Page 87 of Trust No One

My first real sin had been breaking into my father’s liquor cabinet. He’d died days earlier, and it was now just Mom and me.

The first glass had tasted toxic. But the slight buzz that followed eased so much of the loss that I went back the next night. I’d quickly learned the art of using mixers, and soon I was swallowing orange juice and bourbon. When the bourbon was gone, I turned to the whiskey. Each night was more peaceful, and each brought a pounding headache that made the early-morning sunrises unbearable.

And then came the night when I’d combined what was left on the bar and whatever painkillers I’d found in Mom’s room. I wasn’t thinking about dying. I just craved numbness as I reached for the blade and slid it over my wrist.

As my eyes drifted closed, I’d reached for a knife on the bar.

My next memory was of the emergency room. A tube down my throat, the cramp of my stomach as it ejected all its contents, my wrist bandaged.

That’s how I ended up with a “gap” year. The camp in Montana. We never spoke of it again, but I could feel the weight of Mom’s guilt.

Carefully, I traced the faint scar on my wrist. If I’d cut a little deeper . . .

Maybe my entanglement with death was why I liked Amy. I understood loss. Loneliness.

The winds outside picked up, rattling against the windows. There was an anxious silence in the house. From downstairs, my phone rang, echoing against plaster walls. I hurried down the stairs and dug my phone out of my purse.

It was the hospital. Dr. Webber couldn’t get ahold of Gabe. The bulleted facts she fired off were simple:

Maria’s damaged heart had failed.

She’d coded.

They’d rushed in crash carts.

Six people worked on her for over an hour.

Did everything they could.

But she’d slipped away.

Maria was dead.

Chapter Thirty-Four

Raine

Tuesday, October 20, 2026, 9:00 p.m.

Death and administrative details went hand in hand. I had practice at both, thanks to my parents. I knew what calls to make.

But instead of acting, I just sat on a kitchen chair, staring at my phone. I couldn’t think who I should call first.

Judson must know, of course. Maria’s death had escalated the charges from attempted to premeditated murder. I pictured the prosecutor explaining to a jury how cyanide doesn’t just pour itself into a woman’s wineglass; even when consumed in small doses, it wreaks havoc on the body. He’d detail how it would cramp the belly. Rattle the mind. Rip heart muscles. That this death would feel like drowning.

Maria’s death would toss a wrench into Gabe’s bail plan. Would the judge require more money?

I dialed.

“Judson,” I said when he picked up.

“You’ve heard?” His voice was deep, graveled.

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry.”

We were in the shocked stage. Anger, sadness, and regret would follow, but right now I was blissfully numb. “Are you doing an autopsy?”