“So what sort of work did you do for this guy?”

“Nothing. Errands.”

I give him a look. “Errands? You mean, like you fed his cat when he was out of town and picked up his dry cleaning? Is that what Cecelia was talking about?”

“What do you want me to say?” He sits up straight but won’t look at me. “I was just a kid, and I made a terrible mistake working for an awful person. I wanted out, but then he was dating my sister, and it was not so easy to get out. And then he married her, and then what could I do?”

“So what did you do for him?” I ask. “Did you go after people who owed him money and break their kneecaps?”

He snorts. “You watch too many movies. Nobody breaks kneecaps. That is ridiculous.”

“Gee, I didn’t realize you were so knowledgeable,” I retort.

“Millie…”

“Okay, so nobody breaks kneecaps. What’s better? What do you break when you want to get some deadbeat to pay back a loan, huh?”

He’s quiet for a long time, looking down at his lap. Finally, in a low voice, he says, “Fingers.”

Oh. My. God.

“Millie.” He raises his eyes. “I am not proud of this. Believe me. It is all my fault that Antonia is dead. If I hadn’t started working for Dario when I was a stupid kid, she never would have married him. She would still be alive.” His Adam’s apple bobs. “I have to live with that. It eats at me every day. That’s why… when anyone else needs help… I must…”

I have to bite my tongue to keep from saying the terrible thought going through my head. That if he was shaking people down and breaking their fingers (or worse), maybe this is karma coming back to bite him.

“Tell me,” I say, “did you ever kill anyone for him?”

“No. Never! I have said that to you.”

“Well, you said a lot of things that turned out not to be true.”

He flashes me a wounded expression. “I was only trying to protect you.”

Bullshit. He concealed so much of his past, and I can’t believe I’m only finding it all out now. He had so many opportunities to tell me the truth. And he knows everything about my past, which isn’t exactly idyllic. I have plenty of skeletons in my own closet.

He could have been honest. He could have told me everything. He chose not to.

“I never killed anyone.” His voice breaks. “I would never. I did not kill Jonathan.”

I look into his eyes. The first time I met him, I couldn’t believe how dark they were—it sent a chill down my spine. But then years later, when we stood together in the courthouse, vowing to love each other until death did us part, I looked into those same eyes and felt nothing but love for this man. I trusted him. He was going to be the father of my child, and I knew with all my heart that he would take care of us. He would do everything in his power to protect us.

I’m not sure how it all went wrong.

Because I feel more and more certain that Enzo has been lying all along.

FIFTY-TWO

After everyone is in bed for the night, I decide to slip into the Lowells’ backyard with a flashlight.

I wait until after the kids are asleep. Enzo looks like he’s asleep as well. I have no idea how he was able to drift off with everything that happened today, but when I looked down at him on his side of the bed, his eyes were closed and he was snoring softly.

I don’t bother to get dressed because I’m just going into the backyard next door. I put on a pair of pajama pants and stuff my feet into a pair of slippers. That should be good enough.

The entire front of 12 Locust is cordoned off by police tape, and the inside of the house is dark—Suzette has clearly found another place to stay that isn’t stained with her husband’s blood. There were a handful of reporters milling about, but Enzo and I stayed inside, and they eventually got bored and left. I called my work and told them that I would need a couple of days off, and they have been very understanding.

Enzo claims there is a way to get into the backyard without parking in front of the house. I want to believe he is right, because if he isn’t, he is the only one who could have killed Jonathan Lowell. And I want so badly to believe that he didn’t do it.

The Lowells’ backyard is enormous compared with ours. You would think that if our house really used to be for the animals, we would at least have a giant backyard, but it pales in comparison to our neighbors’. The grass has been neatly trimmed, courtesy of my husband, and he has planted and shaped shrubbery along the periphery of the yard. He has also sectioned off an area that Suzette apparently wanted to reserve to start a garden.

It is exactly as he said it would be.

I shine my flashlight around the edges of the yard. I checked a map before I came over, but it was not very revealing. There are plenty of things that exist in real life that might not show up on a map—even a virtual one. That’s why I’m here to look around myself.

I keep my flashlight trained on the shrubs. Enzo did a great job with them. Every single one is perfectly trimmed, without a stray leaf or branch. He is so skillful. Even without Suzette, he would have been able to build his business here. He didn’t need her.

What if what the detective said is true? What if Enzo and Suzette conspired to kill Jonathan and had an agreement to split the life insurance payment?

No. I can’t imagine my husband agreeing to something like that. Enzo is willing to bend the law sometimes, but he’d never kill someone for money. But I also can’t imagine him breaking someone’s fingers.

Enzo has been stressed about the mortgage payments. They are, admittedly, suffocatingly high. We wanted this house so badly, so it was hard to admit that it was a bit out of our price range. He desperately wanted to give his family a nice home in a great neighborhood.

But no. He would not have killed to get us that. I don’t believe it.

I can’t.

When I reach the far end of the yard, I hear a sound. A rustling of leaves. I shine my beam in the direction of the sound, and some of the branches move of their own accord. The shadows shift and bend.

It occurs to me that if somebody did come in through the back to kill Jonathan Lowell, they still have access. And here I am, in my pajamas and fuzzy slippers, wandering around the backyard with no weapon whatsoever to defend myself besides my own two hands.

For a second, I imagine Enzo coming into the backyard next door tomorrow morning and finding me with my throat slashed, lying in a pool of blood.

“Hello?” I whisper, aiming the beam of the light squarely at the rustling leaves.

I consider making a run for it. Our own backyard is only a stone’s throw away. After all, Nico was able to hit his baseball into this yard from our own and break a window. If I turn off the flashlight, whoever it is won’t be able to see me anymore.

Unless they have a flashlight of their own.

My heart races as I debate what I should do next. And as I stand there, frozen, I realize I have waited too long.

The intruder is here.

FIFTY-THREE

I take a step back, trying to decide if I should shut the flashlight beam off. Is it better to have the element of surprise, or is it better to see who I’m dealing with?

Before I can decide, a figure steps into the backyard. And my shoulders relax.

“Suzette?” I say.