“Possibly?”

“Okay. Probably.”

“It’s a horrible motive.”

“I’m aware of that.”

“And you’re also aware that it makes his version of the facts unreliable?”

“I have no intention of accepting his version of anything. I’m not that naive.”

Madeleine looked over at him, then back out in the direction of the pond. They were silent for a while. Gurney felt a chill in the air, a damp, earthy-smelling chill.

“You need to talk to Malcolm Claret,” she said matter-of-factly.

He blinked, turned, and stared at her. “What?”

“Before you get involved in this, you need to talk to him.”

“What the hell for?” His feelings about Claret were mixed—not because he had anything against the man himself or doubted his professional abilities, but the memories of the occasions that prompted their past meetings were still full of pain and confusion.

“He might be able to help you … help you understand why you’re doing this.”

“Understand why I’m doing this? What’s that supposed to mean?”

She didn’t answer immediately. Nor did he press the question—taken aback momentarily by the sudden sharpness in his own voice.

They’d been through this before, more than once—this question of why he did what he did, why he’d become a detective in the first place, why he was drawn to homicide in particular, and why it continued to fascinate him. He wondered at the defensiveness of his reaction, given that this was well-trod ground.

Another pair of small birds, high in the darkening sky, were hurrying to some more familiar, perhaps safer, place—most likely the place they considered home.

He spoke in a softer voice. “I’m not sure what you mean by ‘why you’re doing this.’ ”

“You’ve come too close to being killed too many times.”

He drew back a little. “When you’re dealing with murderers—”

“Please, not now,” she interrupted, raising her hand. “Not the Dangerous Job speech. That’s not what I’m talking about.”

“Then what—”

“You’re the smartest man I know. The smartest. All the angles, possibilities—nobody can figure it out better or faster than you can. And yet …” Her voice trailed off, suddenly shaky.

He waited a long ten seconds before prompting her gently. “And yet?”

It was another ten seconds before she went on. “And yet … somehow … you’ve ended up face-to-face with an armed lunatic on three separate occasions in the past two years. An inch from death each time.”

He said nothing.

She stared sadly out over the pond. “There’s something wrong with that picture.”

It took him a while to reply. “You think I want to die?”

“Do you?”

“Of course not.”

She continued looking straight ahead.