Chapter 1 

Anchorage, Alaska 

What if the police figure out what happened? Will I go to jail? What will happen to Willow?

Another sob erupts. I cover my mouth to muffle the sound, close Willow’s bedroom door, and hurry back to the living room. Leonard Cohen’s “Anthem” is still playing on repeat.

Stop! I need quiet—to listen in case Willow comes out. With trembling hands, I shove the sleeping pills back in my pocket and turn off the music. Rain on the roof.

Théo is seated in the same spot. Of course he is. Slumped against the corner of the couch, eyes shut. It gives me so much comfort having him nearby; even though he’s dead, he’s still my husband.

What should I do, Théo?

His hands rest on his lap beside his phone. His wedding ring glints in the lamplight.

Clutching my abdomen, I breathe in and out, the faint scent of port in my nostrils.

Think.

Why would he send such an incriminating text? Had the drugs already affected his thinking? Or was it deliberate? He wanted me to cover it up. Nothing Théo did was accidental. He thought everything through at least twice before speaking.

Okay, Théo, I’m listening.

The rain falls harder, pummeling the snow outside. A strange calm comes over me.

Théo is guiding me. We are partners united with the focus of protecting our family of three.

I list the evidence.

The text Théo sent me.

Fingerprints on the blue Ziploc bag.

His search history.

Doctors’ reports.

…His corpse.

Outside, it’s still dark. Another Alaskan morning. Short days. Sun rises after 9:00 a.m. Not much time. I have to call 911 soon. The wall clock reads 7:56 a.m. How? He’s been dead for…hours? Adrenaline courses through my blood. They can’t prove how long I waited before calling. Can they? Must get story straight. Willow…. Should I remove her from the house? The neighbors, an older married couple from Juneau, flash through my mind. Figure that out later.

I glance at Théo’s phone. Do it. I scroll to his last sent message. Tap Delete. Rush to my room, grab my phone, and delete the text. A voice message from his mother, Yolanthe, blinks at the top of my screen. I’ll deal with her later too. I rearrange the sheets so the bed doesn’t look so torn apart.

Next: fingerprints.

Gloves? I find the oversized plastic ones in the kitchen. Ones that most nights I use for the hand-washing, while Théo loads the dishwasher and Willow plays on her iPad. A sob wells in my chest.

My family is gone.

My husband is dead.

He’s never coming back.

“Shhh,” I whisper as though to a child. And then, “Shut up, Rebecca.”

Gloves on, I wipe down the Ziploc bag. He was terminally ill, what else is there to say? He’d talked about suicide many times before…

It's a good plan. Don't overthink it. Everything will be fine. They have no reason to doubt me.

I walk to Théo, my hands shaking violently as I reach for him. “Darling, let me move you, just a little.” I hesitate. Will rigor mortis have set in? I touch his hand, a tight claw. Pry open his fingers. I slide the bag under his fingertips, wedge it into his palm. “Thank you, darling. That will help, that will—”

The doorbell rings.

A spasm of panic shoots up my spine. Who is it? How could the police already be here? They can’t come in—his dead body, illegal drugs in the house. They could charge me with manslaughter. They could take Willow from me.

It rings again, a death knell. I check the time: 8:03 a.m.