And the disturbing drawings, the strange dolls. That wasn’t Otto. That was also me.

“It was Dad,” he says, shaking his head.

I realize that my hands are shaking, my palms sweaty. I rub them against the thighs of my pajama pants, ask Otto again what he said.

“Dad was here,” he repeats, “in the backyard. Shoveling.”

“Are you sure it was your father?” I ask.

“Why wouldn’t it be?” he asks, put off by my questions now. “I know what Dad looks like,” he says.

“Of course you do,” I say, feeling light-headed and breathless. “Are you sure it was in the backyard that you saw him?”

I’m grateful that he’s speaking to me. After his disclosure this afternoon, I’m surprised that he would. I’m reminded of his words. I’ll never forgive you. Why should he? I’ll never forgive myself for what I’ve done.

Otto nods his head. He says out loud, “I’m sure.”

Will was shoveling the lawn? Who in the world shovels grass?

I realize then that Will wasn’t shoveling. He was digging through the snow for the knife.

But how would Will have known about the knife? I only told Officer Berg.

The answer comes to me, shaking me to my core.

The only way Will would know about that knife is if he was the one who put it there.

WILL

Sadie is quickly working out that my story is full of holes. She knows someone in this house killed Morgan. She knows it might be her. With a little sleuthing, she’ll soon discover—if she hasn’t already—that I’m the puppet master pulling the strings. And then she’ll tell Berg.

I won’t let that happen. I’ll get rid of her first.

After she ate, Sadie went upstairs to wash up for bed. She’s tired, but her nerves are frayed. Sleep won’t come easily tonight.

While the pills she takes are placebos only, that doesn’t mean that the pills I pick up at the pharmacy—those I save for a rainy day—aren’t the genuine thing. Combine them with a little wine and, voilà, I have myself a deadly cocktail.

The best part of the plan is that Sadie’s mental state is well documented before we came to Maine. Add to that the discoveries of the day and it wouldn’t be such a stretch to think she might want to kill herself.

A murder meant to look like a suicide. Sadie’s words, not mine.

I find the pills high above the kitchen cabinets. I use the mortar and pestle to crush them. I run the sink to lessen the sound. The pills aren’t exactly easy to dissolve, but I have my ways. Sadie has never been averse to a glass of wine after her pills. Thought she should know better because such things don’t mix well.

What I’m anticipating is some form of respiratory distress. But who really knows. There’s a whole host of things that can go wrong with a lethal overdose.

I draft a suicide note in my mind. It will be easy enough to forge. I can’t live with myself. I can’t go on this way. I’ve done a horrible, horrible thing.

After Sadie is dead it will be just the boys, Imogen and me. This is quite the sacrifice I’m making for my family. Because as the breadwinner, Sadie is the one with the life insurance policy. There’s a suicide clause in it, which says the company won’t pay out if Sadie kills herself within two years of the policy going into effect. I don’t know that she’s had it two years. If she has, we’re due a lump sum of five hundred grand. I feel a ripple of excitement at that prospect. What five hundred thousand dollars could buy me. I’ve always thought I’d like to live in a houseboat.

If she hasn’t had the policy for two years, we’ll get nothing.

But even then, I reassure myself, it’s not as if Sadie’s death will be for naught. There’s still much value in it—most important, my freedom. There just won’t be any financial gain.

Momentarily I stop crushing the pills. The thought of that saddens me. I think that perhaps it’s best to shelve Sadie’s suicide until I’ve looked into the policy. Because a half a million dollars is a lot to waste.

But then I reconsider. Silently I scold myself. I shouldn’t be so greedy, so materialistic. There are more important things to consider.

After all that Sadie has done, I can’t have my boys living with a monster.

SADIE

Why would Will bury a knife in the backyard? And what reason would he have to dig it up and hide it from the police?

If he took the knife, did he take the washcloth, too? The necklace?

Will lied to me. He told me he picked Tate up from school and then came home, but it happened the other way around. Will knew about my condition, this way I have of transforming into someone else, and he didn’t tell me. If he knew there was a potentially violent side of me, why didn’t he get me help? You were never boring, he said, such a glib thing to say in light of what I know now.

Will is hiding something. Will is hiding many things, I think.

I wonder where the knife is now. Where the washcloth and necklace are. If the police did a thorough search of our home, then they’re not here. They’re somewhere else. Unless Will had these things on his own person while the police searched our home and he hid them afterward. In which case, they may be here.

But if I’m the one who killed Morgan, why would Will hide these things? Was he trying to protect me? I don’t think so.

I consider what Officer Berg told me, that Will called him and retracted his alibi for me that night. Will said he wasn’t with me when Morgan was killed.

Was Officer Berg lying, as Will said he was, trying to pit us against each other?

Or did it happen as Officer Berg said? Was Will incriminating me?

I consider what I know about Morgan’s murder. The boning knife. The threatening notes. You know nothing. Tell anyone and die. I’m watching you. This is helpful, but unthinkable. Because I can’t get the idea of Erin and Morgan as sisters out of my mind. It’s the most damning evidence of all. Because they’re both dead.