All I could do was watch as he put bottles of water and packets of peanut butter crackers, plus a couple of apples and a banana, on the table near the door, his back to me.

Eddie killed Blanche.

He killed her, and he could kill me.

Eddie, my husband, my partner. The man I thought I knew so well. Who smiled at me the day we met with such sweetness in his eyes. Who always listened so carefully when I talked about my day, my business, my dreams. Who remembered little, silly things—like my favorite hot sauce or how I always liked my coffee with one regular sugar, one Splenda.

That man, my Eddie, was a murderer.

If I think too much, I feel like screaming, and I’m afraid if I start screaming, I’ll never stop, so instead, I’m taking deep breaths, even though the pattern—in for four, hold for four, out for six—reminds me of the yoga class Blanche and I took together just last month.

God, one month ago. It already feels like another lifetime.

Eddie didn’t speak to me, just set the food and water down, then went back out the door, and when he was gone, I laid down on the floor and cried, shaking so hard that my teeth chattered together.

How had I married a monster and never seen it until it was too late?

* * *

FOUR DAYS AFTER BLANCHE

Today, Eddie came in again, more water, more food, and this time, I tried to talk to him, but as soon as I said his name, he held up a hand, his face closed to me.

It was like looking at a stranger who shared Eddie’s familiar features. This cold, dangerous man was no one I knew, and when he left, all I felt was relief. This time, there were no tears, no shaking. Maybe writing all this down is helping after all.

* * *

SIX DAYS AFTER BLANCHE

It’s been two days since Eddie was last here, and in that time, I’ve felt myself growing calmer, saner.

I still don’t understand what his plan is, or why he’s keeping me here, why I’m not at the bottom of the lake with Blanche. But there has to be a reason, and I’m going to figure it out.

I have to be smart.

Smarter than Eddie.

It’s the only way I’m getting out of this alive.

Bea didn’t mean to be late, but traffic was bad and the rain hadn’t helped.

By the time she slides into the booth opposite Blanche at their favorite restaurant, La Paz, Blanche is already on her second margarita and the chip basket is nearly empty.

As soon as she sits down, Blanche signals the waiter, pointing to her glass, then to Bea, who tries not to be annoyed. She does usually get a margarita, it’s just that tonight, she hadn’t planned on drinking.

And she clearly doesn’t do a great job of hiding that annoyance because her voice is sharper than she’d intended when she says, “A three margarita Tuesday, huh?”

Blanche just shrugs and drags another chip through the little blue dish of salsa. “Smoke ’em if you got ’em!” she says, bright and, to Bea’s ears, fake.

Something has been off with Blanche lately, but Bea can’t figure out what it is. It might be Tripp; he and Blanche have only been married a year, but there’s already a brittleness there, a tension. Just last week, Bea went over to their house for drinks, and had to sit through two hours of the two of them steadily chipping away at each other, flinging little barbs, little insults wrapped in affection.

And sitting across from Blanche now, Bea sees that Blanche’s eyes look a little puffy, her skin a little dull. She wishes she hadn’t made that crack about the third margarita.

When their drinks are set in front of them, Bea picks up the heavy glass with its salted rim and touches it to Blanche’s. “To us,” she says. “And not drinking those sugar-bomb monstrosities from El Calor anymore.”

That makes Blanche smile a little, as Bea had hoped it would. El Calor had been the cheap Mexican place near Ivy Ridge, the school she and Blanche had both attended as teenagers. They’d gone in nearly every Friday night, long before they’d turned twenty-one, and ordered the most obnoxious margaritas on the menu, frozen concoctions that came in giant bowls and were bright red or blue or neon green, colors that stained their lips and teeth.

Bea still has a picture of her and Blanche their senior year, sticking out their tongues for the camera, Blanche’s purple, Bea’s scarlet, their eyes shining with alcohol and youth.

She loves that picture.

She misses those girls.

Maybe tonight is the chance to recapture a little of that?

But then, Blanche lifts her menu and Bea sees the bangle around her wrist.

Without thinking, she reaches for Blanche’s hand, and examines the bracelet. It’s pretty, a thin silver circlet with a dainty charm—Blanche’s zodiac sign, Scorpio, picked out in diamonds.

“We have something similar to this coming out next year,” Bea says, turning Blanche’s wrist so she can better see the bracelet. “But we did an enamel backing on the charm, and we’re offering colored stone options. I’ll get you one.”

Blanche jerks her hand back, her elbow nearly upsetting her drink, the movement so sudden, so aggressive, that for a beat or two, Bea doesn’t pull her own hand back and it just hovers there over the chips and salsa.

“I like this bracelet,” Blanche says, looking at the menu and not meeting Bea’s eyes. “I don’t need another one.”

“I just thought—” Bea starts, but then she drops it, picking up her own menu instead, even though she always orders the same thing.

So does Blanche, but you’d think the secrets of the universe were encoded among the various descriptions of burritos and enchiladas, that’s how intently Blanche is staring at her menu now.

The silence between them is heavy and awkward, and Bea tries to remember the last time she felt this way around Blanche. Blanche, who’s been her best friend since she was a nervous fourteen-year-old, away from home for the first time, trying to fit in at a new, fancy school.

Once the waiter has taken their orders—the usual for both of them, Bea’s enchiladas verdes, Blanche’s tortilla soup—that same silence returns, and Bea wonders if she’s going to be forced to scroll through her phone when Blanche says, “So, how’s the guy?”

Another spike of annoyance surges through Bea.

“Eddie is fine,” she says, putting extra emphasis on his first name, which, for some reason, Blanche never wants to use. He’s always “the guy,” occasionally “that guy,” and once, at a lunch with some of their friends from Ivy Ridge, “Bea’s little boyfriend-person.”