Monday, October 29, 2018, 9:15 a.m.

O

n her third mug of coffee, Nora stood at the counter, gazing at the breakfast dishes in the sink. The leftover bits of frozen waffles. Clots of syrup. Splats of milk.

Dave hadn’t eaten, said he’d grab something at the office. In the month since Paul’s death, Dave had dropped ten pounds. His clothes hung on him. He’d gotten substitutes for his tennis games every single week. She wondered what to do for him. Obviously, he couldn’t go to a therapist and talk about what was wrong. “I killed a guy and I feel terrible.” Time would help. Dave’s devastation about Barbara, his guilt about Paul—all of it would fade with time.

Until then, she’d keep cooking comfort food. Roasted chicken and potatoes. Soothing food. Certain dishes made life seem normal and safe: meat loaf, roast beef, spaghetti and meatballs, chicken pot pie. She was listing the foods that she found reassuring when the doorbell rang. Nora set her mug down beside Sophie’s half-empty glass of chocolate milk. Was it the police? Had she left some thread of evidence in Paul’s secret room? A fingerprint? Were they going to arrest her? Or Dave? Both of them?

Nora bit her lip. She could run out the back door. Or not answer the bell. Just stay silent and quiet by the breakfast plates with the uneaten waffle pieces and not move, not breathe, not make a sound until they went away. But what if they had a warrant? What if they broke the door down and found her standing by the kitchen table? Or was that just on television? Speaking of television, they probably could hear hers through the door. Probably assumed she was home, since it was on.

The bell rang again. They weren’t going away. How could she answer now? She’d waited too long. It would seem suspicious to answer entire minutes after their first ring. Never mind. She could say she’d been upstairs and hadn’t heard the bell. Or she’d been washing dishes, and the water must have drowned out the sound the way it had drowned Barbara. Then again, if the sound had been drowned out, she wouldn’t know that she’d missed their first doorbell ring. She didn’t need to explain anything.

She started for the door. And stopped after a couple of steps. Oh God. If they arrested her, what would happen to Sophie and Ellie? Would Dave confess to killing Paul? Would they both go to jail? Dave’s brother would take the kids, so the girls would have to move to Jersey and be raised by Sheila, his whiny wife. But maybe she wouldn’t go to jail. Dave would get them a good lawyer. For now, she’d just answer the door, play innocent and helpful. Find out what they knew and figure out a reasonable explanation for whatever evidence they’d found. It was doable. She could do it.

The walls, the hallway, the furniture shimmied, telescoping the front door, large and stark and ominous. She drew a breath, let it out. Floated forward. She reached out, turned the knob and pulled, closing her eyes for a moment, and opened them, prepared for a plain-clothes detective with tight buttons and bumps from shaving, or two detectives, both grim faced.

But no one was there. No detectives or uniforms. The porch was empty.

Out front, an engine revved. Nora leaned out the door, saw a FedEx truck pull away.

And on the stoop, a package.