Before She Finds Me

by Heather Chavez

Genres: Psychological Thrillers; Suspense

Synopsis

In this shocking novel that is "both timely and emotional" and "sure to be the next big summer thriller" (Julie Clark, New York Times bestselling author), two unlikely mothers race to uncover the truth behind a horrific attack—even after it becomes clear that the truth will destroy one of their families.

Julia Bennett has worked hard to create a stable life for her daughter, Cora, in Southern California. So when Cora leaves for college, the worst thing Julia expects on move-in day is an argument with her ex-husband and his new wife. But a sudden attack leaves the campus stunned—and only Julia’s quick actions save Cora’s life. Shaken in the aftermath, and haunted by a dark secret, Julia starts to wonder: What if the attack wasn’t as random as everyone believes?

Newly pregnant Ren Petrovic has an unusual career—she’s a trained assassin, operating under a strict moral code. Ren wasn’t on campus that day, but she knows who was: her husband, Nolan. What she doesn’t know is why Nolan has broken their rules by not telling her about the job in advance. The more Ren looks into the attack, the more she begins to question: Who really hired Nolan? And why did one woman in the crowd respond so differently from all the rest?

Julia and Ren each want answers, but their searches quickly pit them against each other. One woman is a hired killer, but the other is a determined survivor. And both mothers will defend their families to the bitter end.

Release date: June 27, 2023

Publisher: Little, Brown and Company

Print pages: 336

Sample

Chapter 1

The afternoon Julia Bennett was supposed to move Cora into the dorms, she thought the worst that would happen was she would openly cry and embarrass her daughter. That, and Cora’s father would be late.

As predicted, she did get teary-eyed, and Eric was late. But she didn’t predict Eric would bring along his new wife, Brie.

In her thirty-eight years, Julia had experienced her share of Very Bad Things—in her mind, it was always capped like that—and the rational part of her understood that Brie’s unexpected appearance didn’t rise to that level. It was more a moderately irksome thing.

Still, as she watched her ex-husband and his wife of six months stalk across the lawn under a harsh midday sun, their steps plodding and in sync, Julia could nearly hear the horror movie soundtrack. She half expected Brie to drop onto all fours and skitter across the courtyard like the vengeful spirit of a girl who’d died while chained to a basement pipe.

Julia should’ve grabbed Cora then, taken her far from that wide-open courtyard. She should’ve heeded the bone chill she would later recognize as her first warning.

Instead, Julia stole a quick glance at Cora’s face to see if she’d spotted Brie, but her daughter seemed unaware of her new stepmom’s approach. Julia dug into her purse for her emergency chocolate. It had melted. Of course.

She held out the foil-wrapped square. “Squishy chocolate?”

Cora wrinkled her nose. “Tempting, but no.”

Julia dropped the chocolate back in her purse and looked around, trying to enjoy their last Brie-free moments. Anderson Hughes College had only about five thousand students, but the crowd gathered for move-in day was still enough that Julia felt claustrophobic. She liked to track the movement of those around her. Watch their faces for signs of shifting emotion. Possible danger. She’d developed the habit as a teen, but it was hard to keep watch when there were hundreds of people pressed close enough that she could feel their heat.

Anderson Hughes was also where Julia taught botany as an assistant professor. Despite the break in tuition, Cora had been slow to warm up to the school. Eventually, the arts program and the fact that her best friend, Evie Fournier, was also attending won her over. The ocean view didn’t hurt either.

Julia nudged Cora with her shoulder. “Since you’ll be on campus, we can have lunch every day.”

“We will not be doing that.”

“But I get to walk you to your classes, right?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Then what will I do with the matching T-shirts?” When Cora groaned, Julia squeezed her arm. “This is going to be so much fun.”

“Think there’s still time to transfer to San Diego State?”

At that moment, the line of families and students waiting to check into the dorms compressed. The man behind them, wearing a plaid button-up and a thick smear of sunscreen on his nose, inched closer. Julia’s skin buzzed.

She felt a sudden poke in her ribs. Then Cora nudged her a second time with their cart, containing most of her belongings. Apparently, her daughter had snuck in a couple of items when Julia hadn’t been paying attention.

Julia cocked an eyebrow. “We agreed throw pillows aren’t essential.”

“If only one of us believes that, can you really say we agreed?” Cora extracted one of the pillows and held it so her mom could read the imprinted slogan: THAT’S A TERRIBLE IDEA…WHAT TIME? “Tell me this isn’t essential.”

“It’s not essential.”

Cora made that face that got Julia every time: wide eyes and flushed cheeks that were half earnest, half Don’t test me. Then she pointed to the second pillow, still in the cart. “That other one is the cat wearing sunglasses. A cat, Mom. Wearing sunglasses.”

Julia sighed deeply. It wasn’t about the throw pillows. “You’ve made a purrsuasive case.”

“Stop.”

Julia feigned innocence. “What?”

“I heard what you did there. You punned.”

“That’s an appawlling accusation.”

The corner of Cora’s mouth twitched.

Studying her daughter’s face, Julia felt a swell of pride. Cora had been born eight weeks premature, weighing not quite four pounds. Her skin slightly fuzzy. Her bones soft. Her nails not yet fully formed. Eighteen years later, Cora remained as determined as she’d been those first weeks in the NICU. Still fighting for her place in the world. Fearing nothing. When Julia had been just a little younger than Cora, her life had been contained within a few city blocks. But her daughter’s world held no such dark boundaries.

As Julia stared beyond the crowd and toward the ocean, it was easy to imagine that Cora could do anything. Go anywhere.

That terrified Julia. The world wasn’t always a welcoming place.

Cora tapped her mom with the pillow before tossing it back in the cart. “I’m going to miss you and your corny puns,” she said.

“And I’m going to miss you and your unhealthy obsession with throw pillows.”

Cora must’ve noticed the break in her voice. “Don’t worry, Mom. I left you the one with the flying monkeys.”

Thinking of The Wizard of Oz reminded Julia of the Wicked Witch, which snapped her focus back to Brie. Closer now. Cora still unaware of her presence. Would she be okay with Brie being here? The day before, Cora had canceled what was supposed to be Eric’s day with her at the last minute. She wouldn’t say why, but Julia sensed tension between Cora and her stepmom.

Around them, the crowd undulated like a snake digesting. Julia’s skin itched again. So many people.

Deep breaths, Julia.

When the crowd spit out Eric and Brie a moment later, they were less than thirty feet away.

Julia shifted, putting herself between them and Cora. “I hope your roommate brought only a toothbrush and a blanket, because otherwise, I’m not sure you’ll both fit in the room.”

“Says the woman who packed her purse today for a monthlong trip.”

“Everything in my purse is necessary.”

“Like the melted chocolate?”

Julia’s gaze landed on Brie, less than ten feet away now. “Especially the melted chocolate.”

Cora’s eyes tracked hers, and then she saw them. Her face brightened, then clouded. Julia reached for Cora’s hand and gave it a quick squeeze. A few seconds later, Eric arrived at Cora’s side. He looked around and whistled, long and low. “This place is nice.”

Julia and Eric had been divorced for years, long before Julia had started teaching at Anderson Hughes, and he’d missed Cora’s first official campus visit. Brie had arranged a wine-tasting getaway the same week. An oversight, she’d claimed. Julia knew better.

Located in Point Loma, Anderson Hughes College was flanked by white-capped waters and scrubbed by a salty breeze. The sheer sandstone cliffs beneath it contained dinosaur fossils, or so Julia had been told. If someone had shown her a clay mold made from a possum’s bones, she wouldn’t have been able to tell the difference.

From his blond hair to his square jaw, Eric had the frat-boy-turned-finance-professional look down. Only Julia knew he’d started as a nerd. Sometimes she missed that version of him.

Eric turned his aging-frat-boy smile toward her. “Good morning, Julia.”

The smile didn’t work on her anymore. “Afternoon, actually. Morning officially ends when the little hand reaches the twelve.”

He waved off the comment and hugged Cora. Brie kept her distance behind him, looking uncomfortable at the display.

Eric eyed the overfilled cart. “I see you brought both guitars. Sure you’ll have room for books?”

Cora brightened, grinning at her father, and it occurred to Julia how long the road to this moment, this peace, had been. Eric looked so damn paternal that Julia’s breath caught.

“Mom said only the essential stuff.”

The man in plaid suddenly bumped up against Julia, and her breath hitched.

“Sorry,” he said.

She turned to find him standing next to a young woman in glasses, a strawberry blonde braid trailing down her back. Probably his daughter. Her attention focused on the sign-in table up ahead, the girl wore the same expression as Cora: contemplative and ardent. The effort of restraining her excitement was causing the muscles in her face to spasm.

Julia softened and nodded once. “It’s fine.”

When she turned to face Cora again, Eric’s arm was slung around her shoulder, and Cora was describing all the spots on campus she already loved. That left Julia and Brie to face each other in awkward silence. There were only two topics they’d ever been able to discuss for more than thirty seconds: Cora, and Julia’s poor taste in wine.

“So, screw cap or cork?” Julia finally asked.

Brie’s brow furrowed. “What?”

“Nothing. I didn’t know you were coming.”

“I hadn’t planned on it—headache—but Eric insisted.” Brie shifted. “And it’s nice to be able to support Cora on her big day.”

That last part sounded prepared.

Though the two women had met on many occasions, the same thought hit Julia each time: Eric definitely has a type. She and Brie were both tall, and they shared the same toothy smile. The same dark hair. Even the same creases at the corners of their eyes. They could’ve been the pre- and post-makeover versions of a character in a romantic comedy. Julia would’ve been the woman hiding behind her glasses, while Brie would’ve been that same woman after discovering the transformative powers of lipstick.

Julia was suddenly grateful she’d cut her hair and added highlights the previous weekend.

When she tucked a strand behind her ear, Brie scowled. “You’ve cut your hair.” She said this in the same way she might’ve said, You’ve stepped in a pile of dog shit. “Why?”

“Why’d I cut my hair?” She forced a smile. “It was easier than growing my head, I guess.”

“You had such beautiful hair.”

“Same hair. Just shorter.”

Brie stared at her for a moment, as if trying to decide whether Julia had made the comment at her expense, then made a show of checking her watch.

“How long do you think this will take?”

“Who knows?” Julia smiled brightly. “We could be here for days. Weeks, even.”

Brie craned her neck to see past the crowd. “I need coffee.”

Thank God. “The food court is on the other side of the courtyard,” Julia said helpfully.

Brie squinted and managed a reluctant “Thank you,” but when she tried to push past Eric, he looked away from Cora to touch his wife’s elbow. Julia felt an unexpected pang at the affection in the gesture. Though she’d stopped feeling more than friendly toward him long before, every so often, a memory would sneak up on her. There had been a time when she knew Eric better than anyone. Now, though they’d grown closer again in recent months, Julia remained on the edge of his life. Brie was its center.

Julia was still adjusting to that.

Eric leaned in so his mouth hovered near his wife’s ear. “You’re not leaving?”

“Just going to get a latte.”

“You couldn’t have had one before we left?” He tried to blunt his sharp tone with a smile.

Brie pulled her elbow away and whispered—loud enough that it was clear she wanted Julia to hear—“I want to be here for Cora, but maybe it’s better if I left.”

Eric looked over at Julia with pleading eyes. “Julia’s fine with you being here. Tell her, Julia.”

Julia’s irritation flared. She wasn’t about to let either of them ruin this milestone for Cora. “Why don’t you both go grab a coffee?” Silently, she added, And come back when you’ve remembered whose day we’re celebrating.

Hand back on Brie’s elbow, Eric leaned in again, his mouth inches from Brie’s ear. “We talked about this.”

Brie tried to maneuver around him, but the man in the plaid shirt scooted closer again, now forcing Brie into Julia. Brie’s expression grew panicked. Julia recognized the feeling. Maybe her skittishness wasn’t about Julia? At least not entirely. Maybe it was about the crowd. Or maybe Brie just wanted to get away from her husband. Frankly, Julia could relate either way.

Brie planted her palm against the man’s chest and gave him a slight push. His eyes widened in shock. Eric’s too.

Eric glanced down at Brie’s hand. “What the—”

Cora interrupted, suddenly as distressed as her stepmother. “Mom, where’s my phone?”

Julia turned her attention back to her daughter, whose eyes were now as wide as Brie’s.

“Did you check the cart?”

Cora continued to pat her pockets. “I wouldn’t have put it in the cart,” she said, even as she burrowed through the pile of bedding, clothing, and mementos. The cherished throw pillows were discarded onto the concrete.

Julia took out her own phone. “We’ll track it.”

“It’s a new phone, Mom.” Her pitch sharpened. She’d gotten the phone from Brie two weeks before, and two days after Julia mentioned to Eric that she’d planned the same gift. “I haven’t set that up yet.”

Julia wanted to reassure her daughter that it was just a phone, but she knew what kind of reaction that would get. So instead, she made a quick mental inventory of all the places they’d visited before getting in line earlier.

“The library. You were taking photos.” With her fingertips, Julia grazed Cora’s hand, white-knuckled as she clenched the edge of the cart. “Be right back.”

Julia turned. She took a couple of steps. Extended her hand uneasily to part the crowd. The day had started out with such promise and now—

A sudden chill shot through her.

She’d believed the same thing a few days before her fifteenth birthday, when she’d found the new pair of sneakers her parents planned to give her. A major haul, considering their financial circumstances. There had even been talk of a cake with cinnamon sprinkles. Then, a day later, her entire universe had shifted.

From that experience, Julia had grown to distrust days that were too bright. Too happy.

Or maybe it wasn’t that at all. Maybe her subconscious had already recognized a threat.

Her neck tingled a heartbeat before she heard the pop, abrupt and sharp.

In the hum of the crowd, the sound was nearly lost. No one screamed. Not right away. In those first seconds, the crowd reacted as they would to a dropped soda can or backfiring car.

They didn’t understand.

But Julia understood. She was silent too, but only so she could hear better. She knew from experience that listening was what saved you. That, and action.

The sound came again.

Pop.

At last, the crowd began to react, more out of confusion than horror, becoming one clumsy, pulsating knot.

Instincts firing ahead of conscious thought, Julia had already grabbed Cora and forced her to the ground. At first, her daughter struggled, as confused as everyone else. But then she went limp as Julia pulled her behind the cart.

Prone on the concrete, they were alone. Everyone around them remained upright.

No, not alone. The man in the plaid shirt had fallen beside them, eyes closed, hand clutching his stomach.

Julia wrapped herself around her daughter. She wedged their bodies against the cart’s undercarriage. She held on to it tightly. Prayed the crowd wouldn’t stampede.

Pop pop pop.

Julia felt Cora’s rabbit-fast heartbeat. Good. Her pulse was strong, if too quick.

Julia glanced up. Tried to find Eric and Brie.

There. Both still standing.

But how?

How was Brie still standing with that hole in her forehead? Blood trickled from it, into eyes grown flat.

Slowly, Brie crumpled on top of the man in the plaid shirt.

Julia held Cora tighter so she wouldn’t see.

Then the screaming began.

Chapter 2

Ren Petrovic selected a belly band holster from the gun shop rack and strapped it around her waist. Or, rather, the spot where her waist had been. She grimaced. In the past few weeks, her formerly flat stomach had become swollen, a tiny stranger mounting an aggressive campaign to expand its territory. Ren patted the hard lump, still indistinguishable from a big breakfast unless she wore a snug T-shirt. Unfortunately, she owned far too many snug T-shirts. Time to rethink her wardrobe, starting with her holster.

“What do you think, tiny stranger?” Ren whispered. “Belly band or shoulder holster?”

The lump offered no advice.

Ren adjusted the straps on the belly band, but its fit remained awkward. She twisted it farther back on her hip. To test the band’s comfort, she squatted until her backside came within inches of her heels. The strap cut into the flesh beneath her rib cage. She stood, adjusted, then bent again, this time wobbling on her way down. How much longer would she be able to duplicate that particular move? She already felt slightly off-balance.

Ren took off the holster and returned it to the rack. She scanned the gun shop, a habit she’d picked up from her father.

Check your surroundings. Don’t let people drift into your blind spot.

The squat shop with barred windows was located in Burbank, across from a gas station and wedged between a nail salon and a community hall. Just past noon on a weekday, she was the only customer. Even if she hadn’t been, Ren knew the squirrel-cheeked man near the register would eventually make his way to her. Since she’d entered the store a few minutes before, he’d telegraphed his intentions with frequent swipes of his tongue across his lower lip, as if she were a meal he was considering.

Even without a weapon, Ren could think of at least three ways to disable him.

Keeping the man pinned in her peripheral vision, Ren surveyed the rack. Shoulder holster or belly band? She wished the choice were an easier one, like deciding between Clostridium botulinum and ricin, two of the first poisons she’d ever studied.

C. botulinum had always intrigued her. Its toxin blocked nerve signals, which made it useful for smoothing wrinkles and treating migraines, excessive sweating, and leaky bladders—and for killing someone. Kind of hard to breathe if your muscles can’t get the message.

It wasn’t the bacteria itself that killed, of course, but the toxin the body produced in response, to protect itself, which Ren found poetic. Just several grams of it would kill everyone on the planet.

Tiny but fierce. Ren’s fingertips grazed her stomach.

She was more familiar with ricin, having used it in a couple of early jobs. She’d actually considered returning to it for her current target. Ricin was nearly as deadly as C. botulinum: while it took the pulp of many castor seeds to kill someone if eaten, only a couple of milligrams would do the trick if injected. Less deadly than botulinum, sure, but when she was on the job, Ren only ever needed to kill a single person. Two at most.

Ricin was also so much easier to get. Plus there was no antidote, and it came from Ricinus communis, a flowering perennial. She’d always loved plants.

Ren blew out a sharp breath. She would much rather have been shopping online for foxglove or monkshood, or even ricin, but she refocused her attention back onto the holsters. Someone in her line of work needed to have options.

Out of the corner of her eye, Ren saw the clerk begin his approach, and she bit the inside of her cheek to keep from scowling. When he stopped beside her, he introduced himself as Steve, despite the name tag that made the introduction redundant.

“You look a little lost,” he said. He smiled, and his teeth reminded Ren of the kernels on a cob of baby corn, small and pale yellow. “Can I help you with something?”

Ren kept her expression neutral. Always be polite. Strangers remember you if you’re rude.

“I’m good.”

“Really, it’s no trouble. Kind of why they pay me.” The corn-kernel smile stretched. “What do you carry?” He immediately held up a finger to stop her response, though she had made no move to offer one. “No. Wait. Let me guess. SIG Sauer P365, right?”

Ren didn’t have her husband Nolan’s long-range skills, so the .45 had always been her go-to gun. Specifically, the Walther PPQ 45. It was no vial of artfully crafted toxin, but as far as guns went, it had the perfect blend of capacity and stopping power. The big-bore round improved her chances of hitting an artery or an organ or something else that would bleed. The recoil was manageable too, and the grip fit well in her hand.

“Good guess,” she said dryly.

Steve’s pale-yellow grin grew smug. “I knew you were a SIG Sauer.”

Ren turned away, but Steve lingered. From the rack, he pulled out a holder intended to be worn around the waist. “This is a popular one. Or a thigh holster?”

She pictured herself: nine months pregnant and reaching around her bloated stomach to access her pistol.

When she didn’t respond, he grabbed an ankle holster. “Will it be for your primary weapon, or a backup?”

Her thoughts strayed again to her collection of powdered roots and crushed leaves. “Backup,” she said.

He waved the holster in his hand. “This one’s on sale.”

Her stare was hard, her smile thin. “I’ll consider it.” Another brush-off.

Undeterred, he shifted his gaze to her left hand. Specifically, her ring finger. Though she and Nolan had been married for close to a decade, she wore no ring.

Steve’s smile widened. Then his eyes found her stomach, and the lump that the tiny stranger made.

He pulled his eyes away from her stomach. “If comfort’s an issue, you could always stash it in a fanny pack or purse.”

Ren bit hard on her tongue. Even she knew better than to carry her weapon off-body.

“Hmm,” she mumbled.

“What about a bra holster?”

Her breasts were tender enough without being pinched. “Another interesting option.”

He finally took the hint. “Well, if you need anything…” He motioned to the counter.

“Thank you,” she said, staring at the rack and wishing it was filled with vials of powder, liquid, and pills, instead of sheaths of leather, thermoplastic, and nylon.

Ren’s phone buzzed in her pocket. She pulled it out and checked the display. Nolan.

She walked briskly toward the exit. Outside, a four-lane road carried a steady stream of traffic. Farther down the block, the wide crown of a lone oak shaded the sidewalk, but Ren stayed near the shop in direct sun, back pressed against the building’s stuccoed exterior. She hit the button to connect, catching the call right before it rolled to voicemail.

Though no pedestrians were within earshot, she kept her voice low. “Shoulder holster or belly band?”

“Shoulder holster will hold up better.” Though Nolan had spoken only a single sentence, Ren read his mood clearly. His pitch was higher than usual, verging on manic. It dripped with adrenaline.

Suddenly on edge, she spoke slowly. “Having a good day?”

“It’ll be better when I get home to you guys.”

Ren’s hand fell to where her stomach bulged. She pressed against it. It was only a small slip, mentioning the baby like that. But still, even if Nolan sometimes bristled at her precautions, he was usually more careful.

“I’m headed to the gym now, but I should be home soon,” she said. “You?”

“Give me a few hours.” His voice was husky—the way it got after a job.

They were opposites that way: after she killed someone, Ren preferred solitude. Darkness. Silence. The first time they’d worked together, Nolan had misread the blackening of her mood as guilt. Offended, she’d asked if he would think the same of a veterinarian who’d just euthanized a sick animal.

In contrast, Nolan vibrated. The need to affirm life, he said. The tiny stranger had been conceived in an Olive Garden bathroom after one of Nolan’s assignments.

Ren took a moment to respond, and when she did, she chose her words carefully. “I didn’t know you were working today.”

“Just helping a friend out.”

“A favor?” They didn’t do favors.

At a nearby stoplight, a car tapped its horn, three quick bleats. The driver on the receiving end flipped a middle finger out his window before turning left. Despite Nolan’s ribbing when she spoke of such things, Ren believed the universe returned to you what you gave it. That’s why their work was so important.

“I’ll tell you about it later. Promise.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

He chuckled. “I’m sure you will, love.” He muted the call for several seconds. When he unmuted, Ren thought she heard sirens. “Anyway, I just wanted to hear your voice, but I’ve got to go.”

The call dropped. Nolan was superstitious about goodbyes.

There had been dozens of such check-in calls over the years: I’m okay. Things went according to plan. Be home soon.

Except Nolan wasn’t supposed to be working.

Ren was struck by the same off-balance sensation she’d experienced while trying on the holster—as if she might be in danger of tipping. She planted a hand against the wall to steady herself, the warmth of the stucco transferring to her palm, and watched the cars streak by. The flashes of white, silver, blue, and black made her momentarily dizzy. Her nostrils flared as she breathed deeply, the air acrid with exhaust fumes and hot asphalt.

Though the roles within their marriage might’ve been considered nontraditional, they were still clearly defined. Nolan secured the jobs. Ren planned them.

So why hadn’t she known about this one?

Inside Ren’s womb, the tiny stranger wriggled.

Chapter 3

The salty breeze that wafted in from the sea mingled with the tang of sweat and death. Clocking the momentary silence, Julia separated from Cora and scooted toward Brie. She reached out to roll Brie off the man in the plaid shirt. She touched the other woman’s neck. No pulse. She held her fingers beneath Brie’s nose. Watched Brie’s chest for movement. She was as still as stone.

A surge of adrenaline shot through Julia. Turning back, she grabbed Cora’s face between her hands and studied it for signs of shock. Her daughter’s skin remained dry, but her eyes were all pupil. “You hurt?”

Cora’s breath quickened. She didn’t respond. Blood stained the right side of her T-shirt.

Heart thrashing, Julia lifted Cora’s hem to inspect the skin beneath. It appeared unbroken, though with its crimson smear, it was hard to be sure. She probed Cora’s side with her fingertips. Nothing. The blood must’ve wicked into her shirt from Brie’s body, or from the fallen man, who’d gone silent.

Julia found Cora’s eyes again and repeated her question. “You hurt?”

Cora shook her head slowly, but Julia suddenly noticed more blood on her arm. Gently, she rolled her daughter so she could better see the skin beneath her right shoulder. Jagged lacerations seeped blood. Had Cora’s arm scraped the concrete when they’d gone down?

An instant later, Julia recognized it for what it was: a bullet wound. Her daughter had been shot.

Cora had been shot.

Julia struggled to swallow a greasy swell of fear and an anger darker than she’d ever known. She held Cora tighter, but her daughter wriggled against her, growing agitated. “Dad?” A frantic edge to her voice. “Where’s Dad?”

Julia maintained her grip, afraid Cora might bolt, as she scanned the nearby masses for Eric. He’d been standing beside them before. Where was he now? And, more importantly, where was the shooter?

A moment later, she found Eric, hunched a few feet away, next to a forgotten throw pillow. A shoe print sullied the cat’s face. Eric was staring at his dead wife, frozen, his breaths coming in ragged bursts. Shock.

Pulling Cora along, careful not to jostle her wounded arm, Julia scuttled toward Eric. She strained to listen beyond the rumbling of the crowd. A woman a few feet away was on the phone with 911, speaking in frantic whispers.

. . .