I want to make one thing clear. I killed him.

I’m not going to claim it was the butler or a one-armed man. I did it. I killed my husband. All I can say in my defense is I had a good reason.

I look down at Derek, lying where I left him on the kitchen floor, his warm blood forming an uneven circle under his body. The knife is next to him, also dripping with blood and covered with my fingerprints. For a moment, I consider wiping the handle clean, but what would I be trying to achieve? This is my house. Nobody has as good a motive for killing Derek as I do. I tracked my own bloody footprints all over the carpet. Oh, and a police officer just saw me here at what I’m sure will be the approximate time of Derek’s death.

So I would say a few fingerprints are not worth worrying about.

I bend down beside him, getting more blood on my skirt, but I think we can assume the skirt is a lost cause at this point. His brown eyes are cracked open as he stares into nothingness, his perfectly chiseled features frozen. The muscles in his face are completely relaxed for the first time since I’ve known him. Even when Derek is sleeping, he’s tense. He grinds his teeth loud enough to wake me. Maybe in death, he’s achieved that total relaxation that the meditation app on his phone failed to provide. Maybe he’s finally achieved a sublime state of complete bliss.

Would it be a terrible thing to say that I hope he hasn’t achieved bliss? Would it be terrible to say that I hope he’s burning in hell right now?

Well, either way, it’s true.

And now I have to figure out my next move. As I see it, I’ve got two options:

1. Stay here and confess
2. Run

Option number one is tempting. After all, I’m already here. Inertia is powerful. And perhaps I could spin this. After all, my neighbor heard me screaming. Would anyone believe it if I told them the truth? That if Derek weren’t lying here dead, it would have been me. Him or me—that’s what it came down to.

I reach out and touch my neck. It’s still tender from where his fingers were. There will be bruises. He’s never left behind bruises before—at least not in a place anyone else could see. I can still hear his voice hissing in my face: Why are you home so early? Who were you planning to meet here?

Him or me. Maybe a jury would sympathize.

Then again, it’s not likely. Derek was well-liked by everyone in our community and also connected. He owns a business that everyone in New England has heard of. And more importantly, his family is connected. They’ve donated to every state politician currently in office, including the DA. And they never liked me. If they find out what I’ve done, they won’t rest until I’m rotting away in a prison cell for the rest of my life. They will spend every penny they’ve got to make me pay for this.

So that leaves one option: Run.

I don’t want to leave my home. Or my job at the bank. My parents are gone, but my older sister Claudia lives only twenty minutes away, and she would be devastated if I disappeared off the face of the earth. But she would understand. She knows about Derek. What he’s like.

It’s Friday afternoon. If the odds are in my favor, nobody will find out about this until Monday, when neither of us show for work. Of course, that precludes the possibility that Deputy Dwyer pays us another visit. Or my sister pops in to

say hello. Or more likely, Derek’s mother comes by for absolutely no reason at all except to count all the ways I’m an unsatisfactory wife. (To be fair, this time she would be absolutely right.)

I get up off the floor and look down at my husband’s body. If somebody comes into this house, I’m done. They will see him immediately, and the manhunt will begin. Derek’s mother has a key, because she likes to come in anytime she wants. The chances of me getting a three day head start are small. But maybe I’ll get twenty-four hours.

Of course, if things had gone differently, and I was the one lying on the ground right now, Derek could easily lift me up, throw me in his trunk, and toss me in a nearby body of water. Then he could come home and clean up the evidence. But I can’t do that. Derek has a good eighty pounds on me. There’s no way I could lift his body. He died on the kitchen floor and that’s where he’s staying. Attempting to do anything else will waste valuable time.

No, if I’m going to run, I’ve got to run right now. But first, I have to change.

I run upstairs to our bedroom. I made the bed this morning, the way Derek likes, with our Seraphina Ivory Damask bedspread folded neatly over the bed and the pillows propped up and fluffed. My mother always had me make the bed when I was a kid, but I stopped doing it as an adult. Until I got married, and I realized Derek required it. And it didn’t just have to be made—it had to be made in a very particular way, according to his specifications.

I flash back to a moment a couple of months ago, when Derek walked into our bedroom and discovered that I had folded the bedspread over the pillows, rather than under. He narrowed his eyes as I felt my stomach sink.

So this is how you leave our house in the morning? he said. Looking like a pigsty?

To be fair, the rest of the house was immaculate. I had cleaned every inch myself, because Derek did not want to

hire a housekeeper. He hated the idea of having a stranger in our house and insisted it was my responsibility. So in addition to my full-time job, I did all the cooking and cleaning and shopping.

I push aside the memory of the way Derek screamed at me that day. I stare down at the blankets on the bed, seized by a sudden irrepressible urge to mess them up, just to spite him.

But no. No time for that. I spited him enough by murdering him.

Even though there’s precious little time, I spend ten minutes stripping off all my clothing and jumping into the hot shower. There’s so much blood in the kitchen. More blood than I thought possible for somebody to have in their body, and I can’t risk having a drop on me. Wherever I end up, I have to look sweet and innocent. Bloody hands and crimson-speckled cheeks are not an option.

I turn the shower up as hot as it can go. Scalding. I let the water run over me, immune to the pain. Every time I shut my eyes, I see him coming at me.

You’ve made a fool out of me for the last time, Quinn.

His fingers closing around my neck, compressing my windpipe. Flailing around with my right hand until it made contact with the knife rack on the kitchen counter…

I swallow, and with trembling fingers, I turn up the water temperature as hot as it will go. My nerve endings are screaming, but I welcome it.

When I get out of the shower, my skin is bright red. I wrap a towel around my body and stare at myself in the mirror over the sink. Unsurprisingly, I don’t look great. My eyes are sunken in their sockets. My blond hair is plastered to my skull, cascading down my shoulders in limp clumps. Even though it’s wet, I can see the dark roots growing in— he pointed it out to me last night. Time to get to the hairdresser, Quinn. When I first met Derek, my hair was shoulder length and brown, but he liked my hair long and

blond. But even after years of being blond, it never felt like me.

Well, that’s one thing I can change now.

I can’t do anything about the color—at least not yet— but it doesn’t have to be so long. I pick up the pair of scissors from inside the medicine cabinet. Before I can overthink it, I slice my hair off at chin length. I don’t spend too much time making sure it’s even, and also, my hands won’t stop shaking, which doesn’t help matters. The entire process takes about sixty seconds. I flush all the hair down the toilet so nobody will know I did it.

There. I look a lot different with my hair so short. It’s not enough, but it’s a start.

I pack a bag as rapidly as I can—I toss in some shirts, bras, underwear, and pants. I take all my jewelry, figuring I could hock it if I need to. I also open the shoe box in the back of the closet where I’ve been stashing money whenever I can, as well as my passport. Somehow I knew I would need it for a day like today. The money isn’t much, but it will get me through a few weeks, at least. I can also hit an ATM or two, but I have to be careful about that. Every time I withdraw money, I’ll be leaving a trail the police will follow.

I get a sick feeling just thinking about it. This is my life from now on. Hiding from the police. I’ll never see my home again. I’ll never see my sister again.

But it’s that or life in prison.

After my bag is packed, I hesitate at the top of the stairwell, my stomach fluttering. I was up there too long. Too many wasted minutes. What if Scott came back to check on me? What if he didn’t really believe I was watching the movie Scream?

What if the first floor of my house is crawling with cops, waiting to drag me away in cuffs?

My sensible sneakers thump on the steps. I take them slowly, watching to see if anyone is waiting for me. My heart

is pounding. I was stupid to spend so much time up there. I should have grabbed whatever I could and run.

But the living room is silent. Just like I left it. Thank God.

I won’t make the same mistake again. I don’t bother to look around the living room and make sure I’ve gotten every last thing. Everything I own is expendable. Anyway, what would I take? A picture of me and Derek from one of our trips? No way. I want to forget his perfect, handsome, smug face.

So instead, I go straight to the garage. My blue Toyota Corolla is sitting there, waiting for me. We have a two-car garage and Derek’s Porsche is right next to my Corolla. He never understood why I didn’t want a fancy, expensive car like he had. Why would I keep the same crappy Corolla I drove back when I was single?

He didn’t get it. This car is mine. I paid for it myself, unlike our ridiculously extravagant house and furnishings. It’s the last thing I own that still feels like me.

I climb in my Corolla and start up the engine. And I run.