The hinges groaned as I eased Bill's back door open. His familiar scent—wood smoke and that piney cologne—punched me in the gut, making my knees wobble. Breathe, Tina. Just breathe. I traced the edge of their kitchen counter, fingertips skating over chilled marble. His empty coffee mug had sat there, lipstick smudged on the rim. Not hers. Mine. From Tuesday. I had watched her toss it in the dishwasher through the window,...