Louella sat very straight and very prim in a high-backed chair. Her hands were neatly folded in the lap of the same misty-gray dress she’d worn for dancing. Her skin was so pale that the shadows under her eyes looked like bruises. The eyes themselves seemed to stare straight through Maggie. On the table beside her there were candles burning, the tapers hardly more than stubs now, with the wax pooled heavily on the base of the holders. A vase of fresh roses sat nearby, so that the breeze through the open window carried the scent through the room.

After the first shock, Maggie tried to bring her thoughts to order. It had been obvious from the first that Louella wasn’t completely well. She’d have to be handled gently, Maggie thought, and so she approached her as one might a wounded bird.

“Mrs. Morgan,” she said quietly, then cautiously touched a hand to her shoulder.

“I’ve always liked candlelight.” Louella spoke in her calm, soft voice. “So much prettier than a lamp. I’d often burn candles in the evening.”

“They’re lovely.” Maggie kept her tone gentle as she knelt beside her. “But it’s morning now.”

“Yes.” Louella looked blankly at the sun-filled window. “I often sit up through the night. I like the sounds. The woods make such music at night.”

Perhaps if she’d thought it through, Maggie wouldn’t have questioned. She would simply have led Louella out to her car and driven her home. But she didn’t think it through. “Do you often come here at night, Mrs. Morgan?”

“Sometimes I’ll drive,” she said dreamily. “Sometimes, if the night’s as clear and warm as this, I’ll walk. I used to walk a great deal as a girl. Joyce used to love to toddle on the paths in the woods when she was just a baby.”

Maggie moistened her lips. “Do you come back here often, Mrs. Morgan, at night?”

“I know I should stay away. Joyce has told me so all along. But—” Louella sighed, and the small, sad smile touched her mouth. “She has Stan. Such a good man—they take care of each other. That’s what marriage is, you know, loving and taking care of each other.”

“Yes.” Helplessly, Maggie watched as Louella’s hands grew agitated in her lap.

“William wasn’t a loving man. He just wasn’t made that way. I wanted Joyce to have a loving man, like Stan.” She lapsed into silence, closing her eyes and breathing shallowly so that Maggie thought she slept. Deciding it was best to call the Agees, she started to rise, when Louella’s hand closed over hers.

“I followed him here that night,” she whispered. Now her eyes were intense, fully focused. Maggie’s mouth went dry.

“Followed him?”

“I didn’t want anything to happen. Joyce loved him so.”