Only for a fleeting second, perhaps just long enough to see a human shadow standing over her, but . . .

There’s a chance that she saw me. That she knew.

Even if she saw, though, there would have been no time for her to comprehend.

It’s over in the next second.

The towel swishes over her head, her face . . .

Not for the purpose of covering her eyes, but to contain the inevitable spatters caused by the pan crashing down on her skull.

Blunt force trauma to the head.

She isn’t dead yet. Just unconscious. She has a faint pulse when she’s moved to the floor.

The towel comes off and the job is swiftly finished with another strategic blow.

It had to happen, and yet . . .

It’s hard to see her lying there like that when it was over. So hard . . .

But there’s no time for remorse.

The plan. Stick to the plan.

It can’t appear as if she’d been attacked in her bed while she was sleeping. No ordinary robber would do something like that. That would be a red flag for the police that the motive for the break-in had been murder.

It has to look as though Meredith interrupted a robbery, provoked the intruder.

The headboard is clean, thanks to the towel, but the bedding has to be changed.

The sheets are replaced with a clean set from the cedar chest at the foot of the bed. A brand new pillow and identical bedspread—purchased just yesterday at Macy’s—are swapped for the slightly bloodied bedding. There’s a small spot of blood on the mattress, too, but bleach takes care of that.

When they investigate, they’ll have no reason to strip off the spotless sheets and test the mattress for blood, will they?

Will they?

Too late to second-guess now.

The plan. Stick to the plan.

The soiled bedding is hastily packed into a garbage bag, to be tossed into a Dumpster a hundred miles away.

The final touch: a new necklace to replace the thin silver chain visible beneath the open placket of Meredith’s nightgown. That one had a heart-shaped locket with a photo of her three children when they were young.

It’s tempting to leave it on, but that might arouse suspicion. Meredith conveniently informed the blogosphere that she always sleeps in her jewelry, but two necklaces?

No, she just needs one.

For good luck.

“It’s going to be okay. You’ll be at peace now, and someday we’ll see each other again . . .”

Off comes the locket. It goes into a bag, along with the contents of the jewelry box on the bureau, and—of course—her laptop and phone.

Those are key. The files need to be purged of any damaging evidence, communication that might prove incriminating down the road, if things don’t go according to plan.

The plan.

Jewelry . . . electronics . . .

What else might a burglar want to steal?

There aren’t many valuables in this modest household.

Slowly, steadily, the crime scene is staged.

Slow . . .

Steady . . .

At last, it’s over.

Only now are nagging details popping up, triggering second thoughts.

Only now does the necklace left around Meredith’s neck, with its small cameo made of delicate tortoiseshell, seem like a bad idea.

It was a vintage piece. Rare. Valued by collectors.

Only the most discerning eye would know that, but still . . .

It was a risk, leaving that final gift behind with Meredith.

Looking back, perhaps it was a foolish one.

But it was a risk I had to take. I had to protect her.

And now . . .

Now I have to protect myself.

“We Need to Go Beyond a Cure. We Need to Stop People from Ever Getting Breast Cancer in the First Place.”

The title of this post is a quote from Dr. Susan Love. Fitting, because today, October 1, the Dr. Susan Love Research Foundation is launching HOW, the Health of Women Study. A worldwide, long-term online study open to women and men eighteen years and older with or without breast cancer. By compiling and studying answers to questions about one’s health, family, job, and other topics, researchers will gain a better understanding of breast cancer and its possible causes.

By registering online at HOW you can help put awareness into action. There is no cost or permanent obligation. Once registered, you’ll receive periodic questionnaires that you can fill out at your convenience. If you’d rather not participate at any point, you can opt out of further communication. There’s no down side. Your privacy is protected and your answers may contribute to the future prevention of breast cancer.

For the most part, breast cancer takes us by the hand and leads us down a path of its own choosing. We stare it down with treatment and surgery, hoping for many more years, but by participating in HOW, we’re doing something more than waiting.

We’re actively helping researchers figure out a way to stop breast cancer once and for all.

So no one need look over their shoulder ever again.

—Excerpt from Jaycee’s blog, PC BC

Chapter 5

It’s been a long day and a longer night, with Rob golfing after work and the kids out of the house. They both left right after gobbling down the pizza Landry ordered for dinner. She herself couldn’t eat a thing. Her stomach has been churning all day.

After rattling around the place alone for a few hours, unable to lose herself in mindless housework, magazines, or TV, she decides to see if a good book might make her forget about Meredith for a little while.

Curled up in the corner of the living room, in a lamplit overstuffed reading chair, she picks up the e-reader Rob and the kids bought her for her birthday in March.

Until then she’d resisted digital books, insisting that she preferred to hold good old-fashioned bound paper pages in her hands.

“Come on, Mom, get with it. You’ve learned how to do everything else electronically. You’re even blogging!” Addison pointed out. “You’ve come a long way from the person who couldn’t figure out how to check our elementary school homework assignments online.”

That was true. And while she continues to buy print books as well, she’s been surprised to find that the electronic device has come in handy for reading in bed on restless nights or when Rob turns out the light earlier than she’d like. Even better, it allowed her to pack a pile of beach reads into her carry-on for Easter week in Playa Del Carmen.

The thought of that trip brings to mind, yet again, the prospect of traveling up to Cincinnati for Meredith’s funeral.

She manages to resist the urge to check the Web for updated information about the arrangements, or updates on the investigation. She’s been looking every so often—more often, perhaps, than is healthy—and so far there’s been nothing.

This afternoon she had a brief e-mail from Elena, who thanked her for sharing the grim news. She said she has to work straight through until tonight and will call if it isn’t too late when she gets home.

There’s been nothing more from Jaycee. She’d tried calling A-Okay again right before she ordered the pizza. Once again the line went into voice mail.

Forget it. Stop thinking about it for a few minutes, will you?

She focuses on the e-reader. Last night she’d left off in the middle of a trashy celebrity tell-all she’d been too self-conscious to buy in Page & Palette, her favorite bookstore in Fairhope, where everyone on the staff knows her name and probably expects her to purchase more highbrow literature. She’s been fascinated by Hollywood gossip from the time she was a little girl playing Movie Star dress-up games in her mother’s closet.

But tonight, distracted, all she can think about is Meredith. Meredith frightened, Meredith hurt, Meredith dying.