‘Anything else you’d like to add?’ the sheriff asks after a moment.

Patrick shoots a nervous glance at Lange.

‘No, I think that’s it,’ the attorney says smoothly.

The sheriff stands up and says, ‘Patrick Kilgour, you are under arrest for the murder of Lindsey Kilgour on January 10, 2009 …’ Patrick’s mind goes blank and he doesn’t hear the rest. Then someone is nudging him. ‘Please stand up.’

Patrick stumbles to his feet, blood rushing from his head.

‘Hands behind your back, please,’ the uniformed police officer says quietly.

Patrick puts his hands behind his back, feels the cuffs go on. And just like that, he’s arrested for murder. He’s going to jail.

Stephanie appreciates the anonymity of the plane ride home without her notorious husband by her side. He’s handsome, recognizable; on her own, she’s able to pass as a tired, ordinary woman. No one bothers her or looks at her twice, not the way they had when they’d travelled back from the inquest. Patrick had attracted a few curious looks, and because of that, she had too. She knew what people were thinking when they looked at her: Who could possibly marry someone who had murdered his first wife?

They’d read the newspapers, seen the coverage on TV and assumed he was guilty. And now she knows something they don’t. She knows he failed the polygraph. Now she wants to scream, I didn’t know about any of it. I didn’t know!

She wants to weep against the window of the aeroplane, but she doesn’t allow herself. She will weep tonight, at home, alone, after the twins are asleep. She will let it all out in a way she had never felt able to do when Patrick was in the house. Perhaps it will be cathartic, and then maybe she will finally be able to sleep. And to think clearly about her situation.

She’s had a text from the attorney telling her that things went as expected, that Patrick has been arrested and is now in the county jail. She won’t be hearing from Patrick directly any more, unless he calls her from a phone at the jail. She pictures him in a cell, wearing some kind of jumpsuit. She imagines they have taken away his belt, his shoelaces – anything he might use to kill himself. But she can’t imagine what’s going through his mind. Because she doesn’t have any idea of what’s in his mind at all. She shudders to think that a machine might know him better than she does. Did she ever know him at all?

Maybe she’s safer with him in jail. She and Emmie and Jackie. If he really is a murderer, they’re all better off with him locked up, far away. She thinks with horror about the fire in the kitchen. She still can’t remember putting the pan on the stove that day. Could Patrick have done it? Was Erica right? Did Patrick want to get rid of her and the twins, so he can have her money – over three million dollars altogether?

She can’t believe it. She can’t believe that she could have been so terribly mistaken about someone she loved. But she has just enough doubt left to make her utterly miserable.

She doesn’t know what is true or how to act any more. Patrick’s lawyer expects her to be supportive, to rally around him. But can she do that? Should she? What if he did it, and he gets away with it, and comes home? Surely he wouldn’t …

But he could be innocent.

How will she ever know for sure?

By the time the plane lands, it’s already late. She retrieves the car from the airport parking and drives the hour and a half home, her eyes burning with fatigue. The house is dark; she wishes she’d thought to leave the porch light on. Finally, she gets the door open and enters the house nervously, all her senses on alert. Being alone in the house at night frightens her. She’s used to having Patrick here – he used to make her feel safe. Now every little noise startles her, every shadow jumps out at her. She wonders if she will ever feel safe again. But then she tells herself to snap out of it.

She quickly turns the heat up a bit, flicks on lights all over the house, slips into some sweatpants, and then grabs her keys and hurries across the street to pick up the twins. She thinks about what to say to Hanna. She must not tell her about the polygraph, no matter how much she longs to confide in someone.

When Hanna opens her front door and smiles a welcome at her, Stephanie surprises herself by bursting into tears. Hanna hugs her and then pulls her from the chill of the doorstep into the warm house. She looks at her sympathetically. ‘Come on, the babies are all asleep upstairs. I’ll get you something to drink.’

‘Are you sure? It’s so late,’ Stephanie says.

‘I’m sure.’

Feeling too weary to protest, and utterly alone in the world, Stephanie follows her towards the kitchen. She wants to see her girls first, though. ‘I’ll just tiptoe up and look in on them, okay?’

‘Of course,’ Hanna says, changing direction. ‘We’ll be quiet, though – let’s not wake them.’

The twins’ playpen is set up in the nursery next to Teddy’s crib, with her two girls fast asleep. Stephanie creeps into the room and peers down at them. The nightlight casts a soft glow. They are on their backs, their heads turned towards each other, little fists curled, knees bent, chests rising and falling. They’re so innocent. Her heart breaks a little, looking at them.

‘Okay?’ whispers Hanna.

Stephanie nods, and they quietly exit the room and go back downstairs. Stephanie follows Hanna into the kitchen. She’s startled to see Ben, Hanna’s husband, there. But of course, he lives here. She’s the interloper, relying on the kindness of strangers.

‘Don’t mind Ben,’ Hanna says. ‘He’s watching something in the basement.’

Ben nods cordially at her, having the grace not to stare as he grabs a beer from the fridge. He probably expects to hear it all later, Stephanie thinks cynically. But she shouldn’t be cynical about them, she tells herself. They have been good to her. She can’t let what’s happening to her colour her view of everyone else.

Ben retreats downstairs with his beer and Hanna asks, ‘Tea? Or something stronger?’

‘Do you have any wine?’ Stephanie asks.

They sit down in the living room with a bottle of red and two glasses, the lights low, and Hanna asks, ‘What happened?’

‘They’ve arrested him,’ Stephanie says bluntly.

Hanna’s expression is a mix of shock, compassion and dread.

‘What are you going to do?’ Hanna asks quietly.

‘I don’t know.’

Late that night, in his cell, Patrick lies on his bunk, his mind racing. He imagines Stephanie lying awake in their bed, staring at the ceiling. Or is she wandering around the house, the way she’s been doing since all this started, thinking about him? Does she think he did it? Does she believe the polygraph? Or has she calmed down now and seen sense?

The fucking polygraph. She shouldn’t have been there. Still, he expected to pass it. It had been a terrible blow when he hadn’t.

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

CHERYL FEELS LIKE she’s trapped in a living nightmare. Now that she knows more about Devin’s biological parents, she finds herself studying Devin and wondering about every little thing. She’s seen behaviours in him lately that she’d perhaps been blinding herself to. Sometimes Devin puts himself first, before his friends. He has considerable charm, which he uses to get what he wants. She’s never worried about that before. She’ll hardly admit it to herself, but she’s looking out for sociopathic traits.

Gary tells her she’s imagining things, looking for problems that aren’t there. He assures her that love is enough; love can solve anything. They’ve brought Devin up properly. They’re good people. They’re going to get through this.

Erica Voss is in her apartment the next morning scrolling through the news feed on her phone when she stops suddenly. Arrest Made in Kilgour Case. Her adrenaline surges; she taps the link and races through the short article. Then she sits back in her chair, a slow smile playing about her lips.

Serves him right. That’s what happens when you fuck with her.

She picks up her cell phone and calls the Manning residence. She’s already planned what she’s going to say.

‘Hello,’ Cheryl’s voice comes over the phone.

‘Hi, Cheryl,’ Erica says.

‘Who is this?’

Erica can hear the suspicion, even fear, in the other woman’s voice. She’d prepped her with that visit to her house. ‘It’s Erica, Devin’s mom.’ There’s a long, fraught silence.

‘What do you want?’

‘I don’t know if you’ve been following the news …’ Erica says, and waits.

‘You mean about the inquest,’ Cheryl says, her voice uneven.

‘It must have been quite a shock,’ Erica says, ‘learning all that about Devin’s father.’

‘Tell me the truth,’ Cheryl says harshly. ‘Did he really kill them?’

‘Of course he did.’

‘What do you want?’ Cheryl asks again.

‘I’d like to see more of my son,’ Erica says.