• • •

When Carrie heard John whispering on his phone in the bathroom, she wondered, not for the first time, if he was hiding something too. Was that why he’d asked if she was having an affair? Was that why he had been so jealous at college—because he was cheating on her? Because he was, as Dr. Kenney would say, projecting? After all, except for one summer he’d spent in Europe during which they’d agreed to see other people if they wanted to, they’d been together since their freshman year of college. Was that normal? It was for a woman, maybe, but not a man. His friends had teased him, told him he needed two bachelor parties before he got married, just to deepen his experience. And the only other couple they knew who had met in college—Courtney and Justin—were divorcing over infidelity.

So she stood outside the bathroom door, listening to him running the bathwater to cover up his conversation. Please, she thought, you can do better than this! When was the last time you took a bath, John? Then her heart sank with the answer. With Ben. The two of them, covered in bubbles, laughing. Ben, who always laughed at everything John said or did. Ben, who on bath nights waited by the door at six o’clock like a puppy, watching for John’s car. Ben, who used his hands to turn John’s head back to him whenever it turned toward Carrie. Ben, who always wanted John after a long day with Carrie. Dada, learned months and months before Mama.

She could pick up only every second or third word, but a few of them were clear: Funeral. Flowers. Danielle. She sighed. He was only talking to Carrie’s mother, but it still annoyed her, as he’d known it would. They’d already called Florida the day before and told Carrie’s mother everything they knew. John had dialed the phone, then had put Carrie on. Carrie had told her mother she could stay in the guest room if she wanted and that John was arranging a hotel room nearby for his parents, even though they lived just twenty-five minutes away. Had told her yes, she could be in charge of flowers and food, because organizing things like that was Danielle’s strong suit. If her mother hadn’t been a real estate agent, she could have been a wedding planner, Carrie always thought. And now, a funeral planner. But she hadn’t had the heart to mention to her mother, who always offered to do, to go, to fix, that it was all done. The photo boards, the menu, the playlists. She’d done it all, months ago, to keep herself busy. She’d figured she would fall apart the day she found out he was dead and be grateful she’d done it when she was feeling stronger. When she was celebrating, remembering Ben, full of hope, that was the time to pull it all together. It had all made sense. And her mother, her organized mother? She would understand. She would understand and promptly find something else to do. Picking weeds. Sweeping floors. Filling flower boxes.

But John had clearly called to tell Carrie’s mother something else—something that he didn’t want his wife to hear. Like that Carrie was seeing things. Communing with the dead. Or worse: lying about it all. Pretending, to throw off the trail. And the next step, she knew: If she could lie about this, couldn’t she lie about everything?

She pulled on skinny white corduroys and an old blue sweater. She hadn’t eaten much, and the pants slid down her hips, so she added the needlepoint belt that Libby had given her, knowing it would make her happy.

More police would be there soon enough, doing a more thorough search, combing through their house. Poking around in their bureaus, turning up their noses at their knickknacks, sniffing their soaps, making something out of nothing. She wasn’t about to stick around and watch.

She went downstairs and grabbed her light, quilted coat, tiptoed out, didn’t leave a note.

John wasn’t the only person who could be secretive.