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Oh God, thank you, Shania.

Hands wrench me away from Patrice. Surprisingly strong hands, ripping me from Patrice’s grip and then yanking the duct tape from my mouth. I double over, gulping breath.

Shania is still screaming. Still screaming “No!”

I shake my head to tell her I’m okay. Then my vision clears, and I see her running at me, the spade in hand. I manage to fall to the side before she reaches me, but she’s not aiming for me. She’s aiming behind me. At the person who really did free me from Patrice’s grip.

Cirillo lets out a sound, half anger and half shock. I twist to see him almost dodge the spade, the blade skimming his shoulder. He grabs it in both hands and wrenches it from Shania.

“What the hell are you doing?” he shouts. “It was trying tokillher.”

“Itis Patrice Jones,” Shania snarls, hands out as if she’s still holding the spade. “Itis a friend Nicola betrayed.Itis a woman who died in a mental ward because of Nicola.”

I struggle to find my voice, and when it comes, it’s a raw croak. “No, Shania. I don’t know what you read online, but I told the court exactly what I saw that night. Nothing more. I never said I saw Patrice holding a knife. I never said she killed Heather.”

“Liar!” she spits at me. “You are such afuckingliar.”

Cirillo says nothing, but I can feel him behind me, cutting at my bonds in silence, letting Shania rave while he gets me free.

“I’m not lying,” I say. “Read the trial transcripts.”

“I know the truth. I didn’t read that story online. She told me. She told meeverything.”

I got still. “Patrice? Has her ghost been talking to—”

“Her ghost?” Shania’s high-pitched laugh rakes down my spine. “You’re so self-absorbed you never look beyond your own little life. I tested that when I told you my sister died of an infection. If you gave two shits about Patrice, you’d know she died two years ago of a staph infection. A simple cut on her hand. That’s what killed her.”

I stare as the pieces try—and fail—to jam together. “You’re…?” I shake my head. “No. Patrice had a brother, but you’re too young to have been him.”

Her shoulders convulse, as if I struck her. Then her face twists. “You lying bitch. Don’t pretend Patrice didn’t tell you about me.”

I rack my brain for any memory of Patrice mentioning a much younger sibling. Then it comes. Something she said once when Heather and I invited her to the movies.

Can’t. Gotta look after my mom’s new brat.

Patrice’s parents had been divorced, and she spent most of the school year with her father and his second wife. Her mother had remarried and had a baby.

A baby who would have been about thirteen years younger than us.

“I’m sorry, Shania,” I say, voice soft. “I forgot Patrice had a much younger sister. She absolutely did talk about you. And I’m sorry if she felt I’d done something to her, but please read those transcripts. I—”

“You murdered Heather. That’s what Patrice said.” She looks around the room. “Patrice? I know you’re here. I brought you here to make this right.”

Cirillo leans toward my ear. He’s been silently working on my bonds, and when I glance at the floor, I see the steak knife is gone.

“Keep her occupied,” he whispers. “Just keep talking.”

“Shania?” I say. “You want Patrice to confront me. I get that. You’ve summoned her—”

“Me? I didn’t summon her. Dr. Cirillo did.” Her lips curve in a smile. “Who do you think is in that box, Nicola? Not your sainted husband. I dumped his ashes in the trash back at your condo. I swapped out the ashes after convincing you to bring them here.”

I blink, and the world seems to slow as I process what she said. As I struggle to fully comprehend what she means. When I do, something inside me shatters.

Two minutes ago, I truly thought I was about to die, but this is what breaks me.

How many times had I told myself it wasn’t Anton in that box? It’s not, but that box represented my final promise to my husband. A promise that I’d find a place for his remains to rest. I would protect them. I would look after them.

And Shania dumped them in the trash.