What was she saying? And why was she saying it to the bartender? He didn’t understand. The booze wasn’t helping. But still, he wrapped his fingers tighter around his drink, processing what he’d overheard.

“Claudine?”

Her back flinched when she heard her name.

“Claudine. What’s going on?”

She turned around. The knife blade flashed in her hand.

“Henry, dear, meet—I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.”

“Thomas,” the bartender said. He looked frightened.

“Well, of course it is,” Claudine said. “Henry, this is Thomas James Cooke. He’s named after his father. Who you killed. No, I’m sorry, whom I killed?”

“Who you killed?” A queasiness spread through him.

“Henry, do you really think that you—you—beat an old man to death? Pounded in his head, then grabbed a shotgun and unloaded it into the strong young man who was coming to his aid? That’s truly comical. You did what you always did. What’s in your very nature. Even tonight. You drank. You were drunk when I found you at the house and you drank yourself to sleep in the car. Passed out by the time we arrived. Exactly what was supposed to happen. You played your role perfectly.”

There it was. An answer to something that had always bothered him. This was why she hadn’t complained about his drinking before the murders. But it didn’t answer everything.

“I don’t understand why—”

“Stop saying that,” she cut him off. “You do understand. You can’t always run around not understanding. Try harder, Henry. Try harder to understand. If I hadn’t done it, our entire lives never would have happened.”

“Why did you have to kill them?”

“I was tired of waiting, Henry! What can I say? I’m impatient. Same reason I fucked Steve. And this whole exchange is growing tedious.”

A horrible thought came over Henry.

“That night when you came home … did Mr. Miller even hit you?”

“Sure he did. The same way young Thomas here beat me up tonight.”

“I haven’t touched you,” Thomas said.

“Hmmm, let’s see. I haven’t had much time to think. The Miller story took me a couple weeks to come up with. But here it goes: The game finished and I was coming out for air. You were, what?” Claudine glanced toward a tub full of champagne bottles keeping cold outside. “You were grabbing more champagne. Then what? You tried to force yourself on me. No, too cliché. Too generic. A good lie is about the details. You wanted more money. Were unhappy with the tip I gave you. Obsessed with the night’s casual display of wealth. Jealous of all the incredible gifts that were opened. That’s better. You lashed out and threw me against the pillar.”