The soup was made with love. The love was the problem.

I catalogued sixty-three facts about Isla Chevalier before she hugged me. The ring she twists on her right hand, her mother's, not her own. The half-second she holds on too long when we embrace. Women who tip forty per cent are women who need to be liked by everyone in the room.

Jeanette Marshall was supposed to be the one. I joined her book club, learned her schedule, built a careful four-month friendship. But the daughter of an alcoholic monitors a room at a pitch no protocol could survive. She was too observant to use. So she introduced me to her best friend instead.

I keep a cabinet behind a panel that doesn't look like a cabinet. A journal that begins Day 1. A mushroom called Angel's Wing I harvest before dawn.

By October, there is a metallic taste on Isla's tongue. By Thanksgiving, she cannot hold a fork. On Tuesdays, I am at her kitchen counter with homemade broth. By Christmas, her world has shrunk to the size of her bed, and I am the only one allowed inside it.

But Jeanette has started asking questions. She's cataloguing my jars. She's mapping my visits. And the protocol is months ahead of schedule.

I touched Isla's hair while she slept, and it came away in my hand. I put the strands in my pocket.

Perfect for fans of Gillian Flynn, Alice Feeney, and Lisa Jewell—psychological thrillers where love and control are the same word.