“Because I’ve been thinking about what you said, the way he managed everything in Australia, and you know what? I think it was all part of his plan. He wanted to separate you and Mallory, so he could get control of your career, and Mrs. Mallory’s little temper tantrum just fell right in his lap, didn’t it?”

“You could look at it that way. Or you could conclude that he was just doing what he thought was best for me. He thought Sam was reckless and impulsive, and I would be better off on my own.”

“Not alone. With him. With Morrow.”

Lindquist shrugs. “It seemed like the logical thing to do at the time. And we were happy. George took care of all the details and salesmanship I hated. He was considerate and faithful. You might say he was the ideal partner for me.”

I climb from my chair—not altogether steady, you understand, on account of the bourbon—and walk right up to her. “You know something? I don’t believe you. I don’t believe for one moment you were in love with Morrow.”

Lindquist glances at her watch. “I’m going to put the children to bed now. We’ll discuss all this in the morning.”

She starts up the stairs in smooth, elastic movements. Even for dinner, she doesn’t wear dresses, just these long, flowing, wide-legged trousers made of silk or sometimes crepe de Chine, set off by some delicate blouse or another. She’s got style, Irene Lindquist, even if she pretends to be above such things.

I call up after her. “One more thing?”

She sighs and turns, one hand on the railing.

“Was it true? Did the daughter find her like that?”

Lindquist stares at her hand. The lamplight slants across the scar that blooms from underneath her blouse and over her neck.

“Yes,” she says softly. “Poor thing. They say she was hysterical.”

“How awful. How awful for her.”

Lindquist turns and continues up the stairs. “It was awful for everybody,” she calls down behind her.

Sometimes I think about what might have happened if some German antiaircraft gun hadn’t got the better of Velázquez in the winter of 1945. The war was nearly over, after all, and he might well have survived those last few months of it.