I laid them across the foot of my bed, smoothing the wool against the mattress until the creases were gone.

For six weeks my fingers had twitched every time my phone chimed on the kitchen counter.

Every text from Rory had felt like a little trap waiting to snap.

Tonight my hands stayed perfectly still as I picked up my black purse, checked that my driver’s license was inside and set it right beside my clothes for Saturday morning.

At seven minutes before eight on Saturday morning, a tan Buick sedan pulled into the gravel driveway.

Darla Lindstrom didn’t shut off the engine.