In the living room, Alice was on the couch, her knees up tight to her chest. Her head was angled down, her eyes squeezed shut, and she was emitting low, eerie groans. Her wet cheeks made it clear that she’d been crying. Harry was paralyzed with inaction for one brief moment, then slid next to her and placed an arm over her shoulders. She instantly adjusted herself, moving closer to him, pressing her damp face against his shirt. He could hear and feel the ragged breath entering and exiting her body. Both detectives stayed standing, but Detective Dixon said, “Alice, I’m going to go talk with this Annie Callahan, okay? And then maybe with her husband.”

Harry didn’t think she was going to react, but then she shifted her body, turning to face the detective, wiping at her face. There was a damp spot on Harry’s shirt where her face had been. The detective pulled at his suit pants above the knees and crouched. “You going to be okay here with Harry?” he asked.

Alice slid her legs off the couch and put her feet back on the floor. She nodded her head, while drawing a wet breath in through her nostrils. Harry kept one hand on her back, nervous about moving it. She was wearing a wraparound dress, and the front had slid open a little so that Harry had a brief view of one of her breasts barely covered by the white cup of a bra. She shifted again, fixing the dress, and Harry moved his hand.

“I don’t know if . . .”

“You don’t know if what, Mrs. Ackerson?”

“I don’t know for a fact if Annie . . . or if her husband . . . had anything to do with what happened to my husband.”

“No, of course not. But it’s information we should have. We’ll check it out.” He stood and nodded toward his partner. Harry took the opportunity to get off the sofa and walk them to the door. “We’ll let you know if we find anything out. In the meantime, if Alice mentions anything that she didn’t mention to us, then . . . you have my card?”

“I do,” Harry said.

After they’d left, Harry returned to Alice, who was now standing, smoothing out her dress in the middle of the living room. Her face was dry.

“You okay?” Harry said.

Alice didn’t answer the question, but said, “It’s this woman’s husband, I know it is.”

“Who? This Annie Callahan?”

“I was hoping you’d never have to hear that name, Harry. I’m sorry. It wasn’t your father’s fault. It was all her. She went after him. She saw his store, and she saw this house, and—”

“Tell me what happened between them,” Harry interrupted.

She hitched her shoulders back. “Is it too early for a drink, you think?”