“We’ll be fine,” I say.

Jeff squints slightly, frowning just so. The perfect picture of concern. “Are you sure everything is okay?”

“Yes,” I say. “Why do you keep asking me that?”

“Because you were out jogging before six,” Jeff says. “And because you just found out that Lisa Milner was murdered and that there are no suspects.”

“Which is why I couldn’t sleep. Which led to the jogging.”

“But you’d tell me if something was wrong, right?”

I force a smile, trembling from the effort. “Of course.”

Jeff pulls me into a hug. He’s warm and soft and smells faintly of sweat and fabric softener from the sheets. I try to hug him back, but can’t. I’m undeserving of such affection.

Later, I make him breakfast while he gets ready for work. We eat in silence, me hiding my injured hand under a dish towel or on my lap while Jeff leafs through The New York Times. I take furtive peeks at each turning page, positive I’ll see an article about the man in the park even though I know it’s too early. My crime was past their deadline. That particular hell will have to wait until tomorrow’s edition.

As soon as Jeff leaves, I pull the key from around my neck and open my secret kitchen drawer. The pen Sam stole in the cafe is there. I pick it up and scrawl a single word across my wrist.

SURVIVOR.

Then I hop into the shower, forcing myself not to blink as I watch the water smear the ink away.

Sam and I don’t talk.

We bake.

Our tasks are well-defined. Apple tarte tatin with caramel sauce for me. Sugar cookies for Sam. Our work stations are laid out on separate ends of the kitchen, like opposing sides in a war sharing a common front. While I make the crust for the tarte, I keep checking my hands for signs of blood, certain I’ll find crimson stains across my palms. All I see is flesh turned puffy and pink from being washed too many times.

“I know you’re having second thoughts,” Sam says.

“I’m fine,” I say.

“We did the right thing.”

“Did we?”

“Yes.”

I’ve started on the Honeycrisp apples, my hands trembling slightly. I stare at the red-yellow apple skins, which fall in long, drooping spirals. My hope is that if I concentrate on them enough Sam will stop talking. It doesn’t work.

“Going to the police now won’t make things right again,” she says. “No matter how much you want it to.”

It’s not that I want to go to the police. I think I have to. I know from Jeff’s work that it’s always better for a criminal to come forward rather than get caught. Cops have at least a grudging respect for those who confess. So do judges.

“We should tell Coop,” I say.

“Are you out of your Goddamn mind?”

“He might be able to help us.”

“He’s still a cop,” Sam says.

“He’s my friend. He would understand.”

At least I hope he would. He’s said many times that he’d do anything to protect me. Is that the truth, or is there a limit to Coop’s loyalty? After all, he made that promise to the Quincy he thinks he knows, not the one who exists lately. I’m not sure it would still apply to the Quincy who’s already taken two Xanax since returning from the park this morning. Or the Quincy who steals shiny objects just so she can see her reflection in them. Or the Quincy who pummels a man until he’s comatose.

“Let it drop, babe,” Sam says. “We’re good. We got away. It’s over.”

“And you’re absolutely certain there was nothing in that purse that could lead to us?” I ask for what’s probably the fiftieth time.

“I’m positive,” Sam says. “Chill out.”

Yet an hour later, my phone rings as I’m pulling the tarte tatin from the oven. I place the tarte on the counter, tear off an oven mitt and grab the phone. Answering it brings a woman’s voice to my ear.

“May I speak to Miss Quincy Carpenter?”

“This is Quincy,” I say.

“Miss Carpenter, I’m Detective Carmen Hernandez with the NYPD.”

Fear freezes me—a sudden, numbing chill. How I manage to keep hold of the phone is a mystery. The fact I can still speak is a minor miracle.

“How can I help you, detective?”

Hearing this, Sam whirls away from the counter, a large mixing bowl hugged to her stomach.

“I was wondering if you had time to come to the station today,” Detective Hernandez says.

I only half-listen to the rest of what she has to say. The deep freeze of fear has made its way to my ears, blocking out a good deal of it. Yet the key words are clear. Like blows of a pickaxe against the ice.

Central Park. Purse. Questions. Lots of questions.

“Of course,” I say. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

Once I end the call, the frigid grip of fear subsides. Taking its place is the hot burn of despair. Trapped between cold and heat, I act accordingly, melting into a puddle on the kitchen floor.

Two Days After Pine Cottage

Their names are Detective Cole and Detective Freemont, although they might as well have been called Good Cop and Bad Cop. Each had a role to play, and they performed them well. Cole was the nice one. He was young—probably not yet thirty. Quincy liked his friendly eyes and the warm smile that sat beneath a thin moustache grown in an attempt to make him look older. When he crossed his legs, Quincy saw that his socks matched the green of his tie. A nice touch.