Breathe deep, he told himself now. Count to twenty. You can't change the world, but you can improve a bit of it a little at a time.

He got out of his car. Shut the door. Breathed in, breathed out. Thought of reopening his door and slamming it, but got hold of the impulse. Just breathe. He boarded the front steps of the Victorian home and knocked on the dark-stained door slightly harder than necessary, but not too bad. No one answered, though he heard voices coming from inside.

He knocked again, counted to ten, then knocked again and made it all the way to thirty before he heard the click of someone drawing back the brass cover from the peephole. A moment later, Carol Rosen stood in front of him. She wore blue-checkered flannel pajamas buttoned up to her neck, even though it had to be nearly sixty outside. Her cheeks were flushed. Her eyes held a glassy sheen.

Drunk, he thought immediately, though when she swayed forward he couldn't catch the scent of any booze on her breath. Vodka then.

“I don't… talk to you,” she said, gripping the door tight.

“Is your husband home?”

“Nope.”

“His office said he wasn't at work.”

“Well, he's not at home.”

“Mrs. Rosen-”

“Try his girlfriend's.” Her eyes grew brighter. She stabbed a finger at him and for the first time he saw the knuckles on her right hand. They were bleeding. He looked at her sharply, but she didn't seem to notice. “Not here. Not there. Must be at his girlfriend's.”

“Your husband has a girlfriend?”

“That's what I said.”

“What is her name?”

“I don't know. I betcha she was never raped. What do you think?”

Griffin was quiet for a moment. “Would you like me to call someone for you, Mrs. Rosen? Maybe a friend or relative who could come stay with you for a while?”

She waved her finger, falling forward, then getting a better grip on the door. “Not a reporter. I hate them! Phone ringing… all the time. Tell us about Eddie! What about that poor college student? Sylvia Blaire. Pretty Sylvia Blaire. Eddie's dead, and still the women suffer.”

“How about I call Miss Pesaturo or Ms. Hayes?”

“Meg doesn't know shit. She's so young.” Carol sighed. She tilted her head to the side, her long blond hair sweeping down her shoulder. “Young and sweet and innocent. Do you think I was ever that young and sweet and innocent? I don't remember. Even before Eddie… I don't remember.”

“Ms. Hayes?” he asked hopefully. No dice.

“She hates me,” Carol announced. “I'm too broken, you see. Jillian only loves people she can fix. Improve yourself! Get with the program! Take control of your life! Jillian is really Oprah Winfrey. Well, she's not black.”

“Are you going to be all right, Mrs. Rosen?”

“I can't have children,” she said mournfully. “I bet Dan's girlfriend can have children. I bet she can turn off the TV anytime she wants. I bet she's never slept in an empty bathtub or compulsively checked all the bars on the windows. She's probably never shot at Dan either. It's hard to compete with that.”

“Mrs. Rosen…” She was definitely drunk. He took another deep breath, then acknowledged that it didn't matter. He still had a job to do, and frankly, her inebriation made his life easier. He said, “Does Dan ever talk to you about money?”

“No.”

“A home like this must be very expensive.”

She singsonged, “New plumbing isn't exactly cheap, you know.”

“So things have been tight?”

“‘Jesus Christ, Carol, someone has to pay for all this.'”

“Very tight.”

“Meg and Jillian think we should sell this house. I picked out almost everything in it. This door, I selected this door.” She stroked it with her hand. “This molding, I selected this molding.” She touched the doorjamb tenderly. “So much of it was gone before. Rotted out, yanked out. Replaced with cheap pine trim. I read books. Scoured old pictures of Victorian homes, talked to experts in historical restoration. No one could have loved this house more than I did. God, I wish it would just burn to the ground.”

“Mrs. Rosen, we know Dan liquidated his brokerage account. Do you know where that money went?”

She shook her head.

“We're going to have to look into that, Mrs. Rosen.”

She smiled and leaned her head against the door. “You think he hired an assassin? You think he spent that money to kill my rapist?”

“I would like to ask him that question.”

“Sergeant Griffin, my husband doesn't love me that much. Try the girlfriend. Maybe she also likes expensive old homes.”

Griffin brought up his hand. Too late. Carol Rosen had already closed the door. He tried knocking, but she wouldn't respond. After another minute, he returned to his car, where he sat behind the steering wheel and frowned.

He didn't like leaving Carol Rosen alone in her current state of mind. Last night she'd shot her husband, and that was before she'd learned about Sylvia Blaire.

He picked up his cell phone and gave Meg Pesaturo a try. No answer. Next call, Jillian's beach house. Also a dead end. Then he dialed her East Greenwich residence, where he finally got a person.

“Hello,” Toppi Niauru said.

Jillian wasn't in, so Griffin told Toppi about Carol Rosen. She said that she and Libby would be right over.

Carol's historic house didn't have wheelchair access, so Griffin hung out in the driveway. Forty-five minutes later, Toppi pulled up in a dark blue van. She opened the side door and operated the wheelchair lift to lower Olivia Hayes to the ground.

Jillian's mother had put on makeup for the occasion. She had her dark hair piled high on her head, and greeted Griffin with a kiss.

At 5:00 P.M., he carried Libby up the front stairs while Toppi followed with her wheelchair. At 5:01, they all knocked on the door.

At 5:10, they stopped knocking, and Griffin took down the door with his shoulder. At 5:11, they found Carol sprawled on the rug in front of the blaring TV, her hand still clutching the empty bottle of sleeping pills.

Griffin started CPR, Toppi called for an ambulance and Dan Rosen, with his usual sense of timing, finally came home.

Chapter 26

JILLIAN ARRIVED FIRST. SHE FORCEFULLY SHOVED HER WAY through the pack of reporters clogging the hospital parking lot, then bustled through the emergency room doors.

“Goddamn vultures!” she cried as the electronic doors finally slid shut, but not before some earnest reporter shouted out, “Ms. Hayes, have you ever thought of committing suicide?”

Meg and her family were shortly behind Jillian. A uniformed officer had located their vehicle outside Vinnie Pesaturo's home and passed along the news. Arriving in the hospital parking lot, Vinnie shouted, “Outta my way, you rat bastards,” and the reporters, recognizing an armed man when they saw one, let the family through.

The moment they were inside the ER, Meg homed in on Jillian. “Where is she? Is she okay? What have you heard?”

“I don't know. We need a doctor. There. You in the white coat. What can you tell us about Carol Rosen?”

“Jillian! Over here. Jillian!”

Jillian and Meg turned in time to see Toppi waving at them from the other side of the waiting room. Next to her sat Jillian's mother. Next to Olivia, sat Sergeant Griffin.

“Why is your mother here?” Meg asked.

“Is that really the Olivia Hayes?” her father breathed.

“I'm going to kill Sergeant Griffin,” Jillian said.

They rushed across the emergency room, where Toppi rose to meet them. “How is she? Is she going to be all right?” Jillian's hands were shaking. She didn't even realize it until Toppi reached out and clasped them in her own.

“We don't know yet.”

“Oh God-”

“Her husband is talking to one of the doctors now. Maybe he'll know something soon.”