bowl by the door. Then I opened the hall closet and took down a small lockbox that had remained untouched for years.
The metal felt cold beneath my fingers.
Inside were a badge, an old credential holder, and an entire life Marcus knew nothing about.
Before I became the soft-spoken widow with pies cooling on her counter, I had been a federal prosecutor.
I had spent years facing men who believed fear made them untouchable. I knew how cruelty sounded when it assumed no important person was listening.
I also
