Amanda White lifted the lid from the electric baby bottle sterilizer and stared inside at the .22-caliber revolver. It looked like the gun was sweating, its steel frame and barrel beaded with balls of hot condensation, the steam rising gently from the base. Turning away, she found her soft leather gloves, put them on, and carefully lifted the weapon clear.

The gun had to be clean today. No fingerprints. Last night she had the idea of using the sterilizer to remove any prior trace of her DNA from the weapon. It seemed fitting somehow that one of Jess’s things should have a part in this. She was surprised that the sterilizer still worked. It hadn’t been used since Jess’s first birthday, when she’d switched her to sippy cups. She and her husband, Luis, had decided to keep the sterilizer, though, in case Jess ever had a baby brother or sister down the line.

None of that could happen now.

The heat from the sterilizer had begun to peel away the duct tape wrapped round the butt of the gun. It still felt alien in her hand. All of those days she’d driven out to the woods to practice shooting tin cans hadn’t mattered. She still wasn’t used to handling the weapon. She was a New York liberal. Anti-gun. A law-abiding taxpayer. Perhaps she was none of those things anymore. Death changes you.

When that death was your six-year-old girl and, a week later, your husband, there was more to it than mere grief. That kind of death didn’t ride alone. It brought more dark horsemen with it: unemployment, debt, addiction and pain that at times was too great to bear. Amanda’s life had imploded in loss.

She put the revolver on the dining table, dried it with kitchen towels, and loaded it with five expectant rounds of ammunition.