Straightening from the counter, he checked his watch. She’d had an hour’s sleep. Cliff decided a woman didn’t need any more than that for a proper proposal of marriage. He tossed the money on the counter and began to whistle.

He continued to whistle as he took the road through town, until Joyce dashed into the street and frantically hailed him.

“Oh, Cliff!”

Though he’d stopped the car in the middle of the street, he was halfway out of it as he spoke. “What is it, one of the kids?”

“No, no.” Struggling for calm, Joyce gripped his arms. She, too, hadn’t changed from the dance, but the hair she’d worn up was now escaping its pins and falling in clumps. “It’s my mother,” she managed after a moment. “She hasn’t been in bed all night—and Stan, I can’t find Stan anywhere.”

“We’ll find Louella.” Cliff brushed the hair from her face as he’d done since she’d been a child. “She might have been restless and gone for a walk. With the excitement last night—”

“Cliff.” Joyce gripped his arms tighter. “I think she went out to the old place. I’m dead sure of it; it wouldn’t be the first time.”

He thought of Maggie with a little ripple of unease. “Maggie’s home,” he said soothingly. “She’ll look out for her.”

“She’s been getting worse.” Joyce’s breath began to shudder. “Oh, Cliff, I thought I was doing the right thing, the only thing.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“I lied to the police. I lied before I’d thought it through, but I know I’d do the same thing again.” She pressed her fingers to her eyes briefly, then dropped them. When she looked at Cliff now, she looked at him with a surface calm that was deadly. “I know who killed my father. I’ve known for weeks. Mother—it seems Mother’s known for ten years.”

“Get in,” he ordered. He was thinking of Maggie now, of Maggie alone in the house, surrounded by woods. “Tell me while we drive.”

Maggie’s back was stiff and straight as she sat on a low bench. Moving only her eyes, she watched Stan pace the room. She wanted to believe he wouldn’t hurt her. But he’d killed once, ten years before. Now he’d have to deal with her or pay for it.

“I never wanted Joyce to sell this house.” He paced to the window, then back to the center of the room. “I never wanted it. The money meant nothing to me. Her money—her father’s money—never has. How could I’ve guessed she’d get it into her head to put it on the market when I was out of town?”

He ran a hand over his shirt and left faint streaks. He’s sweating, Maggie noted. It didn’t help her nerves.