“No. I want us to speak, not her. You and me, Nicki. We need to decide what to do about her. She killed Damon Blundy—I bet you think the person who killed Damon Blundy ought to pay for their crime, don’t you? He wasn’t evil—that’s what you said—so the person who murdered him must have been. Jane’s willing to accept whatever punishment we decide on. She’s come here by choice. I explained everything to her. She’s OK with it. Look, she’s not restrained in any way; she’s just sitting there. She could get up and leave if she wanted to.”

“If you want Damon’s killer punished, call the police,” I say.

Tasker lunges for the scissors, holds them up in the air. “No police,” he says.

“All right. OK, no police.” My heart is pushing to exit my body through my mouth. “It’s up to you.”

I watch as his breathing returns to normal. He puts the scissors down again. “Sorry,” he mutters. “Look, you want to hear Jane’s story? Be my guest.” He climbs off me and walks over to the chair in the corner. Rips the tape off his wife’s mouth. Her face twists in response to the pain. A nondescript face. “Tell Nicki what happened,” he says.

“I killed him. Reuben’s telling the truth. I . . . I thought he wanted me to. He was so . . . clear about what should happen. Every detail.”

“Tell me,” I say. Slowly, as she starts to talk, I raise myself up to a seated position, reach for the bed’s coverlet and wrap it around me.

“I . . . had to send Damon Blundy an email, as if it were from him. From Reuben. Had to say I wanted to set up a staged murder scene, for research for my next book, and could he help by posing as the victim? ‘You’ll be meeting my wife, Jane, not me’—that’s what I put. Reuben said to put that. ‘Jane’s my research assistant.’ Reuben said Damon Blundy would like the idea. He told me to say that he could make a good column out of it.”

“I knew Blundy wouldn’t be able to resist,” says Tasker. “For all his self-proclaimed brilliance and cleverness, he let Jane tape his hands together behind his chair, tape his ankles to the chair. And then it was too late. Wasn’t it, Jane?”

Her nods are like the mechanical vibrations of an inanimate object. “I felt terrible. He was nice to me. He must have been watching out of the window when I arrived. He came out to greet me, helped me carry all my things into the house.”

“The man was an idiot, Nicki,” says Tasker. He’s not interested in Jane. He’s watching me, all the time, for my reaction.