“The door was open.” She spoke clearly now, as if anger and excitement had made her sober. “When Dalton left I decided to face her. I got out of the car and began to walk up the drive. There was almost no moon. I had to feel my way by the dogwood trees. Once a branch snapped in my face and I nearly fell. The drive was so steep I started panting. But I kept on and when I got closer the light from her living room helped me see a little. I wanted her. I wanted to spoil her face.”

I had stopped doing anything but listen. “I was almost to the top,” she continued. “There was a noise. Headlights came toward me from the bottom of the drive. I jumped back. My shoe caught on the edge of the drive and I fell backwards over the hedge and landed on my face behind it.

“When the car passed I stayed pressed down in the grass and brush where he couldn’t see me. I could smell the dirt under my face but I didn’t move. A car door slammed and I heard footsteps on the walk. Then they stopped. The front door opened. From inside comes a voice: Lydia Cantwell, society and very cool. ‘I wasn’t expecting you,’ she said. And then the door shut behind them.

“I peeked out over the hedge. There was no one on the porch. The car was in front of the garage. But I could see it. It was a black Mercedes—Henry Cantwell’s car.”

I lit a cigarette, trying to collect my thoughts. “But you never saw this person. For all you know it could have been a woman.”

“I saw the car. It was Henry Cantwell.”

“Sure it was. You could tell because he rang the doorbell of his own house. He wanted to make things hard on himself.”

“I didn’t say he rang. I said the door opened.”

“Then why did you hear Lydia’s voice?”

“She was still up. Dalton had just left.”

“How long before? Fifteen minutes? Twenty? Two hours? Maybe you fell asleep in the car. Maybe you’d been drinking.”

“He suffered,” she said stubbornly. “Like me. So he killed her.”

“Of course he did. After deciding not to park in his own garage. I’ll tell you what makes better sense. Your husband had an affair with Lydia Cantwell. Six days ago tonight, with Henry gone, he went to her house. They fought. Maybe he wanted a divorce and she didn’t. It doesn’t matter. He lost control: I’ve nearly seen that twice. By the time he got a grip on himself he was alone in the house with a dead woman. So he mutilated her picture, wiped his prints off everything he could think of, and left her there, the victim of a psychotic killer.