She was in his arms then, and he felt her heart racing and her damp face against his chest. She sobbed convulsively.

“Who?” he said, holding her close, feeling her ragged breaths. “Who did you shoot?”

It took a moment for her to choke the words out: “Uncle Nigel,” she said. “I think I killed him.”

He put an arm around her shoulder and led her up to the cottage.

CHAPTER FOUR

Thursday, August 16, 1962

ORMSBY’S HOUSE LAY just the way Eve had told him it would. The south-facing French door stood wide open, the glass panes reflecting a murky sheen of moonlight.

Keegan slipped inside the house, turning sideways and holding up his hands, careful not to touch the door frame or any of the glass as he did. He found himself in a vast, high-ceilinged room. It was dark, but what moonlight came in through the tall windows suggested a world of polish and glass: wall panels of burnished wood, dangling crystal lamps, glass-encased paintings. He moved quietly, but the squeak of his rubber-soled shoes on the marble floor echoed in the cavernous space.

He passed a small table that sat beside a wingback chair. A black phone was sat on a lace doily. If he made the call—and he wasn’t sure yet whether he would—it would be better made from his own kitchen.

Keegan crossed the room to a wide arched entryway. Beyond it was a formal dining room, with a ship-like table and a tiered chandelier. This single room was easily as large as his mother’s entire cottage. On the opposite wall, a large antique mantle clock tick-tocked softly above a gaping black fireplace.

At the other end of the room, Keegan shouldered through a large swinging door, careful not to brush it with his hands. The roomy kitchen was all sinks and racks, scoured steel surfaces and dangling copper pots. Keegan made his way around an island stovetop, straining to see in the dark. He stopped short when he saw the body.

Ormsby lay slumped in the far doorway, back to the doorjamb. One leg was bent under him and the other stretched out into the hallway beyond. His chin was tucked down against his chest and his white mane of hair had fallen forward into his eyes. Keegan had seen his share of crime scenes, and it always struck him—as it did now—how tawdry and commonplace they seemed: the slack limbs, the crumpled posture, the whiff of urine in the air.

Keegan slipped closer and stood over the body. Ormsby’s linen shirt, which still had light-colored sleeves, was stained dark everywhere else. One hand was balled into a fist at his side. The other was caught among the buttons of his shirt.