“I don’t know.”

She put the phone back exactly as she found it. Then she went to the guest bathroom, sat on the edge of the tub, and stared at her own reflection. Forty-two years old. Still beautiful, she’d been told, though the beauty had turned sharp, like something that could cut you if you touched it wrong. She was a criminal defense attorney—she had spent two decades picking apart lies for a living. And yet the biggest lie had been sleeping next to her for over a decade.

Bruno’s jaw tightened. “The door was unlocked. I went up to the second floor. There was blood in the hallway. Not a lot, but enough. And Fabiana’s earring. This one.”