As for the evidence implicating her in the Lake Mondac crimes-well, there wasn’t much. She’d stolen from poor Graham’s truck everything that contained her fingerprints-the map she’d given Hart and her purse. And when she’d swapped boots with her poor dead “friend,” Michelle had wiped down her Ferragamos with glass cleaner (Brynn, leaving $1,700 Italian leather? God, I hate you).

Now, the evidence from Lake Mondac was no longer a threat. But one very real risk remained. It needed to be disposed of.

And that would happen today.

Michelle dried her toenails with a hair dryer, pleased with the results, though irritated that she hadn’t been able to get to the salon; with Hart loose she had to limit her trips out.

She left the luxurious bedroom and stepped into the living room where Rolfe sat on the couch with her daughter, Tory, five, and her son, Bradford, a skinny boy of seven, who didn’t smile much but had a wad of blond hair you just could not resist ruffling. She couldn’t look at her children without her heart swelling with a mother’s love.

Rolfe had a pleasant face and lips that weren’t too disgusting. On the negative side, he needed to lose about forty pounds and his hair smelled of lilac, which was gross. She hated his tattoo. Michelle had nothing against tats in general but he had a star on his groin. A big star. The pubic hair grew through part of it and his belly covered up another part depending on how he sat.

Oh please…

But Michelle was no complainer if the script didn’t call for complaining. Rolfe had plenty of money from his trucking company and she could put up with making her sculpted body frequently available to him in exchange for…well, just about anything she wanted.

Michelle was an expert at spotting the Sam Rolfes of the world-men who heard, saw and believed. If God gives you a lazy streak, a slow mind for school or a trade, expensive tastes, a pretty face and better body, then you damn well better be able to sniff out men like that the way a snake senses a confused mouse.

Of course, you had to be watchful. Always.

Now, seeing her son and Rolfe laugh at something the TV judge was saying, looking like father and son, Michelle was enraged with jealousy. She had a momentary urge to tell Rolfe to go fuck himself and to walk out the door with her children.

But she pulled back. However angry she became, which was usually red-hot angry, she was usually able to control it. Survival. She did this now and smiled, though she also thought, with some glee: No blow jobs tonight, dear.

She wondered if he’d been talking about her to the children. She sensed he had been. She’d interrogate the boy later.

“Something wrong?” he asked.

“Nothing,” she said and ushered her son off the couch and ordered him to get her a soda from the kitchen.

She watched Brad wander off. And the jealousy switched, finger snap, to overwhelming love.

Unable to have children, despite trying since she was sixteen, Michelle Kepler had been lucky enough to befriend a single mother in Milwaukee’s netherworld, on the pretext of volunteering with a nonprofit organization to help the disadvantaged.

HIV-positive from sex or drugs or both, Blanche was often sick and would leave her son and daughter in Michelle’s care. Despite her prescription-drug cocktails to keep AIDS at bay, the poor woman’s condition worsened fast-but she could take some solace in her written agreement to name Michelle as the custodian of the children if anything happened to her.

Which was fortunate because the woman died much sooner than expected.

A sad event.

Not long after which Michelle spent some time flushing down the toilet the six months’ worth of prescription AIDS medicines she’d withheld from Blanche, substituting Tylenol, Prylosec and children’s vitamins (which, thriftily, she also gave to the kids).

Now these two children were hers. She loved them with all her being. Doing what they were told, adoring her and-as the therapist told her in a court-ordered session years ago-validating an otherwise unremarkable life. But fuck the therapists; Michelle knew what she wanted. Always had.

In fact, one of the tragedies of that night in April-thanks to the unexpected appearance of Brynn’s husband with a gun-was Michelle’s loss of Amy, another girl she could have brought into her family. After killing Brynn and Hart (Lewis too, if Hart hadn’t done that for her), she’d have slipped away with her new daughter.

But that hadn’t worked out.

Add one more offense to Brynn McKenzie’s charge sheet.

Michelle now glanced at Tory, who was showing a picture she’d drawn to Rolfe. Michelle thought: The fat pig’s not your daddy. Don’t you dare ever think he is.

It was then that her phone rang. She noted caller ID, said to Rolfe, “I better get this.”

He nodded complacently, complimented the little girl on the picture and turned back to the TV.

Brad brought the soda for his mother. He held it out.

“Do I look like I’m on the phone?” Michelle snapped, then stepped into the bedroom. In a Latina accent she answered, “Harborside Inn. Can I help you?”

“Hi, yes. This’s Deputy McKenzie. From Kennesha County. You called about a half hour ago?”

“Oh, sure, Deputy. About that guest. The one with the suitcase.”

“Right. I’ve checked my schedule. I can be in Milwaukee about five.”

“Let’s see…could we make it five-thirty? We have a staff meeting at five.” Michelle was pleased at her performance.

I’m really an actress…

“Sure. I can do that.”

She gave Brynn the address.

“I’ll see you then.”

Michelle hung up. Closed her eyes. God or Fate…thank you.

She walked to the closet and took out a locked suitcase. Opened it. She removed her compact Glock, put it in her Coach purse. She stared out the window for a moment, feeling both nervous and exhilarated. Then she returned to the living room. She said to Rolfe, “That was the nursing home. My aunt’s taken a bad turn.” She shook her head. “God, that poor woman. It hurts me to the bone what she’s going through.”

“I’m so sorry, sweetie,” he said, looking at her tormented face.

Michelle hated the endearment. She winced. And said, “I have to go see her.”

“You betcha…” He frowned. “Who is she again?”

Cool eyes turned his way. Meaning: Are you accusing me of something, or have you forgotten my relatives? Either way, you lose.

“Sorry,” he said fast, obviously reading her expression. “Haddie, right? That’s her name. Hey, I’ll drive you.”

Michelle smiled. “That’s okay. I’d rather it was Brad and me. I’ve got to deal with it with family, you understand.”

“Well, you betcha. It’s okay for Brad to see her, you think?”

She looked at the boy. “You want to see your auntie, don’t you?” He damn well better not say that he didn’t have an auntie. She held his eyes as she took the soda from his tiny hand and sipped it.

He nodded.

“I thought you did. Good.”

BRYNN MCKENZIE GATHERED up her backpack and pitched out her second cocoa cup of the day.

Thought again about Graham and their first date. Then about the last time they’d been out together alone-at a woodsy club on Route 32, dancing until midnight. It was one week before she’d found out he was “cheating.”

Why didn’t you ask me to go with you?…

And why hadn’t he invited her to a therapy session?

“Hey, B?” a woman’s voice interrupted. “How ’bout Bennigan’s later?” Jane Styles, another senior deputy, continued, “I’m meeting Reggie. Oh, and that cute guy from State Farm’s going to be there. One I told you about.”

Brynn whispered, “I’m not divorced, Jane.”

The words “not yet” tagged along at the end of the sentence.

“I just said he was cute. That’s only information. I’m not calling the caterer.”

“He sells insurance.”