“I wasn’t frightened. I was concerned.” At the bottom of the stairs, I made a sharp left. “And I took care of it.”

  “I’m sorry—”

  “He seems sweet.” And a vicious part of me wanted to say, Just like West. Somehow, though, I managed to say, “I’m sorry about all of this. Typical Dash, right? I botched the whole thing.”

  “You didn’t botch anything. His nose isn’t broken and—”

  Another of those sharp little turns took me into the servants’ dining room, and I shut the door behind me.

  Bobby, of course, just kept coming. “—he’s fine,” he said as he came after me. “Would you slow down for a second? I’m trying to—”

  But I was already passing into the kitchen, and I shut that door behind me too. Hard.

  And Bobby barreled after me. At the refrigerator, he caught my arm. He didn’t pull. He didn’t even grip me particularly tightly. I stared at the refrigerator.

  “I’m trying to talk to you,” he said again. And then all that control began to unravel, and he said, “Really? You’re not even going to look at me?”

  I spun around, and in the process, I freed my arm and spoke in clipped, detached fragments. “I’m trying to get ice. For your boyfriend. Who’s got a bloody nose. Because I startled him when he was packing up all your belongings so you could move into your new apartment!” The sentence had started off at a normal volume, but by the end it was a full-on shout. I kept shouting. “Were you going to tell me you were moving out? Or was I just going to get the last month’s rent in the mail?”

  “I don’t pay you rent,” Bobby said. “And of course I was going to tell you.”

  “Really? When?”

  He opened his mouth.

  “Last night, after you signed the lease?” I asked.

  He shut his mouth.

  “Or the week before that, when you were looking at apartments?”

  He put his hands on his hips. It wasn’t quite a slouch, since Bobby never slouched, but there was something insolent about the pose—a kind of juvenile screw-off so at odds with the Bobby I knew that I couldn’t quite wrap my head around it.

  “Or the week before that,” I asked, “when you had your first date with Kiefer?”

  Color rose under Bobby’s smooth, golden-olive complexion. “I didn’t meet him two weeks ago.”

  “Oh, right.” I laughed. “Sorry. I must have gotten him confused with the guy before him. Or the one before that. It’s hard to keep them all straight. Tell me, how long have you and Kiefer been dating?”

  “You’re being immature about this.”

  “I’m being immature? How long ago did you start dating him, Bobby? It’s a simple question.”

  His jaw tightened. His slouch didn’t look quite so relaxed anymore. The refrigerator hummed.

  “Four and a half weeks—”

  “A month,” I said. “You’ve been dating him a month, and you’re moving in with him.”

  “Yes.”

  I waited, but nothing more came. “That’s it? That’s all you’re going to say?”

  “We’re in a relationship. It’s serious. This is the next logical step.”

  “It’s serious?” I couldn’t keep control of my tone—or my volume. “Bobby, he’s basically a teenager. How old is he? What’s he doing with his life? How could you possibly know, after a month, that this relationship is serious?”

  “He’s twenty-two years old,” Bobby said, and this time there was an edge in his voice I wasn’t sure I’d heard before. “He’s smart. He’s passionate about—about a lot of things.”

  “Oh yeah? What’s his middle name?”

  Bobby cut his eyes away.

  “Are you kidding me?” I asked.

  More of that color rushed into Bobby’s cheeks, but he still didn’t look at me. “I guess you knew everything about Hugo before you moved in with him.”

  “No, I didn’t know everything about him. But we’d been together for more than two years when we got our first apartment.”

  Now, his gaze slid back to me. “And that’s fine, Dash. That worked for you. But every relationship is different. People move at different speeds in their relationships.”

  “What speed is this? Warp speed? Light speed?” I don’t know why Space Balls was the first reference that came to mind, but it popped out of my mouth before I could stop it. “Ludicrous speed?”

  “Not everyone is like you. Not everyone has to spend years evaluating every possible outcome before they’ll even consider taking the first step in a relationship.”

  Something about the lights in the kitchen seemed off, like my pupils had dilated and couldn’t quite correct. A second passed, and then another. “Wow.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “No, Dash—” Frustration creased Bobby’s brow. “I’m just saying that every relationship is a gamble. After a certain point, you’re just making time, and you have to take a chance.”

  I nodded. My head felt loose on my neck. Stepping around Bobby, I started toward the servants’ dining room.

  He reached out like he might stop me, but his hand fell short. “Can we please sit down and talk about this? I’m really unhappy with how this conversation is going.”

  “What’s there to talk about?” I asked. “You made your decision. Everything is—how did you put it? Everything else is just making time.”

  Chapter 7

  For the first section of the drive, I was on autopilot. The brisk mid-morning of June on the Oregon Coast became a blur of still-damp ferns, pavement dark with moisture, the branches of spruce and pine and fir glistening. I passed Hastings Rock, with its jumble of architectural styles—everything from Victorian to beach bungalow to modernist—making a postcard skyline against the horizon. The Jeep, always noisy, seemed louder than usual, until the rush of wind against the frame and the roar of the engine made me feel like I’d stuck my head in a wind tunnel. In a good way, if that makes any sense.

  But below that initial level of disconnect, I ran through frenzied replays of the conversation with Kiefer and Bobby. How Kiefer had said, I thought it would be cute. How Bobby had said, Of course I was going to tell you. The way he’d stood in the kitchen, that defiant pose like he knew he was doing something wrong and was daring me to say something about it. How he’d said, Not everyone is like you.

  How dare you? That’s what I wanted to say. And I wanted to—to shake him. It wasn’t something I’d felt before, as though words weren’t a sufficient outlet for my feelings. Like the only way I could tell him how I felt was to lay hands on him, as though somehow pure force could make him see that he was being an idiot. And even as I shook with the need, I was also horrified by the strength of that urge, by the darker current of it. Because I wanted to do something that would shock Bobby. I wanted to do something that would snap him out of this craziness. I wanted to do something that would wipe that stupid look off his face. You’ve known each other a month, I wanted to say. Barely a month. You don’t even know his middle name. But what I really wanted to say, what was stuck in my throat, was: How dare you feel sorry for me?

  Because that was what it had been at the end. Condescending, yes. Patronizing, sure. But worst of all, full of pity.

  Not everyone is like you.

  Fine, I thought. No problem. Move out. Go live a great, happy life with this baby version of West you somehow managed to dig up. See if it goes any better for you this time.

  And then I started to cry. I had to pull onto the shoulder of the road, easing the Jeep to a halt. I didn’t sob. I didn’t fall apart. But I sat there, fighting wave after wave, my eyes hot and stinging.

  Eventually, I got myself under control again. Slumped in my seat, I stared out the windshield. The day was bright and clear, and even inside the Jeep, I could tell it was warming up pleasantly—a perfect summer day in this part of the world. Next to me, green stalks rippled in the breeze. Barley, maybe. Or wheat. An ancient wheel line sprinkler broke up the neat rows. As I watched, a little brown bird with a yellow throat fluttered down onto the lateral pipe. It cocked its head, as though listening to something, and took off again in a flurry of movement.

  The world moves on, I thought. And I checked the mirror and shifted into drive and got going again.

  It would have been generous to call my sudden flight from Hemlock House a plan, but I had intended to talk to Neil and Jane Carver—or whatever Jane’s last name was these days—and since I found myself almost halfway to Astoria, I decided now was as good a time as any.

  When I got there, the street was as quiet and empty as it had been the day before. I drove past Arlen and Candy’s house, but there was no sign of a grim-faced octogenarian lying in wait with a shotgun. Maybe more importantly, there was no sign of Candy, who probably would have asked me for Bobby’s phone number. If she did, I was going to give it to her. Petty is as petty does.

  Richard’s house—which, I guess, was really Neil and Jane’s house now—looked unchanged from the day before: a little white bungalow like all the others on the street. The curtains were open, and the windows were dark. I parked and got a look at the garage, but the door was down, and I couldn’t tell if there was a car inside. Then I knocked on the front door.

  Steps moved inside the house, and the door opened to reveal a woman. She was White, and I put her age somewhere in the sixties. She had long, thick hair that had once been dark but was graying now, and she had great skin—and clearly wasn’t wearing any makeup. Not beautiful, but…well, what I might have called arresting, if I were writing about her. Something about her face held the eye. She wore a knit top, polyester slacks, and sensible pumps; she didn’t seem like the type to lounge about the house in a muumuu.

  Her voice was surprisingly deep when she said, “May I help you?”

  “My name is Dash Dane. I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m looking for Jane Carver.”

  “I’m Jane Carver.”

  Believe it or not, there isn’t a WikiHow article for “How to Introduce Yourself to a Potential Murderer.” (I checked.) So, I said, “I know this is going to sound strange, but I was wondering if I could talk to you about Richard Lundgren. I’m not a reporter. This is going to sound crazy, but—”

  “I know who you are, Mr. Dane. Won’t you come in?”

  “Uh, yes?”

  (Will Gower definitely wouldn’t have let it sound like a question.)

  The living room at the front of the house was surprisingly updated and, if I’m being honest, beautiful. I mean, the size and the layout made it hard to pretend the house itself was anything but what it was, but Jane had done a great job with what she was working with. The sofa set was cream-colored upholstery with nailhead trim, and when Jane indicated for me to sit, I discovered that it was comfortable as well as attractive. The coffee table was simple—just solid wood with a good stain—but it matched the entertainment center. A few stylishly antiquated prints hung on the walls, and it took me a moment to recognize the watercolors as cityscapes of Astoria. Peonies exploded out of a blue glass vase and lent a hint of their perfume. It was a far cry from Arlen and Candy’s place next door.

  Jane left. Sounds filtered to me from the kitchen: running water, the clink of cups, steps moving back and forth. It took me a moment, but then I spotted the opportunity she’d given me, and I eased myself up from the sofa. The house was tiny, and a little stub of a hall connected the living room to the kitchen. I figured if Jane asked why I was wandering around, I could explain I was looking for the bathroom. That never went wrong in books.

  Three doors stood open along the hallway. One connected with what had to be Jane and Neil’s room—it had a lived-in look. The furniture here was dated but in good condition, and although the tops of the dresser and the wardrobe appeared to be free of the usual junk that tended to accumulate (at least, in my bedroom), one of the nightstands held books, and the other had an empty glass and a remote control. The next room was the small but pristine bathroom, with the same white tile running across the floor and up the walls. The shower curtain was closed, but if I pushed it back, I expected I’d find the tub scoured within an inch of its life. And the next room appeared to be for guests. The bed was made up, but it felt unused in a way that the other room hadn’t. In the kitchen, a kettle whistled, and I started to turn back toward the living room. And then I noticed the books.

  The bookcase stood against the far wall, and the books lining it were clearly all from the same series. I didn’t need to get closer to know what they were; I’d read those books plenty of times, and I had the same series back at Hemlock House. They were the Matron of Murder books—Vivienne’s magnum opus.

  As the sound of footsteps moved closer, I hurried back to the living room and settled onto the sofa again. A moment later, Jane appeared, carrying a rosewood tray with a tea service for two. I watched her movements as she poured: steady, unhurried, assured.

  “Milk? Sugar? Lemon? It’s a Darjeeling that I just found.”

  “No, thanks.”

  She offered me a flash of a smile as she sat. “Excellent. I’d hate for you to ruin a good cuppa.”

  “It’d be a different story if it were coffee, though.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Have you ever heard of a s’mores latte?”

  With a quiet laugh, she shook her head. “I don’t think my doctor would approve.” She sipped her tea, watching me over the rim of the cup. And then she said, “You’re trying to learn what happened to Richard.”

  “Yes.”

  She was silent for what felt like a long time—no longer sipping her tea, but holding the cup in both hands as though trying to absorb its warmth. “It happened a long time ago,” she finally said. “It was a tragedy; Richard was a wonderful man. But tell me, Mr. Dane, why it matters now, after all these years? What good will come from opening old wounds?”

  It was a strange metaphor, on top of a strange response. I wasn’t sure what I’d been expecting—outright hostility, perhaps, like Arlen. I probably wouldn’t have been too surprised by a distraught widow, complete with waterworks. But I hadn’t expected this composed, reserved, and clearly intelligent woman whose first response was to ask why I was bothering to try to find her husband’s killer. And I certainly hadn’t expected the question to be…genuine, because it was clear that Jane wanted an answer.

  “There are a few reasons, I guess,” I said, trying to frame my response. “One is that Richard’s killer is still walking around out there. He might have hurt other people. He might still be hurting other people. And even if he hasn’t, he needs to be held accountable for what he did to Richard. I think that’s what the family of every victim wants.”

  “Do you think so?” She seemed to contemplate her own question. “I don’t know. Revenge is a hollow thing, and punishment isn’t much better. We want what everyone wants, of course, which is for the awful thing never to have happened in the first place. But that’s impossible.” Her gaze focused on me again, as though she’d remembered me, and more crisply, she added, “Besides, this person might be dead. Might have died years ago. Or perhaps this person has lived an exemplary life. Perhaps they’ve gone on to do wonderful things, helped lots of people, and made the world a better place. Shouldn’t all of that be weighed in the balance?”

  “That’s for a judge to decide. But Daniel Webster said justice is the ligament that holds a civilization together—I’m paraphrasing—and I think there’s something to that. As a society, we agree to protect each other, and when we fail in that, we have a responsibility to make sure that order is restored.”

  “Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.”

  “Something like that.”

  “But is it your responsibility, Mr. Dane?”

  “Maybe not. But I don’t know if there’s anybody else. From what I understand, the police already think they know who did it. They’re convinced Richard was one of Vivienne’s first victims, but it doesn’t seem so clear cut to me.” I waited, but she didn’t take the bait. She sat there, watching me, her dark eyes unreadable. “Don’t you want justice for Richard? Aren’t you angry?”

  She set the teacup down, and it rattled against the saucer. Then she clasped her hands in her lap. “I’ve spent the last thirty years being angry with Richard. That doesn’t make sense, I know. Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps I should feel some sort of demand for justice. But I don’t. I feel tired, Mr. Dane. And old. And empty. I don’t know if I have it in me to feel that much anger again.”

  Silence fell over the little house. Outside, in the distance, a lawnmower came to life.

  “Ask your questions, Mr. Dane,” she said, and she took a tissue from her pocket and wiped her eyes. “I’d like to get this over with if you don’t mind.”

  “Could we start with the night Richard disappeared?”

  “We had a terrible fight. I left. When I came home, he was gone.”

  “What did you fight about?”

  She gave a bitter laugh. “We fought about what we always fought about: Richard’s stubbornness.”

  I waited, but she didn’t expand on that. “I hate to ask this, but were you having an affair?”

  “You’ve been talking to Candy.” But she sounded amused more than anything. “No, Mr. Dane. I wasn’t having an affair. And I imagine I know what your next question will be. I went to Neil’s house after the fight; by that point, he and Vivienne had divorced, but he was still my friend, and I didn’t have anywhere else to go. We weren’t sleeping together, just to be clear.”

  “But you’re married to Neil now.”

  “I understand the implication, Mr. Dane. Let me show you something.” She excused herself and returned a moment later with a framed photo.

  The colors were oversaturated and faded, and to judge by the clothes, it was from sometime in the 1970s or 80s. There were four people in it: two men and two women. It was easy to make out a young Vivienne and Richard—when I saw them together in the photo, the likeness was even stronger, although the Richard in this photo was even younger than the one in the photo Vivienne’s attorney had sent me. The other two were clearly Neil, with his dark hair and dark eyes, and Jane. I guessed that the picture had been taken in a high school gym, because they sat on bleachers, Richard and Neil in basketball jerseys and skimpy shorts, their faces flushed and sweaty. Vivienne sat next to Neil in a sweater and slacks; she was one pearl necklace away from looking like a teenage June Cleaver. But Jane was perhaps the most surprising, radiant in makeup and a cheerleader uniform.