“Maybe he was lying. Or in denial, I don’t know,” said Hansen. “Luke wasn’t cruel but—I can see him getting carried along. But with-out the others, he never would’ve done anything like that. He told me he’d felt . . . immobilized—as if his feet were stuck. That’s the way he phrased it. ‘My feet were stuck, Nick. Like in quicksand.’ ”

“Can you see the others doing something like that on their own?”

“I don’t know . . . I used to think of them as clowns . . . maybe. All I’m saying is Luke was a big softie. A big Baby Huey type of guy.”

“And the others?”

“The others weren’t soft.”

“So,” said Milo, “the murder started out as a way to silence the girl.”

Hansen nodded.

“But it progressed to something else, Nicholas. If you’d seen the body, you’d know that. It was something you wouldn’t want to paint.”

“Oh, Lord,” said Hansen.

“Did Luke Chapman make any mention at all of who initiated the murder?”

Hansen shook his head.

“How about taking a guess?” said Milo. “From what you remember about the Kingers’ personalities.”

“Vance,” said Hansen, without hesitation. “He was the leader. The most aggressive. Vance was the one who picked her up. If I had to guess, I’d say Vance was the first to cut her.”

Milo slapped his pad shut. His head shot forward. “Who said anything about cutting, Nicholas?”

Hansen turned white. “You said it—you said it was ugly.”

“Chapman told you they’d cut her, didn’t he?”

“Maybe—he could’ve.”

Milo stood and stomped his way slowly toward Hansen on echoing tiles, came to a halt inches from Hansen’s terrified face. Hansen’s hands rose protectively.

“What else are you holding back, Nicholas?”

“Nothing! I’m doing my best—”

“Do better,” said Milo.

“I’m trying.” Hansen’s voice took on a whine. “It’s twenty years ago. You’re making me remember things I repressed because they disgusted me. I didn’t want to hear details then, and I don’t want to now.”

“Because you like pretty things,” said Milo. “The wonderful world of art.”

Hansen clapped his hands against his temples and looked away from Milo. Milo got down on one knee and spoke into Hansen’s right ear.

“Tell me about the cutting.”

“That’s it. He just said they started cutting her.” Hansen’s shoulders rose and fell, and he began weeping.

Milo gave him a moment of peace. Then he said, “After they cut her, what?”

“They burned her. They burned her with cigarettes. Luke said he could hear her skin sizzle . . . oh God—I really thought he was . . .”

“Making it up.”

Hansen sniffed, wiped his nose with his sleeve, let his head fall. The back of his neck was glossy and creased, like canned tallow.

Milo said, “They burned her, then what?”