Apel walked through the gate in the fence between his house and Osborne’s, went down the basement and took the .223 out from behind the workbench, carefully pulled a cartridge out of the magazine, washed it with soap and water. He dried it with a paper towel, used the towel to press it back into the magazine, and jacked it into the chamber.

He hesitated to do this, but he’d seen something in Osborne’s face: Osborne had realized that Apel had a motive. And if Flowers was asking about Osborne’s finances, then, sooner or later, he’d find out about the Mad Hatter Brew Pub and what had happened with that.

He’d learn that Apel held a two-hundred-thousand-dollar note from Osborne that wouldn’t get paid if Margery had been so goddamn dumb as to leave her money to the church. Barry would never make enough with his rug-cleaning business to pay it; the money had to come from Margery.

Eventually, when Margery’s estate was settled, and then Barry’s estate was settled, he’d have to submit the note to the executor to get paid. All the legal work, with the two deaths, and two separate estates, could take a year, according to what he’d read on the internet. Even if Flowers found out about the debt, a year from now all the details of the killings, all the weapons used, all the momentum, all the witness memories, would be obscured or gone. Flowers, if he found out about the note, might suspect, but he’d never convict.

He slung the rifle over his shoulder and pulled on a raincoat to cover it.

Two minutes later, he’d recrossed the two yards and walked up Osborne’s back steps, called, “It’s me again.”

Osborne said, “Come on in.”

When Apel got inside, he found Osborne bent over a plate, his back to the door. No point in waiting; no point in talking about it.

He pushed the door shut, lifted the rifle, pointed it at the middle of Osborne’s back, two feet away.

BANG!

Loud, but not deafening. Osborne jerked upright, pushed one hand on the table, then toppled over, facedown, into his lunch. The steaming hot potpie, Apel thought, would definitely leave a mark.

He could see no blood, nothing but a dimple in the back of Osborne’s shirt.

A minute later, he was out the door, back across the yard. Time to do nothing at all, he thought. Time to be a good citizen who knows nothing about nothing.

If it weren’t for that damned fingerprint, he’d be all clear. He could ditch the rifle, and that would be the end of it. He wasn’t convinced that there was a fingerprint, though the fact that Flowers had printed Osborne was evidence of something.

One thing: the rifle had to go, and soon. Everything else could be finessed, but not that.

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