‘I see,’ he says. ‘I’m somewhat familiar with the case.’ He looks at her encouragingly.

‘It has put a tremendous strain on our marriage.’ She falters and takes a moment to compose herself. ‘Everyone knows he cheated on his first wife. He’s admitted it. I don’t know if he’s cheated on me.’ She adds, ‘In any event, the marriage is over, and I need to know what I can do.’

‘Of course.’

‘I came into a large inheritance on my last birthday. He doesn’t have any rights to that, does he?’

‘None at all. In New York, inherited property does not go into marital assets to be divided when a marriage ends. You have no worries on that score.’

‘Good.’

He gives her a frank look. ‘Do you have a will?’

‘Yes, everything I have goes to Patrick on my death, as things currently stand.’

‘I think we need to change that,’ he says. ‘Any life insurance?’

She’s beginning to think this man had followed the case rather closely. She’s not surprised – it was a cause célèbre in Aylesford, as well as in Colorado. ‘Yes.’

His face is serious, his voice concerned. ‘Are you worried about your personal safety?’

She remembers what she came here to do. ‘No, not at all. But I am worried about how Patrick will take the news of the divorce. He’s very depressed already, after everything that’s happened. It’s been a difficult decision, but I have to do what’s right for me – and for the twins.’

‘Of course,’ the attorney agrees sympathetically. ‘Let’s do this as expeditiously as possible.’

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

THAT EVENING, AFTER the twins are asleep, Stephanie tries to coax her husband into having a couple of drinks with her. It will help if he has some whisky in him. And she needs something to steady her nerves.

She needs to get him into the kitchen. In a straight-backed chair with a glass of whisky in front of him.

‘I need a drink,’ Stephanie says, and gets up off the sofa. He lifts his head. ‘Care to join me?’ He looks almost pleased to be asked. She should feel bad about what she’s going to do, but she doesn’t. Because it’s not just for her. It’s for Emma and Jackie. They deserve better than to grow up with a father who is a liar and a cheater and a murderer.

‘Sure,’ he says, and follows her into the kitchen.

She sits in the chair she always sits in at meals, the one facing the entry to the kitchen, leaving Patrick his usual chair, with its back to the door.

She watches him open the kitchen cabinet where they keep the liquor. He takes out two glasses. ‘What do you want?’ he asks.

‘I’ll have what you’re having.’ When he looks back at her, surprised, she says, ‘I could use something strong.’

He nods. Usually he drinks whisky neat. He pours them each a generous amount. She’s thinking it’s good that he’s handling the bottle, the glasses. She’s thinking that when it’s over, she’ll wash her glass thoroughly and put it back in the cupboard if there’s time before the ambulance shows up. Better if he was drinking alone, she thinks, while she was in the shower. She’s lucky that the twins are so young that they are safely contained in their cribs. It would be much trickier to pull this off if they were older.

They won’t even remember their father, they’re too young. She can control the narrative, make it what she wants. She’ll have to move away, though, start over somewhere else, but not too far away. Maybe she will go back to using her maiden name. Yes, she will.

‘Stephanie,’ he begins, sitting down at the table, across from her. ‘You know how sorry I am.’

She nods without meeting his eyes. She doesn’t want to hear his apologies, his explanations all over again. It’s too late for that. What do they say? By the time most couples make it to marriage counselling, usually one of them has already decided it’s over.

‘I’ve been thinking about the future,’ he says finally.

She’ll play along, to keep him at the table, drinking. She no longer cares what he says. She’s found her own solution.

‘Maybe I should start my own architectural firm.’

She nods. No one else will have him; he doesn’t have much choice. She sips her drink. It goes hot down her throat, steadying her nerves. She needs the whisky – just enough to give her courage, but not enough to make her careless.

‘It will probably take a lot of money to start, before it becomes profitable.’

‘There’s a surprise,’ she says. She can’t help it.

He bites his lip, as if hurt by her tone. Then he picks up his glass and finishes it off in one go. He reaches for the bottle and pours himself another.

Good, she thinks. He’s completely oblivious to what’s going to happen next. There isn’t going to be any new firm. She has to turn her eyes away as he talks. She decides to play along. What difference does it make? None of this is ever going to happen. She pretends to consider what he’s saying. She takes another sip of her drink, watching his face lighten a little at the prospect of getting her on board. At least he’ll be happy when he dies.

He leans in closer, across the table, telling her more about his plans, but she’s only pretending to listen. She must be pretending pretty well because he won’t shut up about it. He pours himself another drink. She’ll never get a better opportunity.

‘Hold that thought,’ she says. ‘I have to pee. I’ll be right back.’

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

SHE HURRIES UPSTAIRS. She feels her face change as soon as she leaves the kitchen. She’s cold, purposeful, remorseless. She walks quickly to the bathroom and closes the door, loudly enough, but from outside, in the hall. She hurries quietly into the bedroom, where she strips off all her clothes and drops them on the bed. Once she’s naked, she grabs the latex gloves from her nightstand and puts them on. She goes to the closet and turns the combination to the safe with trembling hands. The door swings open and she grabs the gun. She returns to the bathroom, opens the door very quietly and steps inside. She catches sight of her reflection briefly in the large mirror over the vanity. She hardly recognizes herself. She’s completely naked except for the pale-blue latex gloves from the grocery store. And she’s holding a gun in her right hand. She flushes the toilet, runs the tap; she wants everything to sound normal to Patrick. She doesn’t want to arouse any suspicion when he thinks she went upstairs to pee.

She moves quietly down the carpeted stairs. She prays he doesn’t turn around when she gets to the kitchen. He shouldn’t – why would he? She arrives at the entrance to the kitchen silently in bare feet. His back is to her and he doesn’t seem to be aware that she’s there. She remembers to angle the gun slightly upward in her hand and then in one fast movement she steps forward and pushes the muzzle firmly against the right side of his head and pulls the trigger. It all happens so quickly.

She’s expecting the kick from the gun but somehow the shot is louder than she anticipated. He falls forward, slumping on the table. There’s a bright-red spatter of blood and brain matter across the table, floor, and against her white kitchen cupboards. She fights a sudden urge to vomit as she stares down at him, blood from the exit wound beginning to pool on the table. He’s clearly dead. She hears her heart pounding in her ears and starts to panic. She takes some deep breaths to regain control. She looks quickly at herself and doesn’t see any obvious blood on her. No back-spatter on her hand holding the gun – she’d been careful to push the muzzle of the gun hard against his skull. She checks her feet. All clean. She must not track anything upstairs. She places the gun on the floor to his right-hand side, leaving the casing where it landed.

Then she flies up the stairs as fast as she can, peeling off the gloves, and flushes them down the toilet one at a time. She turns on the shower and steps in quickly, soaping herself well, shampooing her hair, as fast as she can.

When she gets out, dripping wet, she pulls on her robe without towelling herself dry and hurries downstairs, trailing drips of water behind her. She reaches the kitchen, picks up the phone and dials 911.

‘What is the nature of your emergency?’

‘My husband shot himself! Please hurry!’

‘What is your location ma’am?’

‘Seventeen Danbury Drive.’

‘Can I have your name, ma’am?’

‘Stephanie Kilgour.’

‘Is your husband breathing?’

‘I-I don’t think so.’

She needs to deal with the glass. ‘Please hurry!’