Richard let go of my wrist and walked over to the stool.

He picked up the bag by its strap, holding it up like a piece of evidence.

“Sarah doesn’t carry cheap canvas bags, Evelyn,” he said. “She carries Louis Vuitton.”

He unzipped the bag.

“Richard, don’t,” I said, taking a step forward.

He ignored me, reaching inside and pulling out a small, leather-bound notebook and a ring of keys.

He flipped the notebook open.

I saw his face change.

The polite, calm mask didn’t slip—it hardened.

The lines around his mouth deepened, and his eyes turned to chips of blue ice.

“Where is she?” he asked, his voice flat.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Where is Rose, Evelyn?”

He didn’t shout.

He spoke the name with a terrifying familiarity that made my stomach turn.

He knew she was alive.

He knew she was close.

“She’s gone,” I said. “She left before you got here.”

Richard looked at the back door, then at the wet footprints on the linoleum.

There were two sets of wet prints coming into the kitchen, but only one set leading toward the hallway.