PROLOGUE
Margaret Carlisle pressed the thin ribbon bookmark between pages 127 and 128 of her dog-eared copy of "Murder on the Orient Express," taking care not to damage the already-worn spine.The book had been a gift from Harold three Christmases ago, back when she had caught the reading bug again after a five-year period of rarely even picking up a book.She'd read it at least four times since then, loving the way Agatha Christie's intricate plotting never failed to surprise her…even when she knew exactly which passenger would be revealed as the killer.
Setting the book on the mahogany side table next to her reading chair, Margaret rose and walked to the built-in bar cart Harold had installed in the corner of their home library.The room wasn't grand by any means, but it was comfortable and distinctly theirs.Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined three walls, filled with a mixture of hardcovers and paperbacks accumulated over thirty-two years of marriage.Harold's engineering textbooks and army-based action thrillers occupied the lower shelves, while Margaret's collection of mysteries, biographies, and gardening guides claimed the prime real estate at eye level.A Persian rug, inherited from Harold's mother, covered most of the hardwood floor.
The house itself was a modest two-story colonial in Riverside Estates, built in the 1980s when the neighborhood was still considered the suburbs rather than practically downtown.Margaret and Harold had purchased it when he'd gotten his promotion at the engineering firm, and they'd spent decades making it truly theirs.The kitchen had been updated twice, the master bathroom renovated just three years ago, and the front porch expanded to accommodate Margaret's growing collection of potted plants.
She selected a bottle of Pinot Grigio from the small wine refrigerator Harold had insisted on installing during the kitchen's second renovation.Margaret smiled at the memory of how he'd agonized over which chiller to get as she poured herself a modest glass.Harold was working, and whenever he got home from work and she'd had more than a glass or two, he made fun of her—not in a mean way, but in a way that often rubbed her the wrong way.It was the same sort of teasing he often gave her about the book club, actually.
Her joining the book club had been Sandra Morrison's idea, a friend from around the neighborhood—one of the good ones who had called to check in on her once a week or so when she’d started feeling ill… right after she’d started visiting the doctor more than usual.
"You need something to look forward to," Sandra had insisted over coffee at Margaret's kitchen table."Something that gets you out of this house and around other people while Harold is working."Margaret had resisted initially because the idea of sitting in a circle with strangers, discussing books like they were back in high school English class, seemed forced and artificial.But Sandra had been persistent, and eventually Margaret had agreed to attend one meeting of the Riverside Literary Society.
That had been three years ago.Now, the third Thursday of every month was marked in red ink on Margaret's calendar… and she found herself genuinely looking forward to the discussions.The group consisted of eight women, all between the ages of fifty-two and sixty-seven, all dealing with their own versions of life's transitions.They'd bonded over their shared love of psychological thrillers and their collective disdain for books with unreliable narrators.There had been a few stinkers that they’d read, but Margaret had been pleased with most of them.
Margaret settled back into her reading chair, an overstuffed burgundy recliner that she’d had since her thirties.It was a bit too masculine for the library, but now she couldn't imagine reading anywhere else.The chair had molded itself to her body over the years, providing perfect support for those long Saturday afternoons when she'd lose herself in a particularly engaging mystery.Harold often referred to it as her “throne.”
She reached for the yellow legal pad where she'd been jotting down discussion questions for tomorrow's meeting.Her handwriting had grown slightly shakier in recent months.She tried not to think about what Dr.Patterson had said during her last appointment, tried not to dwell on words like "progression" and "treatment options."There would be time to deal with all of that later.
Tonight, she wanted to focus on Hercule Poirot's methodical unraveling of the truth aboard the Orient Express.
The wine was crisp and cold, exactly the way Harold preferred it.He'd been particular about temperature, claiming that most people ruined good wine by serving it too warm.Margaret had teased him about his wine snobbery, but secretly she'd appreciated his attention to detail.It was one of the things that made their marriage work so well, his precision balancing her tendency toward spontaneity.And the good-natured jabs here and there.
She opened her legal pad and reviewed the questions she'd prepared."How does Christie use the confined setting of the train to build tension?""What role does social class play in the passengers' interactions?""Do you think Poirot made the right decision at the end?"Margaret prided herself on coming prepared to book club meetings.Unlike some of the other members who clearly skimmed the last fifty pages the night before, Margaret read every word and took thoughtful notes.
The diagnosis had changed everything, of course.During their conversation two weeks ago, Dr.Patterson had been gentle but direct, explaining the test results with the kind of clinical detachment that probably served him well in his profession.Margaret had nodded and asked appropriate questions, taking notes in the same methodical way she approached everything else.But the reality of it hadn't fully settled in yet.
A sharp knock at the front door interrupted her thoughts.
Margaret glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner of the library.It was 8:44 on a Tuesday evening.Too late for neighbors, too early for emergencies.She wasn't expecting anyone, and Sandra always called before dropping by.Margaret set down her wine glass and legal pad, using the arms of her chair to push herself to her feet.
The knock came again, more insistent this time.Three quick raps followed by a pause, then three more.Margaret walked through the library into the front hallway, her slippers quiet against the hardwood floor.The porch light was on, casting a yellow glow through the frosted glass panels that flanked the front door.She could make out a shadowy figure on the other side, but the glass was too distorted to see any details.
"Who is it?"she called through the door.
No answer.
Margaret felt a flutter of unease in her chest.She'd lived in this neighborhood for over thirty years and had never felt unsafe, but something about the silence following her question made her hesitate.
The knock came again, the same pattern.Three raps, pause, three raps.
Margaret moved closer to the door and peered through the peephole.The fish-eye lens distorted the image, but she could see someone standing on her front porch, just outside the circle of light cast by the porch fixture.The figure appeared to be of average height, wearing dark clothing, but the shadows made it impossible to determine anything else.
Her hand hovered over the deadbolt, and after a few moments, she unlocked it.She figured she could open it just a crack to see who was out there.Every instinct told her not to open the door, but curiosity battled with caution.What if it was someone in genuine need of help?
She opened the door and instantly regretted it.
Margaret opened her mouth to yell out for help, but didn’t get the time to do it before the figure was charging forward, knocking her down and hurrying into the house.
CHAPTER ONE
Kate Wise sat cross-legged on the extended lawn chair on her deck, overlooking their backyard.Her laptop was balanced on her knees as she scrolled through the final vendor confirmations for next month's wedding.The September morning was perfect for this kind of work, warm enough to be comfortable but cool enough that she didn't feel guilty about being outside instead of inside doing household chores.Out in the yard, Michael—now twenty-two months old already (somehow)—played contentedly in the grass.He was pushing his bright red toy truck around the base of the old oak tree that dominated their modest yard.
"Flowers confirmed, cake confirmed, photographer confirmed," Kate murmured to herself, checking items off her digital list.
The wedding was going to be small, just forty-three guests at the historic Maymont mansion in Richmond.She and Allen had both been married before, and they both knew that the ceremony itself mattered less than the commitment they were making to each other.Still, Kate found herself enjoying the planning process more than she'd expected.There was something satisfying about organizing all the details, making sure every element came together smoothly.
She glanced up from her laptop to watch Michael attempt to load a handful of early-fallen leaves into the back of his truck.At almost two years old, he was developing his own personality, displaying the same methodical approach to problems that Kate recognized in herself.He would stack the leaves carefully, drive the truck a few feet, dump them out, and start the process over again.Kate had watched him repeat this sequence at least six times in the past twenty minutes, and he showed no signs of losing interest.
