The house was dark when Christine pulled into the driveway. She loaded the warm pizza box on top of her laptop computer and realized she’d probably be eating the pizza herself if Timmy was still at one of his friends’ houses. He’d come home with storybook descriptions of something they called meatloaf and mashed potatoes—food that didn’t come from a can, a box or a carton. Surely he remembered the days when she had actually fixed real dinners and had them on the table at the same time every night. She wondered if he missed their life as a family. What had she cost him for the price of her own self-respect?

She fumbled through the dark foyer until she found the light switch. For some reason the quiet sent a chill down her spine. Perhaps it was only the wind. She kicked the front door closed and made her way to the kitchen, stopping by the answering machine. No blinking red light, no messages. How many times did she have to tell Timmy to call and leave a message? There was no excuse, especially now that she had a cellular phone, although even she hadn’t memorized that number yet.

She threw her coat over a kitchen chair and piled her computer and handbag onto its seat. The pizza’s aroma reminded her how hungry she was. After Eddie Gillick’s visit at Wanda’s, she had lost her appetite and left most of her lunch unfinished.

She poured herself a glass of wine, tucked a folded newspaper under her arm and scooped up a piece of pizza, using only a napkin as a plate. Hands filled, she kicked off her shoes and padded into the living room, finding refuge on the soft sofa. No food was allowed in the living room, especially on the sofa. She expected Timmy to come in at any moment and catch her in the act.

She set her dinner on the glass coffee table and unfolded the newspaper. This evening’s paper carried the same headline from the morning: Second Body Found. Only underneath, she had now confirmed that the body was Matthew Tanner’s. Tonight’s article also included a quote from George Tillie. She found the paragraph and reread her handiwork, letting George confirm that the murders were the work of a serial killer, since Nick wouldn’t.

She had closed the article with a quote she had gotten from Michelle Tanner on Monday, a melodramatic plea for her son’s return. Christine followed the quote with, “A mother’s desperate plea has, once again, fallen on deaf ears.” Now, seeing it in print, it seemed a tad too much; however, Corby had loved it.

She flipped through the rest of the paper and scanned the readers’-comment column to see whether her name was mentioned. Suddenly, she remembered the time, frantically searched for the remote and turned on the TV, flipping to Channel Five.

As usual, Darcy McManus looked impeccable in a deep purple suit and crimson red blouse. Christine examined McManus’s silky black hair, large brown eyes, darkened even more by the eyeliner and smudge of highlight on the eyelids. The lipstick was bold, a red to match her blouse. Christine couldn’t imagine herself in McManus’s place. She’d need a whole new wardrobe, but then she’d be able to afford one with what Ramsey was offering to pay her.

She had to admit the idea of being on TV did excite her. The Omaha ABC affiliate claimed a viewership of almost a million people throughout eastern Nebraska. She’d be a celebrity and maybe even cover national events. Though she had told Ramsey she needed time to decide, she knew her mind was already made up. She couldn’t justify turning down the money. Not with bills stacking up and the remote possibility of losing their home. No, she had no room for principles. She would accept the position in the morning, but only after talking to Corby.

She finished her wine. Another piece of pizza sounded good, but suddenly she was too exhausted to move. She decided to lay her head down for just ten or fifteen minutes. She closed her eyes and thought of all the things she and Timmy would spend her new salary on. In minutes, she was fast asleep.