She walks over to where her phone sits on the table. She dials a number and puts it on speaker.
“911. How can I help you?”
“My husband is dead. Can you please send someone to my home?”
“Ma’am, what happened to your husband?”
“He’s lying on the living room floor with multiple stab wounds.”
“I’m dispatching the police and an ambulance. Are you safe?”
“Yes. I am now,” she says.
“Ma’am, do you know who could have done that to your husband?”
“Yes. It was me. I murdered him.”
I look at my sister, Katherine. I didn’t know what the future held for us, but it was my job to protect her now.”
14
ONE MONTH LATER
Kat
The policestill haven’t found the person responsible for those men’s deaths. They aren’t any closer than when the murders took place. Just like they never found who murdered Brian and tried to kill me.
Over the past month, most of our divorce cases were because of irreconcilable differences. Cheating wasn’t mentioned. I was sure the men in this city were being extra careful because they were afraid.
“Do you think they’ll ever find the person who committed those murders?” Samantha twirls her fork around the spaghetti noodles on her plate.
I invited her over for dinner and a girls’ night since Oliver was out of town again.
“I hope so,” I say, picking up my wine glass.
“This spaghetti is amazing. I know I shouldn’t have another helping because of the carbs, but it’s too good not to.” She smiles.
“I’m happy you like it.”
After cleaning up, we refill our wine glasses and enter the living room. Samantha walks over to the painting in the corner and studies it.
“This is the creepiest painting I think I’ve ever seen. Why on earth would you buy this?”
“Honestly, I don’t know. Oliver isn’t a fan and has repeatedly suggested we move it into one of the guestrooms.”
“I agree with him. I feel like these eyes are staring into my soul.” She shudders and sits on the couch. “I’d feel like I’m always being watched if that painting were in my home.”
She has no idea.
“Oh, did Oliver give you those?” She points to the mantle above the fireplace, where a white vase holds a dozen red roses.
“He did.” I smile.
“Apology roses?” Her brow arches. Nothing gets past Samantha.
“Yeah.” I bite my bottom lip. “He didn’t get home until one a.m. the other night.”
“Why? What was he doing?”
