Halfway up the drive he stopped, looked at Trixie’s house, then scanned two doors over to take in the house Sarah and I and the kids once lived in. Even with his eyes narrowing, it was possible to read them. I’ve been here before, he was thinking.

And then he looked at me and smiled to himself, as if everything was starting to make sense. “Well, well,” he said. “Mr. Walker. We meet again.”

“Detective Flint,” I said, trying to smile but not quite pulling it off.

“And you would be?” he said, turning to Sarah. I noticed that when I introduced her as my wife she hardly swelled with pride.

“Hello, Mrs. Walker. I’m going to want to talk to both of you, but individually.” He called over one of the uniforms. “Why don’t you show Mr. and Mrs. Walker to separate cars so that they can rest comfortably while I check things out in there.”

He disappeared into the house. Sarah and I were put into the back seat of different cruisers. I could see her from mine, but she wasn’t looking over in my direction. I couldn’t resist trying the door handle, to see whether it would open, and it did not. I sat there, feeling like a criminal, and feeling even greater shame that Sarah was being put through the same ordeal. It was about ten minutes before Flint reappeared. He got into the back of Sarah’s car first, questioned her for at least fifteen minutes before he got out and settled in next to me. Even though he appeared to be done with Sarah, she had not yet been allowed out of her cruiser.

Flint shifted in the seat, got comfortable, and asked to see my wrists.

“Ouch,” he said empathetically, inspecting the bruises from the handcuffs. “That part checks out.”

He got out his notebook, clicked his ballpoint a few times, made some scribbles. “Where’s Trixie Snelling gone?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” I said.

“You don’t know, or you won’t tell me?”

“I honestly don’t know. She said something about trying to find her little girl. I’m guessing she means her daughter.”

“Where’s her daughter?”

“I didn’t even know, until she said that, that she might have a daughter. So I have no idea where she might be.”

“Hmm.” He made some notes. “I understand that you know the deceased.”

“Yes.” I cleared my throat. “Martin Benson. A columnist for the Suburban.”

“Yeah, I’ve read him now and again. Saw his big exposé on suburban kink, a dominatrix in the neighborhood. Lordy lordy.”

“There was a picture,” I said.

“Yeah, I saw that. She was dressed in her civilian clothes, though,” Flint mused. “I guess, if they’d got a picture of her on the job, they couldn’t even have run it. Family newspaper and all that.”