I still have moments when I struggle to wrap my head around Merritt’s actions. I’ve always considered myself a decent judge of character—thanks in part to the revolving door of shady people my mother ushered in and out of my younger years. But I thought I had Merritt pinned. I took one look at her and pegged her as a superficial suburban housewife with air for brains and insecurity imbedded into her DNA. And she was generous, kind, and well mannered.
I know now that it was all a facade she hid behind.
A mask of perfection to hide her true ugliness.
From the moment Merritt was apprehended, she’s stuck to her story without waver: some made-up tale about me being a jealous, jaded, psychotic first wife who tried to kill her and the kids before taking Luca’s life and attempting to go down in flames to skirt any consequences.
I have to admit it’s a clever tale, convincing under the right circumstances.
But she made one mistake.
She was wearing my “protection” necklace on her wrist when they took her in . . . and that was the one thing she wasn’t prepared to explain. It blew a gaping hole in her story. Police had a difficult time believing some distraught postpartum mother could load up her children, fight off a would-be murderer, and somehow manage to steal her attacker’s necklace—and then have the audacity to wear it.
Merritt couldn’t explain that one away.
But lord knows she tried.
“They have her in custody still,” I say. “The judge set bail—the detective thinks he has a soft spot for her since she was a new mother or whatever. But no one’s bailed her out yet.”
Delphine sniffs. “Good.”
From what I heard, no one’s claimed Luca’s body. Merritt can’t do it from behind bars （not that she’d want to at this point）， and no other family has stepped forward. I think of him sometimes when I’m lying in bed—his body stiff, lifeless, frozen in some city morgue. Alone. Unwanted. A literal waste of space.
The days of looking over my shoulder are over.
Everything I’ve ever wanted is finally within arm’s reach.
I don’t know where their kids are or who’s taking care of them. I can only hope they’re in capable hands. But what I know for sure is . . . maybe I didn’t directly save their lives, but I saved them from a lifetime of being raised by sociopaths.
And that’s kind of the same thing.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Every story I’ve ever written has begun with a seedling of an idea. An intriguing what-if statement. A flash of a scene in my mind’s eye. An unanswered question. A mood. A fictional character who demands my attention . . .
And while I may be the one who plants the seeds, an entire team of passionate individuals works tirelessly to cultivate, prune, nourish, sow, and ultimately distribute the fruits of those seeds. It’s a fascinating and labor-intensive process each step of the way—but always rewarding.
I’m beyond grateful for my team at Thomas and Mercer, who have once again outdone themselves. To my editors Jessica Tribble Wells and Charlotte Herscher: thank you for your brilliant brainstorming sessions and for pushing me to take this story to the next level. To both Sarahs, Kellie, Lauren, Gracie, and the rest of the T&M team: thank you for all the behind-the-scenes efforts that go into polishing my stories and getting them into the hands of readers all over the world. I am humbled, privileged, and thankful to work with you all.
To my agent, Jill Marsal: thank you for guiding my career in this direction and for your never-ending encouragement.
To Max and Katrina, the keepers of my sanity.
To Neda, PR wizard extraordinaire.
To Shasti, for the gorgeous cover.
To my readers, bloggers, and bookstagrammers who tirelessly promote my books and send me the sweetest emails: thank you so much. Your kind words always brighten my day, and I keep every message.
To my husband, Miss Poots, Marty Graino, and Cozy Cuddles, who settle for scraps of me during crunch time . . . all the love and all the gratitude and all the Disney trips.
Last but not least, special shout-out to Murphy and Milo, whose pug snores served as the writing soundtrack to this book.