The Ormsby widow looked up at him, pleadingly. “Please, Mr. Keegan,” she said. She stretched out one hand as if to catch him by his rolled-up shirtsleeve, though he was a good three feet beyond her reach. “Do stay a few minutes.” She waved him back into the chair. “It’s good to have someone to talk to who isn’t involved in all this… this—” She paused, searching for the right word. “Upheaval.” Her tone was warmer now, less imperious.

Keegan felt trapped. What kind of a cad would make a run for it now? He nodded and sat back down.

“Could I get you some coffee?” she said. “I’m sure it’s still hot.”

Keegan leaned back into the settee. He folded his hands in his lap. What else would an innocent man, a good neighbor, do in a moment like this? “Thank you,” he said. “Black. No sugar.”

Mrs. Ormsby smiled. She looked behind her, and then it seemed to dawn on her that she’d sent the day help home early on this dark and troubling day. She stood, took up her own cup and trod into the next room, looking impossibly small as she passed through the high doorway.

While she was gone, Keegan glanced up at the high ceiling and listened for any sign of Eve upstairs. Had she downed yet another sleeping pill to get her through the day? Perhaps some fawning doctor-to-the-rich had come by and prescribed her an even stronger sedative, some syringe of tranquility. He imagined her up there in her room, lying in bed, eyelids aflutter in some restless, drug-induced limbo.

Across the room, a black grand piano loomed near the fireplace. Its curved coffin-lid propped open. Keegan must have walked right past it this morning without noticing it in the dark—too focused on his mission to fully take in his surroundings. If he had missed a Steinway, what small details might he have overlooked in his rush to clean things up and be gone?

It was taking the widow longer than it should have to pour some coffee into a mug. Keegan looked at his watch. It was a few minutes after six now. Another hour or so of sunlight before the world began to cool a bit.

Mrs. Ormsby swept back into the room, bearing a butler’s tray. She seemed relieved to have fallen into the comforting protocol of the hostess. The tray held bone-china teacups on their saucers, a silver tea set and a platter of pink wafer cookies arranged in a fan. The Pyrex cup was gone now, stowed out of sight with the everyday Fiestaware and the stainless-steel cutlery. Keegan was being entertained.

She set the tray on the table between them and perched daintily on the wingback across from him, holding herself a good five inches from the chair’s back. She smoothed down her dress and offered Keegan a practiced smile.