He switched off his headlights. After sitting there mystified for a few more seconds, he picked up Hardwick’s heavy metal flashlight from the passenger seat without turning it on, got out of the car, and walked toward the barn—guided through the darkness by that strange point of light, which seemed to move as he moved.

Then he realized with a touch of gooseflesh that the light wasn’t in the barn at all. It was a reflection—a reflection on the window of a light somewhere behind him. He turned quickly, and there it was—a powerful light gleaming through the line of trees along the top of the ridge behind the pond. The first thought that came to mind was that it was a halogen searchlight mounted on an ATV.

In the barn behind him, perhaps in response to this illumination, the rooster crowed.

Gurney looked again at the ridge—at the swelling, brightening light behind the trees. And then, of course, it was obvious. As it should have been from the first instant. No mystery at all. No strange vehicle probing the high forest. Nothing out of the ordinary. Just a full moon rising on a clear night.

He felt like a fool.

His phone rang.

It was Madeleine. “Is that you down by the barn?”

“Yes, it’s me.”

“Someone just called for you. Are you on your way up?” Her voice was distinctly cool.

“Yes, I was just checking something. Who was it?”

“Alyssa.”

“What?”

“A woman, by the name of Alyssa.”

“Did she give you a last name?”

“I asked her for that. She said you’d probably know her last name, and if you didn’t, there wasn’t much point in talking to you anyway. She sounded either stoned or crazy.”

“Did she leave a number?”

“Yes, it’s here.”

“I’ll be right up.”

Two minutes later, at 10:12 p.m., he was standing in the kitchen with his phone, entering the number.

Madeleine was at the sink island in her pink and yellow summer pajamas, putting away a few pieces of silverware left in the dish drainer.

His call was answered on the third ring—by a voice that was both husky and delicate. “Could this be Detective Gurney calling me back?”

“Alyssa?”

“The one and only.”

“Alyssa Spalter?”

“Alyssa Spalter, who was left at the altar, just wearing a halter.” She sounded like a twelve-year-old who’d been at her parents’ liquor cabinet.

“What can I do for you?”

“You want to do something for me?”

“You called here a little while ago. What do you want?”

“I want to be helpful. That’s all I want.”

“How do you want to help?”

“You want to know who killed Cock Robin?”

“What?”

“How many murders are you involved in?”

“Are you talking about your father?”

“Who do you think?”

“Do you know who killed your father?”

“King Carl? Course I do.”

“Tell me.”

“Not on the phone.”

“Why not?”