“Another lie. The photos are fake, studio shots he got from somewhere. Men with families are thought to be more trustworthy, he said, but he never wanted us to have children of our own.” The shock was gone now; now she was angry, hurt. “He wouldn’t even consider it. We don’t even have a dog.” Tears trickled down her flushed cheeks. “I want you to leave. Haven’t you done enough?” She turned to the movers, who were hustling like heck to get every box on the truck so they could get the hell out of there. “You too, all of you. Get the hell out of my house.”

“Darby was an ex-con. Maybe your husband is, too. And I don’t think Spada’s his real name.” She went ghostly white, deathly pale. “If your husband is an ex-con,” I added slowly, “and if he’s got another name . . .”

That’s as far as I got. She took off running toward the back of the house. I followed. At the end of the long, empty hall, she burst into a room filled with stacked boxes the movers hadn’t yet touched. She began tearing into them, searching for Lord knew what. I stood and watched her go at it all, frenzied, half-crazed.

“‘Never come in here.’ That’s what he said,” she screeched, eyes wild. “His office. His things. I knew. Deep down, I knew he was lying to me.” Paper fluttered to the floor, the boxes gutted, but Anne kept at it.

“What are you looking for? What was he lying about?” If I had to guess, I’d say everything, but I needed to hear it from her.

“The papers. Where are the papers?” She dropped to her knees, closer to the boxes.

I picked a few of the sheets up from the floor, but they didn’t look like much. “What papers?”

She stopped, and then burst into tears—mean, angry, duped tears. “That son of a bitch! They’re gone!”

“Will you get a grip on yourself? What the hell are you looking for?”

She looked up at me, her face streaked with dumped-wife tears. “Last week, I found papers on his desk that didn’t make sense.” She stood, wearily, as though even that was too much. She glanced around the near-empty room, maybe seeing it as it had been back when she was happy and oblivious and important. She leaned against a wall, and hung there for a time, staring at nothing.

“They were for an Edward Horvat, but Nick’s photograph was attached to them. He said Horvat was a client . . . he was so damned convincing. He’s always so damned convincing, but his photo, and the look on his face. I’d never seen that look before.”

I looked around the floor at all the wasted paper. Was Spada’s real name Edward Horvat, or was it the name of another victim?