And I have wondered, since, how many women have felt exactly that prickle and talked themselves out of it — told themselves they were being paranoid, that he loved them, that the shape in the glass was nothing — and drunk the tea.

I nearly did.

Everything in me that had loved that man for seven years wanted to drink it and be ashamed of myself for doubting him.

The only reason I am alive to write this is that a colder, older instinct overruled the love for ninety seconds and made me carry the cup to the sink.

I did not know yet what was in it.

I only knew I was not going to drink anything my husband had curled his body over in the dark.

Chapter 2 — Half Tomorrow, the Rest After the Funeral

“Half a million,” the doctor repeated, from the sitting area of the suite, and his voice was low and careful.

“You’re certain.”

My husband — Beckett — laughed, softly, the way you’d laugh at a decent joke.

“You’ll have half in the morning, before she goes in.

The rest after the funeral.”

My hand closed on the blanket so hard the rough cotton bit into my palm.

I kept my breathing slow.