Every morning Elena had woken and thought at least she is with Richard, at least she is safe, her daughter had in fact been living in the house of the man who had murdered to put her there, sleeping under his roof, eating at his table, calling him uncle.

The comfort had been a lie the whole time, and worse than a lie, it had been the very mechanism of the crime, because Richard’s guardianship of Chloe had not been a kindness he offered in the aftermath of tragedy.

It had been the prize.

It had been the entire point.

There is a special darkness reserved for crimes committed not in passion but in patience, and what Richard Cole had done belonged to that darkness completely.

A murder committed in a moment of rage is a terrible thing, but it is at least a human thing, a person overwhelmed, a will broken by fury.