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Here's the whole first page excerpt:

Claire gripped the toilet bowl with white-knuckled hands. Her stomach heaved again. This time nothing came up. Laying her cheek against the hard porcelain rim, she let the comforting cold seep into her skin. She waited then wiped her mouth with a tissue. She scrubbed at the rust-colored stains around the rim—bloody fingerprints.

My fingerprints. Enrique’s blood. Oh, God.

All her wiping managed to do was smear the stains. She stared at the damning evidence. Enrique was dead because of her.

Tears threatened again. She squeezed her eyes shut, willed the tears away, and took a deep breath. She balled up the tissue, threw it in the toilet, and flushed. After pushing herself to her feet, she leaned against the wall to clear her head and settle her lurching stomach.

Her robe gaped open, exposing her bloodstained thighs, the sticky streaks cracking where they had dried. She yanked her robe shut and cinched the belt tight. She felt an overwhelming urge to shower, to stand under burning hot water and scrub and scrub and scrub until her skin was raw. But no amount of scrubbing could wash away the guilt.

And the police detective was waiting.

Here's an excerpt from a page further in that shows the secondary problem, Claire's marriage being torn asunder by the murder and her husband's arrest:

“I don’t know what to think. I don’t seem to know you anymore.” Roger’s jaw worked, before he managed to grind out any words. “Who was he?”

Claire realized the police had probably insinuated she was having an affair during their questioning of Roger. She tensed. “An aerobics instructor at Graham’s Gym. I met him a few days ago.”

Roger’s eyes widened. Expressions of surprise, irony, then resignation passed over his face.

The resignation hurt Claire the most. “No, it’s not . . . how do I explain?” Hot shame flamed in her cheeks. She choked out the whole deplorable story.

His expression grew stonier with each word. Finally, he blurted, “How could you let him touch you? You’re my wife!”

He slammed his fists on the Plexiglas, then glanced at the now-alert officer on his side of the wall. When the guard took a step forward, Roger dropped his hands and pursed his lips, obviously struggling to contain the rest of his outburst.

Claire swiped angrily at tears dribbling down her cheeks. “Yes, I am your wife, but I haven’t felt like a wife for years. You barely know I’m around. You ignore me. You’re never home.” She leaned over to whisper, “You hardly touch me anymore.”

“But to have an affair with a gigolo half your age.”

Fury bubbled up inside Claire. “First of all, he’s not a gigolo. I told you we weren’t having an affair—”

“How am I supposed to believe you? I know what I saw. How can I trust you?” Roger glared at her.