“Flynn and Jasper got in a fight last night, outside in the yard, and Flynn hit him,” I said. “All the more reason to think Flynn went upstairs to finish the job. Except he didn’t. Neither of you did.”

“How do you know that?” said Miles.

“We know,” I said, “because of Abella. Abella wasn’t a part of your family drama. She died because she found out something about last night. Something happened today that allowed her to identify the killer—and the killer knew she’d tell us what it was. Whoever murdered Jasper also killed Abby. Flynn was laid out down here, and Bebe had no reason to want Jasper’s girlfriend dead.”

Everyone in the room was looking increasingly alarmed, and that gave me a rush of confidence. After the day I’d had, the sensation felt so foreign it caught me unawares. I’d thought this through, examined Camilla’s guests like slabs of hooked meat, and searched every part of them for signs of rot. I had finally reached a conclusion. It felt good. No, it felt great.

“That takes us to Ned.” At the sound of his name, Ned recoiled. “Ned also makes an excellent suspect—don’t you think, Wellington?”

“Uh, yeah, excellent,” Tim said, trying to play along.

“And Ned had motive, too—just not the one you submitted to us, Miles. Jasper stood in the way of something Ned wanted. When he heard the rumor about the engagement from Jade, and realized it was Abby who saw him in the shed with Bebe, he knew he was about to lose his chance. Last night, Ned went upstairs to profess his love to Abella. But Jasper’s body was already gone.”

Bebe emitted a squeak of surprise, though I couldn’t tell if she was reacting to the news about Ned and Abby or her brother. To his credit, Tim didn’t say a word as I let the man who’d just threatened to shoot me off the hook. “Ned was able to identify the shape of the bloodstain,” I said for my colleague’s benefit, “in a crime scene he never set eyes on this morning. Ned’s not our guy.”

“You saw blood on my brother’s bed last night,” Flynn said to Ned, “and you walked away?” I didn’t like the look in his eyes, his supreme state of calm. “You were in love?” Flynn went on. “With that dead little bitch?”

All the talk of Abella had sent Ned into a stupor, and I wondered if Flynn’s words registered. Ned’s apathy enraged Flynn even more. Flynn’s motions were swift and decisive. One—grab the candlestick from the mantel. Two—lunge. Three—bring the object down on the side of Ned’s head. It smacked flesh and bone with a sickening thud and Ned’s tall, lean body crumpled to the floor.

Before anyone could blink, Tim had Flynn facedown on the rug next to Ned. From under his heavy brow Flynn stared in horror at what he’d done. His hair was wild and his mustache dripped with sweat or tears, I didn’t know which. Blood, so thick it was almost black, pulsed from Ned’s head.