DOMINIC

I poured Andrea’s coffee myself the next morning, because a man who pours a woman’s coffee is not a man who suspects her, and I needed her believing that.

She came into the dining room at seven, the way she did every morning, and I slid the cup across to her side of the table and watched her take it with a small surprised smile. What it meant was that I’d spent half the night deciding I couldn’t kill her.

“You’re up early,” she said.

“I had things to think about.” ...