“You followed him, and saw him leave. Perhaps you saw the murder. Maybe you heard about it later. But you had him back now. Because if he ever leaves you, you’ll tell the police he killed Lydia Cantwell. And that’s exactly what you’ve told him, isn’t it?”

“No.” Her face twisted in horror—at me, or at herself. “It’s not like that.”

I rose and walked toward her. “Then it’s like this. You killed her.”

She backed away, shaking her head with a child’s vehemence. “No. That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it? Maybe when he left, you crept up the driveway, just as you’ve said. Every step in the dark you’re thinking about how you lost the baby and how through all the years since, he’s wanted her. How you put him through school so he could shuck you for a woman who made you shrink, a woman he wanted like he wanted to be powerful, and someone else. All that churned inside you. By the time you made it to the house, you wanted to kill her. And Henry Cantwell wasn’t there to stop you.”

“He was,” she insisted.

“No. It was Lydia who answered. She was surprised, but she let you in—she’d do that. You were filled with crazy energy, like now. You quarreled over Dalton. Probably you pushed her to the floor and began banging her head. Maybe she just fell that way. But then you strangled her until the tongue came from between her lips. And when that wasn’t enough you took her picture and made it ugly.”

“You fucking bastard.” She stumbled back against the brick wall, knocking the carving knife to the floor. She picked it up, staring at it for an instant. Then she began waving it wildly in front of her. “Don’t come any closer,” she warned.

I circled until the counter was between us. “Get hold,” I urged. “Think.”

She looked puzzledly down at the knife. I edged toward her. She glanced up, starting. In one frenzied motion she reached for the blender and flung it at me. I jumped sideways, feet tangling in the barstool as the blender flew past me and shattered against the sink. I fell, palms open to catch myself. She rushed forward and lunged at my face with the knife. With one hand I flailed at her arm. There was slicing pain as flesh tore beneath my eye. I fell on my side, arms raised in front of me. She stood with her mouth open. The knife she held had blood on it. Without looking she dropped it clattering to the floor and ran.