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Chapter 52

       Chapter 53

       Chapter 54

       Chapter 55

       Sunday, November 7

       Chapter 56

       Chapter 57

       Chapter 58

       Chapter 59

       Chapter 60

       Chapter 61

       Chapter 62

       Chapter 63

       Chapter 64

       Chapter 65

       Monday, November 8

       Chapter 66

       Chapter 67

       Chapter 68

       Chapter 69

       Chapter 70

       Chapter 71

       Chapter 72

       Chapter 73

       Chapter 74

       Chapter 75

       Chapter 76

       Tuesday, November 9

       Chapter 77

       Wednesday, November 10

       Chapter 78

       Thursday, November 11

       Chapter 79

       Chapter 80

       Chapter 81

       Friday, November 12

       Chapter 82

       Saturday, November 13

       Chapter 83

       Chapter 84

       Chapter 85

       Chapter 86

       Chapter 87

       Chapter 88

       Sunday, November 14

       Chapter 89

       Chapter 90

       Chapter 91

       Chapter 92

       Chapter 93

       Chapter 94

       Monday, November 15

       Chapter 95

       Chapter 96

       Chapter 97

       Chapter 98

       Six Weeks Later

       Chapter 99

       Chapter 100

       Acknowledgments

       About the Author

       About the Publisher

SUNDAY,

       1

      HER HUSBAND’S ALMOST HOME. He’ll catch her this time.

      There isn’t a scrap of curtain, not a blade of blind, in number 212—the rust-red townhome that once housed the newlywed Motts, until recently, until they un-wed. I never met either Mott, but occasionally I check in online: his LinkedIn profile, her Facebook page. Their wedding registry lives on at Macy’s. I could still buy them flatware.

      As I was saying: not even a window dressing. So number 212 gazes blankly across the street, ruddy and raw, and I gaze right back, watching the mistress of the manor lead her contractor into the guest bedroom. What is it about that house? It’s where love goes to die.

      She’s lovely, a genuine redhead, with grass-green eyes and an archipelago of tiny moles trailing across her back. Much prettier than her husband, a Dr. John Miller, psychotherapist—yes, he offers couples counseling—and

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