The endlessly flowing wine and tasty crudités were exceptional, but the finest thing about that evening was that none of the guests knew I was the killer.

Madeline sat in the meadow behind Hempstead Place, the delicate pattern of her summer dress lost completely in wildflowers. Father had explained Mr. Rathford was due to stop by for tea and to discuss real estate and she didn’t want to appear overly eager to see him again.

I wake up to find myself in a forest, tied to a wooden chair. I struggle to get out. Then, ahead of me approaches a figure. In the gleam of the moonlight, it is clear that he is holding a knife.

When the sun rose the next morning, Susan rubbed her eyes three more times than usual. The character of the light in her bedroom wasn’t the cool gray tone she’d grown used to over the last few weeks. But it also wasn’t golden and warm. It seemed, against all odds, to be pink.