"That's terrible," said Mrs. Hammond.

"You're right. We'll just have to wait for the rest of the information to come in and tell us which speculations are right."

"What do you mean?"

Catherine watched her face. "Don't worry. We'll try everything. We'll be looking at your financial records-credit cards, canceled checks, and so on-to pinpoint exactly when you were in that store, and then check the store's payroll to see if he was working those days. We'll be interviewing your neighbors to learn whether they've seen him hanging around. We'll ask his co-workers if he had any pictures of you, if he had any absences at odd times, like a few hours during the day when he might have been spying on you. We'll look at his phone records to see which numbers he might have called to find out your husband's travel schedule."

Marjorie Hammond looked sick. "What-what can possibly be the point? We know he was here, and he's dead. It's over."

Catherine was sure now what the lie was. She had to keep pushing. "Not for the police bureau. It's an open case. The forensics people were already here from twelve-thirty A.M. A.M. until around nine this morning, right? I haven't seen their report yet, of course. It will tell us a lot." until around nine this morning, right? I haven't seen their report yet, of course. It will tell us a lot."

Mrs. Hammond said, "I want my lawyer."

"What?"

"Turn off the tape recorder. I won't speak to you anymore without my lawyer."

"Do you have a lawyer?"

"I'll get one."

"Okay. I'll read you your rights, and then I'll turn it off." She recited the warning, then took out the tape recorder, turned it off, and put it back into her pocket. She said, "And, of course, you'll have to come with me to the police bureau and wait for your lawyer so we can have the rest of our conversation." She stood up and took out her handcuffs. "Turn around, please."

Marjorie Hammond was shocked. "I didn't do anything."

"I believe you didn't shoot anyone," said Catherine. "All you were doing was spending time with Sam Daily. Your husband came home early and caught you together."

"No," she said. "It's not true. None of it is true. The whole thing is a lie."

Catherine switched on the tape recorder in her pocket. "You said you wanted your lawyer. You know that when I read you your rights it meant that you don't have to say anything to me at all, right? You'll have an opportunity to say whatever you want after your attorney is present."

"Yes. I know that. But I'm telling you the story you made up isn't true. I didn't do anything. There was nothing going on between me and Sam Daily."

Catherine knew Mrs. Hammond was walking right along the edge, and in a moment she would topple over. "Don't worry. If what you're saying is true, the physical evidence will prove you're right."

"What physical evidence?"

"From the crime scene people. They search for blood, hair, fibers, fingerprints. If they haven't found any DNA from Sam Daily in your room, your clothing or bedding, and they didn't find any of yours on him-hairs, saliva, and so on-or any traces of your makeup, then probably the case will be closed just as you said."

Catherine clicked the handcuffs shut on her wrists, and the voice came again, but it was changed. This time it was a whisper. "Sergeant. Please."

"What?"

"Please don't let them do that."

"Why?"

"I told you the truth. It's the truth."

"Do you mean it's what you want to have been true?"

"It's what happened. My husband didn't come in and catch us. He came home and started to get ready for bed. Sam really did hide in the downstairs coat closet, and when Jack opened the door, Sam did jump out at him. Jack's gun went off. It was an accident. Just a horrible accident."

"Do you mean that Jack didn't intend to pull the trigger?"

"No. I mean yes, I suppose he did. But it was because he thought Sam was a burglar, trying to kill him. It was dark, and how could he know that Sam didn't have a knife or a gun too? He thought he had to shoot-that he was protecting his life, and mine too. Neither of them had ever seen each other before, and neither wanted to hurt anyone. It was just a terrible misunderstanding. An accident."

"So your husband, Jack, really thought he was being attacked, and Sam thought he was about to be murdered and jumped out to defend himself?"

"Yes." Mrs. Hammond sat down on the couch, crying, her body bent over and shaking. "Yes. It was my fault."

Catherine looked down at her. The woman was so wretched that for an instant Catherine's strongest sensation was relief that she was not Marjorie Hammond. She was not this woman bent over and sobbing, crouching on the edge of the couch with her wrists cuffed behind her, unable even to wipe the tears that were streaking her face.

Catherine knew that she was about to do something foolish, and was violating department procedures. But she leaned down and used her key to unlock the handcuffs. She removed them, put them in her purse, and handed Mrs. Hammond a tissue. "Here."

Mrs. Hammond was rocking back and forth, crying steadily and silently. Almost inaudibly, she said, "It's so stupid. It's just so stupid."

"What is?"

"I always loved Jack. I love him so much. There was nothing wrong with us."

"Then why?"

"I don't know. It just happened. I used to see Sam at the store every week, and we said h.e.l.lo. Sometimes we talked for a minute if he was approving a check, or I was asking him where something was. It was nothing. Then one time when I was out in the afternoon, I stopped for coffee at a Starbucks downtown, near Pioneer Square, and he was in there. He came up to me while I was waiting at the counter, and we sat together. We were there for about two hours, and we talked in a way we never did in the store-about our lives, what we thought and felt. He said he always came there on his days off, Tuesday and Thursday, at one, right after lunch, when he'd finished his errands. About a week later, I was near there again, and I went in."

"Was it because he was there?"

"No, it wasn't. I didn't even remember it was Thursday. I happened to see the sign, and I remembered the place as pleasant. Then I got there and saw him, and I realized that the reason I thought it was pleasant was because of him. This time I went and sat with him." She stopped and cried some more. "He was just so nice. He was good, and smart, and he'd had such a sad life. He and I talked about everything, and then the afternoon was gone."

"How long did this go on?"

"For a couple of months. I would think to myself that having coffee with a man wasn't a good idea, so I would miss Tuesday. Then Thursday came and I would ask what the harm was, and it didn't seem like there was any. So I went, and he would look up from his paper and he'd say how pleased he was that I had come. He would notice things about me, and be able to tell how I was feeling. He was interested in everything I had to say. Pretty soon I would think about it ahead of time, look forward to going to meet him."

"Was he married too?"

"No. He had been engaged a few years ago, and then she'd changed her mind, and he hadn't been able to get over it for a long time."

"But he knew you were married from the start, right?"

"Of course. Jack was the center of my life, and so a lot of the time what I talked about was Jack and me. Sometimes I would tell Sam about fights or hurt feelings I had. And then one day I realized that I'd fallen into the habit of telling him things that I had not even told Jack. If there were problems he didn't always have answers, and that was a kind of wisdom, too, to know that if the answers were that easy, I would have found them myself. Or even if there was an answer, he knew that I knew it too, but that I wasn't ready to admit it to myself yet. At those times he would just listen and let me work it out. I tried to do the same for him."

"When did the relationship move out of Starbucks?"

"After a couple of months. That was my fault. I let that happen. I was feeling really good one day, and what was making me feel good was that Sam knew me so well and still liked me so much. When he saw how I was that day, I think the contrast may have been what struck him. He was kind of subdued and maybe depressed. I asked him what was wrong, and he told me. He said his life was empty and he needed more."

"More?"

"A real relationship with a woman. He said he didn't want me to ruin my marriage and break up with Jack. He knew that it was the most important thing in my life. He just wanted to be with me." She sobbed for a minute or more, while Catherine waited patiently. Then she looked up, almost pleading. "You understand? Jack and I were happy, and that was what he wanted, and I wanted it for him too. I just sat there at the table looking at him, and the words 'Why not?' came into my mind. I couldn't think of an answer that was real. The only answer was that I wasn't supposed to. He wanted to so much, and I did too. Sam knew that I would never leave Jack. So when I said, 'Why not?' this time, it was out loud. We went right from there to a hotel across Pioneer Square."

"That was the start. How long did it go on?"

"We still met on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons, at one. Sometimes we would go to his apartment. Sometimes we would drive somewhere, and he would have reserved a room. It's been about six months, from March until now. A couple of times, things just seemed wrong, and I would start to break it off. But then I couldn't."

"When was that?"

"A few times. I remember once, standing by the car outside a hotel in Fairview, and we were saying good-bye for the last time, and it was raining. I was crying because I cared so much about him, and we were both getting wet, and then I could see his face was wet too. It wasn't just the rain. And I took it all back and we kissed and went back inside, even though we knew we could be late getting home and I would have to make up a lie for Jack's sake. I knew I was using up one of my lies, because I knew I wouldn't have many of them. You can't lie to someone about why you're late on Thursday afternoons more than about twice, or they'll know. It would have hurt Jack so much." Saying it seemed to remind her of what was about to happen. She began to cry again.

"I'm sorry," said Catherine.

"Everything is ruined, and there's nothing to make any of it better. Sam is dead. Jack's life is ruined. My life is ruined."

Catherine needed her to get the rest of the story out before she stopped talking. "Was last night the first time Sam stayed over at your house?"

"No. There were a few times before. I couldn't go to his place at night, because Jack might call our house from his hotel. But this time Jack didn't call. He just came home to be with me. When Sam and I heard the car pull into the driveway, I was terrified. I looked out the bedroom window and saw the headlights on the garage door, and then the door started to open. I made Sam grab his clothes and run downstairs to hide, so as soon as Jack came upstairs, Sam could slip out."

"But Jack heard him?"

"Sam must have stumbled in the dark or dropped his shoe or something. I told Jack he was imagining things, but he wouldn't listen. I went to the top of the stairs and yelled at him not to prowl around-not just to persuade him, but to warn Sam too-but nothing worked. He opened the closet and Sam jumped out at him." She stared up at Catherine, her eyes red and swollen, her face a mask of anguish. "It's really the same as I said at first. I told you."

Catherine said, "I'm sorry. I'm really very sorry." She gently took her to the car without taking out the handcuffs again, and drove her to the police bureau to get her statement on paper.

By the time Catherine was finished with the statement and her report and had signed the transcript of the tape recording, it was too late to answer any of the telephone messages that had piled up on her desk. She used her cell phone to call Joe Pitt while she drove toward Adair Hill.

He said, "You're going home late. Solve another murder or something?"

"As a matter of fact, I did. Not a happy story, though." She told him what had happened, then said, "Oops. Joe, I need both hands to drive now. Sleep tight."

"Good night. Love you."

Catherine had started closing her cell phone before she heard it, and now she cursed herself for ending the call. Had he really said that? If he had, what could it possibly have meant? It had sounded automatic, like a formula. She thought about it as she drove up the curving road. She decided to ignore it. If he really had intended to tell her he loved her, then he would do it again.

She stopped in front of her parents' house and went inside. "Mom?" she called.

Her mother appeared from the kitchen. "Hi, honey. Just coming home from work?"

"Yeah," she said. "I hadn't seen you guys in a couple of days, so I thought I'd come and brighten your empty lives."

"You mean you don't feel like making your own dinner?"

"That's right. Where's Dad?"

"He's upstairs. He'll probably be down in a minute. Want some leftover turkey?"

"Sure. Let me get my own." She walked into the kitchen and got herself a plate, then took the Tupperware container with the neatly sliced turkey breast in it, added some broccoli, and put it into the microwave.

Her mother watched her. "How is your new boyfriend working out?"

She turned her head in mock surprise. "How's your crystal ball?"

"It's not that hard. I called your house the last five evenings and you've been out late. So how much are you going to tell me?"

"I'll spill my guts. His name is Joe Pitt, and he was just here for a few days. I have absolutely no business going out with him. He's too old and too rich and has a bad boy reputation that I think he probably earned. Naturally I'm getting more interested by the day. I'll let you know when I need to come over and cry about how it ended."

"Well, that's nice," said her mother. "I'll set aside some time."

There was the sound of her father's heavy footsteps on the stairway, and then her father appeared. "Ah, the princess has returned."

"Hi, Dad."

He sat down in the chair beside hers, smiling. "Working late, eh?"

"Yeah," she said.

"Anything interesting?"

"Nothing you haven't seen a hundred times. Husband comes home early from a business trip. He trusts his wife, so he thinks the guy hiding in the closet is a burglar."

"Bang bang," said her father. "It's a rotten job. I told you that from the time you were a child."

"Practically from birth," she agreed. "This is good," she said to her mother. "It must have been nice to be one of the invited guests for its first appearance."

"Then answer your d.a.m.ned phone," said her father. "We tried."

"Sorry," she said. "I was busy trying to have a life."

"Anybody we know?"

"No. He was a cop for a while, then an investigator for the Los Angeles D.A. He's retired from that and working as a P.I. now."

"Sounds too old for you."

"He is."

"Of course, you're getting older by the day."

"Thanks for noticing. I guess the bloom is off the rose."

"The second bloom is more luxuriant than the first," he said. "You seem kind of down. It was that case, wasn't it?"

"You know how it is. Half the people you see are dead. The other half you're seeing on the very worst day of their whole lives. It makes you tired."

Her father stood up, kissed her on the forehead, and went out into the living room. In a moment, she heard the television.

She finished her dinner and rinsed the plate and silverware, then put them in the dishwasher with the ones from her parents' dinner. She talked to her mother for a time about the things that had been going on in her parents' lives. Then she and her mother both drifted into the living room and watched the meaningless activity on the screen with her father.

Suddenly she caught herself falling asleep. She stood up, kissed them both, and drove the rest of the way up the hill to her house. As she pulled into the garage, she thought she saw something move, just beyond the reach of the lights on the eaves of her house. But she knew that sometimes that happened when a person had not had enough sleep for a few days-the mind supplied the monster that it feared.