Now in her kitchen, Eden remembered the music and the dance. It was a time, maybe the last time, when she could remember herself as a person without regrets. Holding the glass above her head, she closed her eyes and began to sway, alone, in front of the refrigerator. She moved in a small circle in her socks, round and round, humming one of the Italian songs to herself and remembering Ludo’s hair softly brushing her cheek.

Suddenly an image played across her mind—something wrong in the last few minutes. What was it?

She stopped dancing and opened her eyes. She went back over everything in order: unlocking the back door, the empty kitchen, her shoes, the TV, her cell phone, the message from Coyle. She had forgotten to call him back. But that wasn’t what was wrong. Her mind raced on: the TV screen, the wine bottle, the milk carton, the celery, the rotten guacamole—

Wait—the wine bottle. When she had last seen it on Tuesday, the bottle was two-thirds full, above the label. Now it was just a quarter full, below the label. She remembered this clearly, remembered telling herself how much she had to enjoy when the investigation was finished. How could the level be lower? She had been gone for three days. No one else had a key to the apartment.

Eden looked up at her right hand, still holding the wineglass above her head. Past that, across the kitchen, she saw her gun lying on the kitchen table.

Then she heard a faint sound in the living room. Cloth rustling? She turned toward it.

With the blinds closed, the room was dark, but she heard something. A glass? She stared wonderingly through the doorway to the living room. The light switch on the reading lamp clicked on.

A man sat there, watching her.

His legs were crossed, a clog on the right foot dangling from his toes. A wineglass stood on the table. One hand held a gun.

Benjamin Thackrey.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

(i)

(FRIDAY, 1:05 P.M.)

Coyle drove through the entrance to Spring Lake Park, tires skidding on the loose gravel. Was it only four days since they had been here to discover the body of Elise Durand? He waved his badge at the guard hut and accelerated down the park road and across the west parking lot. Near the bottom of the lot, he saw Partridge’s Nissan and Woodhouse’s Honda and, farther on, Tom Woodhouse standing beside Fisherman’s Trail. Coyle jumped out, leaving his car door open.

“Where’s Partridge?”

“Already on the trail. I was going after him.”

“Jesus, Eddie was right.” Coyle pulled out his Glock.

Woodhouse smiled. “Eddie told you to come here? Good for him.”

They walked quickly onto the rocky path, Woodhouse struggling to keep up with Coyle.

“I couldn’t call you,” Woodhouse yelled to Coyle. “Fucking battery on my phone died.”