do you have to be such a...” Todd struggled to find the proper word to describe just how awful a person I was.

“Bitch?”

“I did not say that,” Todd said, pointing at me. “I would never call you that.”

Bridget appeared at the door to the office, looking anxious. She was wearing ladybug-print pajamas, and her hair was tousled. She was clutching Leo, her well-loved plush lion, to her chest.

“Are you fighting?” she asked in a small voice.

“No, we’re just talking,” I said at the same time Todd was saying, “No, honey, everything’s fine.”

“You were shouting,” Bridget said. “It woke me up.”

“We weren’t shouting. We were just talking a little...loudly,” Todd said.

Bridget’s lower lip trembled. “It scared me.”

“We’ll keep our voices down,” I said, hoping the smile I gave her looked more genuine than it felt.

“Come on, Monkey, I’ll tuck you in,” Todd said, holding out his hand.

“Good night, sweetheart,” I called after them.

Todd didn’t return to the office to continue our fight after getting Bridget settled. I found him in the kitchen, a beer in his hand while he flipped through the mail on the kitchen counter. I rubbed a tired hand across my face and decided to leave the argument about the Visa bill for another day.

“Don’t forget Kat invited us over for dinner tomorrow night,” I reminded him.

“Oh, right. To celebrate your book,” Todd said. His face relaxed. “That’s some good news, for a change.”

I had gotten the word a few days earlier. My book of logic puzzles would be published by a small university press. The advance I was getting was nominal—certainly not enough to make much of a dent in our current financial woes—but it was still an exciting development. Even this small success—or at least, small compared to the publishing I’d hoped to accomplish in the course of my academic career—made me feel a little more like the Alice I’d been before Meghan’s death.

“So I’m finally going to meet the mysterious Kat,” Todd said. He lifted his bottle of beer in a mock toast, then brought it to his lips.

“She’s hardly mysterious,” I said, annoyed by his flippant tone.

“She is to me,” Todd said. “What’s her husband like? What’s his name?”

“Howard, and I’m not sure. I’ve never met him.”

“But you don’t like him?”

“Why would you think that? I just said I’ve never met him.”

“Yes, but right after you said it, you did that thing you do when you disapprove of something or someone. You twist your lips up.”

“I don’t do that.” As I said it, I could feel my lips starting to twist. What a horrible habit to have developed.

“Yes, you do. You do it all the time,” Todd said. “You did it a few minutes ago when you were asking about the charge on the credit card.”

I hated the idea of having a tell and decided that I would not allow my lips to twist ever again.

But Todd was right. I wasn’t at all sure I was going to like Howard. Whenever Kat talked about her husband, which wasn’t very often, she hadn’t exactly extolled the positives. Howard was selfish, she’d told me, and people often found him abrasive.

“I finally get to meet the mysterious Kat and her apparently unlikable husband. That should make for an interesting night,” Todd mused. He took another long draw from his beer.

I used to find my husband’s insouciance charming. I wondered when that had stopped.

7

Three Years Earlier

I knew by then that Kat and Howard were very wealthy. Kat drove a sporty new Porsche convertible with creamy leather seats. Her clothes were all impeccably cut and clearly not purchased at The Gap, where most of my wardrobe came from. The bag she carried was probably worth more than my car. And she had already disclosed that her house wasn’t in the town of Jupiter, where I lived, but on the far tonier, far more expensive Jupiter Island.

But Kat was my friend. My very good friend, the person I was starting to confide in even more than my husband. When I received the email from the publisher to tell me that they wanted to publish my book, I had called Kat before Todd. Although, to be fair, she’d been far more excited for me than my husband had been. The difference in our respective net worths shouldn’t have mattered. It didn’t matter. All it meant was that Kat was quicker to pick up the lunch check and more likely to splurge on a nice bottle of wine for us to share.

But then I saw where she lived, and I realized just how different our lives really were.

Todd pulled our Volvo wagon into the crushed-stone driveway, the tires crunching on the gray gravel. We got out of the car and stared up at the building in front of us. The house, which would more accurately be called a mansion, was certainly impressive. It was white stone and built in a U shape around a neatly manicured front courtyard featuring elaborate topiaries. It had casement-style tile windows and a red Spanish tile roof. A detached garage, which looked more like a stable and was large enough to store five cars, was set off to the right of the driveway.

“Holy cow,” Todd said, staring up at the house.

“Is that your professional assessment of the architecture?” I teased.

“I think the whole point of that house is for people to look at it and say ‘Holy cow.’ It isn’t exactly subtle. I wonder who designed it.”

“You don’t know whose work it is?” Todd had an encyclopedic knowledge of the architects behind much of the real estate throughout South Florida.

“No, but it’s a fantastic example of the Spanish Colonial Revival style,” Todd said. “It’s really very nicely done. Look at the detailing around the windows.”

We walked up to the front door, an enormous wood-and-glass affair surrounded by a decorative casing nearly two stories tall. I rang the bell and realized suddenly that I was nervous. Why? I wondered. Was it about meeting Howard? Or were my nerves jangling because I wasn’t sure Kat and Todd would like one another? But then I heard footsteps echoing against a hard floor and the front door opened.

Howard Grant wasn’t at all what I had pictured. For some reason, I had envisioned Kat’s husband as a tall, fair man with broad shoulders and a cleft chin. I had no idea where I’d gotten this mental picture, since as far as I could remember, Kat had never described her husband to me.

The real Howard was of average height and very slim. He had thick dark hair speckled with gray, an aquiline nose and deep-set brown eyes. He wore a black T-shirt and slim-fitting dark blue jeans with soft, expensive-looking brown loafers. When he smiled at us, the expression didn’t reach his eyes.

“Howard Grant,” he said, holding out his hand to Todd.

“It’s nice to meet you. I’m Todd Campbell.”

Howard looked at me but did not offer his hand.

“I’m Alice,” I said. “Kat’s friend.”

“Right. The author.” Howard spoke the word ironically, as though I didn’t quite qualify to be called one. I had been predisposed not to like Howard, and so far, he wasn’t doing anything to change my mind. But before I could respond, he had turned. Walking away, he called back over one shoulder, “Come on in and let me know what you like to drink.”

Todd and I exchanged a look. Todd mouthed, What the fuck? which made me laugh and feel a surge of affection for my husband. We did not always have an easy marriage, it was true, but these moments of connection were our saving grace.

We followed Howard through the airy, expansive foyer with marble floors and soaring ceilings. The exterior of the house had been over-the-top, but the interior was austere and curated—more like the K-Gallery. This was especially true when we reached the living room, which featured two black chesterfield sofas, a pair of low-slung white leather chairs and a few tall sculptural potted green plants. It was clear that the furnishings, while lovely, had been left intentionally understated so that the art was the star of the room. I was still not well versed in modern art, but even I could appreciate the visual impact of the large colorful canvases that hung on every wall.

Howard headed for a large and well-stocked glass-and-chrome bar cart set behind one of the chesterfields.

“What can I get you, Todd?” Howard asked. “I have a fantastic twenty-five-year-old Glenmorangie whiskey.”

Todd did not drink whiskey. His drink of choice was almost always beer, with an occasional glass of red wine with dinner. But he smiled, squared his shoulders and said, “That sounds great. Thank you.”

I had a feeling there was some sort of a man-test at work, where whiskey was a line that had been drawn in the sea grass rug.

Howard had poured them each a glass of whiskey but hadn’t yet asked me for my drink order when Kat strolled into the room. As always, Kat was impeccably dressed, tonight in a long red strapless sundress that set off her smooth shoulders and pale arms.

“Alice!” she cried, folding me into a hug. Then she turned to Todd and smiled. “And you must be Todd. Unless, of course, Alice decided to pick up a date for the evening.”

I could tell that Todd was charmed by Kat, and also that he hadn’t expected to be. I suspected that he wanted to categorize Kat as a “bad influence,” a snake charmer who seduced his wife away from her domestic life into wasting time and money over long, gossipy lunches. But if there was one word that could entirely sum up Kat’s character, it was that she was, more than anything else, charming.

“Don’t tell me you started pouring whiskeys for you and Todd before you got Alice a drink,” Kat exclaimed, turning to her husband.

Howard winced and said, “Oops,” while Kat turned to me with an exasperated sigh.

“He always does this. He makes sure the men have drinks and leaves us women to fend for ourselves,” Kat complained.

Howard gave a theatrical eye roll. “Women,” he said in a mock-withering tone. “Can’t please them.”

I knew we were supposed to take the exchange as witty banter, a cocktail-hour performance for our benefit. But I sensed a real simmering antagonism behind their words.

Howard and Todd found some common ground over a discussion of professional tennis, of which Howard was also a fan. While they debated the merits of Nadal versus Federer, Kat and I slipped off to the kitchen, which was another huge space featuring dark cabinets and a dramatic marble island with gold stools lining one side. A wonderful aroma of cooking food mingled with the smell of exotic-scented candles burning on the counter.

“Your house is amazing,” I said, looking around in wonder.

“Thank you.”

An older woman wearing a tan uniform came into the kitchen. She was small and plump and wore her short gray hair feathered back from her face. I shouldn’t have been surprised—of course, anyone who lived in a house like this would have domestic help—but Kat had never mentioned having staff.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Kat,” the woman said in accented English.

“Marguerite, this is my friend Alice Campbell,” Kat said. “Alice, this is Marguerite Sampson, our housekeeper.”

Marguerite smiled and nodded. “Nice to meet you.”

“You, too.”

“If you don’t need anything else, Mrs. Kat, I’m going home.”

“No, thank you, Marguerite. Good night.”

“Have a good night, Mrs. Kat.”

Once the housekeeper had left, Kat smiled at me.

“Mrs. Kat?” I teased.

“I know, it’s so silly. She’s been with us for fifteen years, and for fifteen years, she’s refused to call me Kat. Anyway, I hope you like short ribs. I’ve never made them before, but the butcher swore they would be easy and delicious. He was right on the easy part, at least. I just plunked them in the oven hours ago and haven’t touched them since.”

“They smell fantastic,” I said.

Kat pulled a bottle of chilled Pouilly-Fuissé from the enormous stainless steel refrigerator. She poured us each a glass.

“Cheers!” Kat tapped her wineglass against mine. “I’m so glad you came tonight.”

“Thank you for inviting us,” I said. “It’s such a treat to have someone cook me dinner.”

“Todd isn’t at all how I pictured him.” Kat pulled out a plate of cheese and crudités from the refrigerator and put it on the counter. “He’s much taller than I thought he’d be.”

“Really? That’s funny. I was just thinking the same thing about Howard.”

“But Howard’s not at all tall! What, did you think he was a midget?” Kat exclaimed.

I laughed and relaxed. “No, actually he’s shorter than I thought he’d be. I just mean I’d pictured him differently. For some reason, I thought he’d be blond.”

“Oh, no, I’ve never gone for blond men.” Kat gave a humorous shudder. “Or redheads. No offense, because your hair is gorgeous. But it doesn’t translate well to men.”

“Really? I’ve actually always been attracted to redheads,” I admitted. “And Scots.”

“And kilts on men?” Kat teased.

“I draw the line at men wearing skirts.”

“Good Lord, what are you two talking about?” Howard asked as he strode into the kitchen. Much like his wife, Howard’s pace was a few notches faster than average. I wondered if they were both naturally quick walkers or one had influenced the other over the course of their marriage. “Tom, watch out. Our wives are talking about men in skirts.”

“Todd,” Todd said, coming in behind him.

“Right. Todd. Sorry.” Howard picked up a slice of cheese and popped it into his mouth. He chewed and swallowed it before turning his intense gaze on me. “I can’t believe your husband is such a tennis fan and he’s never been to the Miami Open.”

“What’s that?” I asked.

“It’s a huge tennis tournament held every year down in Key Biscayne. All the top players go. I never miss it,” Howard said. “Kat’s father’s company has a box there.”

“Your father owns a company?” I shouldn’t have been astonished, but I was.

Kat had mentioned her parents to me only in passing. I knew they lived nearby, but I didn’t think she’d ever mentioned what they did professionally.

Howard had just bitten into another slice of cheese, and my question clearly caught him off guard, since he nearly choked. He coughed and hammered at his chest with one fist.

“Are you okay?” Kat asked. Her tone was casual as she poured a glass of water from a carafe on the marble countertop and handed it to her husband.

“You don’t know who Kat’s father is?” Howard asked, ignoring his wife’s question but accepting the glass of water. “How is that even possible? He’s Thomas Wyeth.”

The name sounded vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t place it. I wondered if he could possibly be an artist or maybe a writer. But, no, I didn’t think an artist would have corporate box seats at a tennis tournament.

“You’re a Wyeth?” Todd asked.

He had clearly caught on sooner than I had. In fact, he was staring at Kat, his mouth agape. It was almost as though she had been unmasked as a celebrity, like a member of the English aristocracy or a Kennedy.

“No, she’s a Grant,” Howard said irritably at the same time Kat smiled and said, “Guilty as charged.”

Howard and Kat glanced at one another. Howard seemed annoyed, but Kat merely arched her eyebrows and looked amused.

“You don’t mind me being a Wyeth when it comes time to use the company’s box seats,” she said lightly.

Howard opened his mouth as though he wanted to say something, but then thought better of it. “Of course I don’t mind. Don’t be ridiculous,” he said.

“I’m sorry. I feel like I’m playing catch-up,” I said. “Is your father famous?”

Kat let out a peal of laughter. “No, he’s not famous,” she said. “He just owns a construction company.”

“But he is actually famous,” Todd said.

“You only know his name because you’re an architect,” Kat said, patting Todd’s arm.

“No, my dear, he probably knows the name because your father is worth... What is he worth these days? Has he hit a billion dollars yet?” Howard asked in the same ironic tone he’d used to offer whiskey to Todd.

Kat rolled her eyes at me. “Not even close. He’s not Bill Gates,” she said.

“He’s not far off,” Howard said under his breath.

Kat shot her husband a sour look. “It’s tacky to talk about money.”

“Yes, you’re always quick to tell me how much I need to work on my manners,” Howard retorted.

Suddenly it all became clear. Kat wasn’t just wealthy. She came from capital-M Money. The sort of money that doesn’t last just a lifetime but through multiple generations thereafter. It would be nothing to a multimillionaire to set up his daughter in a Palm Beach art gallery. Just a carrot to tempt his headstrong bohemian daughter to return home to South Florida.

I had never thought of myself as a covetous person and firmly believed jealousy was wasted energy. There would always be someone with more than you, any way you chose to measure it—intelligence, beauty, wealth, talent, happiness. Even so, it was hard not to look around the beautiful home of the woman who was quickly becoming one of my closest confidantes, remember the pile of unpaid bills on my desk at home and not whine silently, It’s not fair. Of course, life wasn’t fair. But sometimes the sheer magnitude of the unfairness could stick in your throat like a bitter pill.

* * *

The dinner was fantastic. It did not surprise me that Kat, who seemed to do everything well, was a wonderful cook. The short ribs were tender and flavorful. They paired perfectly with the creamy garlic mashed potatoes and green beans tossed in olive oil and lemon zest. Howard had uncorked several bottles of cabernet sauvignon, which I thought at first was foolhardy—there was no way the four of us would drink through three bottles of wine. That was, until I saw just how much alcohol Howard was able to put away all on his own. He poured himself glass after glass, drinking until his eyes were unfocused and his manner increasingly aggressive.

“I think we should have a toast to Alice on the publication of her wonderful book.” Kat raised her glass in the air.

“Absolutely,” Todd said.

“Oh, don’t. It hasn’t been published yet,” I protested weakly. I did not share Kat’s gift for gracefully accepting compliments.

“And it’s not a novel, right?” Howard asked. His lips were stained red from the wine. “I thought Kat said it was just a book of puzzles for children.”

The truth was, it was just a book of puzzles for children. But something about the way Howard said it rankled me.

“That’s right,” I said, striving to keep my tone neutral.

“It’s a book!” Kat said. “A book that Alice wrote. That’s what’s so exciting. How many people can say they’ve written a book?”

“These days? As far as I can tell, just about anyone,” Howard said with a condescending smile. “Haven’t you ever heard of e-books? Self-publishing? Anyone who ever fancied himself the next Ernest Hemingway suddenly has a platform. Not that any of these so-called writers have actually read Ernest Hemingway.”

Kat looked at her husband coldly. “And what about you? Have you ever read Hemingway?”

The words hung between them in an icy silence, until Todd waded in.

“Alice wasn’t trying to write the Great American Novel,” he said. “She’s a logician. Her book is meant to teach children how to solve logic puzzles.”

I know I should have appreciated his defense. But when I saw Howard shrug and splay his hands in front of him as though he couldn’t be bothered to keep up with the nuances of my career—not that anyone was asking him to—I became irrationally annoyed at my husband. Why did he need to put me into my little box, to put a label on me that Howard would find less threatening?

“I think what Alice has done is amazing,” said Kat, my staunchest supporter. “To you, Alice.”

She raised her glass again and blew me a kiss. I smiled back at her and felt my irritation recede.

Despite Howard’s temperamental mood, Kat rallied to make the dinner a success. I could tell that one of her goals for the evening was to win Todd over. Not that it was hard. Like most people, Todd found it easy to like someone who was nice and funny and seemed delighted to be talking to him.

“So, Todd,” Kat began, topping off his wineglass. I’d already had so much wine, my head was spinning a little. I hoped that Todd would be okay to drive us home. “Are you an only child, like Alice?”

“Unfortunately, no,” Todd said, which made Kat laugh. “Seriously, if you met my younger brother, you’d understand. His greatest accomplishment in life is that he can chug a beer and then burp the alphabet.”

“But that’s an incredibly useful skill!” Kat exclaimed. “You could hire him out as an entertainment for children’s parties.”

Todd chuckled. “That’s an idea. Maybe he can fall back on it if his current career selling energy drinks online isn’t a success.”

“Just the one brother?” Kat asked.

I glanced at Todd and wasn’t surprised to see a shadow cross his face.

“Just one I grew up with,” he said. “I had a half brother from my father’s first marriage. His short-lived and ill-fated first marriage.”

Kat nodded, her expression understanding. She knew all about children who were born of short-lived and ill-fated relationships.

“They were divorced when Brendon, my half brother, was a baby, and it was pretty contentious,” Todd continued. “Afterward Brendon and his mother moved to Georgia, where I guess she was originally from. We didn’t see a whole lot of him growing up. He was eight years older than me, so when he did come to stay for a few weeks in the summers, he didn’t want much to do with me.”

“So you’re not close,” Kat concluded.

“Well, no, we weren’t. Unfortunately, he passed away last year,” Todd said.

“I’m so sorry,” Kat said. “He must have been very young.”

Todd nodded in thanks. I thought he’d end the story there, but the wine was making him verbose. “It was actually pretty terrible. We were there at the time. Alice, myself, the kids. We were all at my parents’ house for Thanksgiving. Brendon was drunk, as he often was, and he fell down the stairs. The fall killed him.”

“Oh, my God,” Kat exclaimed, looking at me. “How horrific.”

“It really was,” I said, shaking my head. I didn’t like to think about that night. “We called the paramedics, but it was too late to save him. I was so worried the children would wake up and see him...well, lying there. Luckily they slept through the whole thing. But it was an awful night.”

“I thought drunks never got hurt,” Howard cut in. On the word drunks, he slurred the r. “That they always walk away from car accidents.”

“It’s hard to walk away from anything when your neck’s broken,” Todd said.

There was a brief moment of silence.

“Why don’t I bring in dessert?” Kat suggested.

* * *

“What an asshole,” Todd said once we were in our car.

“Are you sure you’re okay to drive?”

Todd waved me off, and he did seem sober enough, so I let it go. He pulled out of the drive, sending a spray of gravel in his wake.

“How did those two end up married? They seem like complete opposites,” he continued.

I shrugged. “It happens. Maybe he was less grumpy when they met.”

“Grumpy? Is that what you’d call him? You make him sound like one of Snow White’s seven dwarfs.”

“Well, how would you describe him?”

“I thought he was a dick,” Todd said.

I laughed and leaned back in my seat. “He really was awful, wasn’t he? From what little Kat has told me about him, I certainly wasn’t expecting Howard to be genial. But I also wasn’t expecting him to be so hostile. I got the feeling he resented our being there, and his having to play host.”

“He spent the entire night trying to one-up me,” Todd said. “When I told him I play tennis, he claimed he was good enough to play for his college team. When I told him what I do, he said he’d thought about being an architect but decided he’d make more money in finance.”

Todd’s tone was unusually bitter. I imagined I was not the only one who had been impressed by the size and scope of the Grants’ house, particularly against the backdrop of our current financial crisis. But that wasn’t something either one of us wanted to get into. And even if we had no choice but to discuss our money woes periodically, we rarely addressed Todd’s lack of career success directly. If he was frustrated by the lack of traction he’d gained in his field over the years, he dealt with it by whacking tennis balls. As for me, I didn’t think I was in any position to comment on Todd’s or anyone else’s career failures, considering how I’d unceremoniously left my cushy academic job.

“Howard played tennis in college?”

“No.” Todd laughed. “He just said they tried to recruit him, but he decided he didn’t want to play, which is such bullshit. I think he really just wanted to tell me he went to Yale. Jesus. You know how I feel about people who name-drop their alma maters.”

“I know, you’ve always hated that. I guess future double dates are out of the question.”

“I liked Kat,” he said. “I can see why the two of you hit it off. You’re very much alike.”

This surprised me. “We are? How so?”

“You’re both smart. You have similar senses of humor,” Todd said. He glanced over at me, the streetlights casting an odd green glow on his face. “Why? You don’t think you’re alike?”

“I never really thought about it,” I said. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I love Kat. But she’s so much more—” I faltered, trying to think of the right word “—poised than I am.”

Todd let out an incredulous bark of laughter. “You can’t be serious.”

“What?”

“Alice, you are, without exception, the most poised person I have ever met.”

It is not often that your spouse of over a decade can shock you. I’d seen my husband out of his mind with grief after the loss of our daughter. I’d washed out the bowl he threw up into for three days when he had food poisoning. I knew he hated eggplant but loved foul-looking peanut-butter-and-bacon sandwiches. But I never knew he, or anyone else, thought of me as poised. After all, I experienced myself through the maelstrom of my own swirling thoughts and emotions, through joy and grief, worry and hope. I had moments of peace, but I certainly never felt poised.

I was quite pleased to know that I put up such a convincing front.