Anyway, Dad was 250 miles away this weekend—they must know he was in Cleveland when it happened.

Or maybe they don’t know. Maybe that’s why they’re here now.

They were here on Sunday, but maybe they arrived on the scene after Dad did.

She thinks back, but the timeline is fuzzy. Her father was on his way back from Cleveland, she remembers, before she even left Lexington. When she called him from her car as she was driving up to Cincinnati, he said he was on the road, too, heading home to check on Mom.

She told him not to bother; that she was already going; that she’d let him know if there was any reason to worry—

But of course there was already reason to worry.

Did she begin to suspect then, as she raced north up Interstate 75, that something was going to be terribly wrong at the house?

The drive, like everything that happened afterward, has become a blur in her mind.

She’d just had yet another fight with Keith. That, she remembers.

He wasn’t thrilled that she was leaving so abruptly in the middle of a Sunday afternoon when they had plans that evening to sit down and go over their finances.

That was what he claimed, anyway, calling it “a meeting.” The year was almost half over, he’d said that morning, and he was concerned about his job stability amid funding cuts to the university. He thought it was time that they made some decisions about their future; about whether they should look into selling the house, moving into a smaller place . . .

Or separate places.

He didn’t come right out and say it, but she knew it was going to come up. It wouldn’t be the first time. But it might have been the first time she might be willing to go along with it. She’d already done her homework, talked to a lawyer.

Her feelings were muddled. One moment she was sure she still loved him, and the next, she wanted him out of her life.

Sunday afternoon, as she threw some things into a bag in case she wound up spending the night in Cincinnati, he followed her around the house asking why she couldn’t have someone else check in on her mother—a neighbor, or one of her brothers.

“Because I can get there quicker than my brothers can, and I can’t reach any of their neighbors,” she lied.

The truth was, she wanted to go.

Not—to her shame, in retrospect—just because she was worried about Mom.

Of course she was, but she really didn’t think, at that point, the situation was going to be dire. She was mainly going because she wanted to get away from Keith for a few hours. She thought the drive might bring some clarity.

“But what about our meeting?” he asked as she picked up her keys and, with the bag over her shoulder, opened the door.

“It’ll have to wait till I get back.”

“When will that be?”

She didn’t answer him, just splashed through the driveway puddles to the car and drove away.

The next time they spoke, she was calling him, hysterical, to tell him that her mother had been murdered. To his credit, he made the ninety-minute trip in less than an hour and stayed by her side until last night.

Now he’s home, ostensibly checking on mail and work—but more likely on his mistress.

Meanwhile, the homicide detectives are talking to Dad, and they want to talk to her, and again the unwanted memory is trying to barge in, but she won’t let it; no, she won’t let it, because . . .

Because it means nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

Relax.

No one is ever going to know the truth.

And even if they do figure it out—that Meredith’s murder wasn’t some random home invasion gone bad—they’ll never in a million years suspect that you, of all people, had anything to do with it.

At first—in the wee hours of Sunday morning—those self-assurances brought a measure of comfort.

But in the three days since, it’s been increasingly hard to remain convinced that everything is going to be okay.

You dismiss one nagging what if—what if my fingerprints somehow came through the gloves?—only to have another pop up.

And then another.

What if . . . ?

What if . . . ?

Sleep has been all but impossible; interminable nights spent tossing and turning as fresh waves of worry seep in.

And for what? Every detail of Saturday night was well-planned in advance.

Okay—not that far in advance.

The spark of an idea ignited a while back, but opportunity to act on it didn’t present itself until about ten days ago, Memorial Day weekend, when a senile ninety-three-year-old woman happened to take a nasty fall in Cleveland.

It was Meredith herself who set things in motion by blogging about how her husband had gone up to his hometown to take care of his aging mother. The whole world now knew she was alone in the house every night for the foreseeable future.

Maybe not the whole world—but anyone who happened to stumble across her blog online.

You didn’t have to be a seasoned detective to figure out where she lived. Anyone could piece together the personal details she’d posted in her official bio and scattered throughout her blog archives.

It’s not inconceivable that someone—some stranger—might have done just that. Not inconceivable that the evil predator might have slipped into the house in the dead of night with nothing more than robbery on his mind.

The house, after all, was found ransacked.

Some valuables were missing.

One thing was left behind—for good luck.

But no one is going to notice that, in the grand scheme of things.

And Meredith—Meredith’s body was left crumpled on the floor, as if she’d gotten up to investigate a noise and surprised a prowler.

Right. It all makes perfect sense. The police are looking for a prowler, a predator, a stranger . . .

Not for you.

No one would ever in a million years guess that it was you. All you have to do is be smart and stay quiet—but not too quiet—until the whole thing blows over.

Strength Training

Battling cancer demands a certain level of fortitude. Not just physical stamina to endure symptoms and treatments, but inner strength to handle the shit storm of emotions that come your way. Getting a cancer diagnosis is like being asked to go, overnight, from couch potato to the Olympics. No, not asked—told. Because really, what choice do you have?

Your only option—unless you have a freaking death wish—is to fight. And fighting takes strength. Physical strength, yes—and you supposedly build that by taking vitamins, getting plenty of rest, exercising, and eating that crap otherwise known as health food. But emotional strength is just as important. How do you build that? Through daily challenges that include not just fighting back tears, but also counting your blessings, living in the moment, taking small setbacks in stride . . .

—Excerpt from Elena’s blog, The Boobless Wonder 

Chapter 4

Landry’s cell phone rings as she again paces the length of the master bedroom with it in her hand.

It’s about time.

Over an hour has passed since she e-mailed her number, along with a link to the Cincinnati newspaper article—LOCAL WOMAN MURDERED IN APPARENT HOME INVASION—to the three remaining online friends with whom she communicates most regularly: Elena, Jaycee, and A-Okay.

She also tried to call A-Okay at the number she’d provided earlier, but there was no answer; it went right into an automated voice-mail recording. She hung up without leaving a message. Now, looking at the caller ID to see which of the bloggers is calling back, she sees a 310 area code. That, she knows, is Los Angeles.

Guess it’s not one of my online friends after all.