She arrived twenty-two minutes later in leggings, boots, and a raincoat thrown over pajama shorts, hair twisted up in a clip like she had sprinted out of bed. She let herself in with the spare key from the potted fern by the porch, took one look at the table set for two, the untouched Wellington, the candles burning down their sides, and muttered, “Oh, these people are going to wish they had chosen another victim.”
That was Cassie. No soft pity. No panicked questions. Just immediate recognition that something wrong had happened and someone was going to pay.
She blew out the candles, took the wine bottle from the table, and poured two enormous glasses.