Victoria’s car pulled into the driveway a little after nine.

Elena heard it from the upstairs hallway, where she stood in a clean high-necked sweater and soft pants, the wrecked sheets already stripped and replaced, the air in the master bedroom aired out as much as two open windows and an hour of careful work could manage. Under the sweater the lower bruises across her ribs ached in a deep, continuous line. Between her legs she still carried the heavy, cumulative heat of the entire stolen period—warm, thick, impossible to ignore with every small step. She had not tried to wash it away completely. Marcus had told her to leave...