Griff thought about it. “Money. I went to the mansion and demanded more.”

“Foster wouldn’t have told anyone about our arrangement with you, especially not someone as slimy as Rodarte.”

“Maybe he’d have said he offered me a job in advertising, then changed his mind and withdrew the offer.”

“Plausible, I suppose.”

“Knowing Rodarte as I do, I’m sure he eventually would have played his ace, broken the news to the poor cuckold that I’d been sneaking afternoons with his wife. Of course, Foster would have let him go on thinking I had acted out of jealousy. Our secret affair would have made him look more like a victim, and me a likelier murderer.”

Laura silently conceded that it sounded logical, but she wasn’t yet ready to fully accept it. “Why would Foster have that phony document? And the box of cash? How would he have explained them?”

“If Manuelo had killed me,” he said, “they wouldn’t have been there. Foster didn’t expect anyone but me to see them.”

There was no disputing that. “All right, I see how he could have given Rodarte a credible explanation, and Rodarte would have accepted it, believing Foster to be in the dark about us. But what would Foster have told me?”

“Probably that the confirmed pregnancy had made me greedy. I got to the mansion and demanded more than the half million. When he refused to pay more, I attacked him. Thank God for Manuelo. And thank God I’d done the job I’d been hired to do. You were pregnant. My death was a tragedy, but wasn’t it lucky that I was no longer around, an ongoing threat to your secret and the well-being of your child.” He paused, then added, “It would have been just as he wanted it, Laura. Neat and tidy.”

They were quiet for a time. Movies ended. People trickled out of the theater and made their way to their cars. Others arrived. There was a line to purchase tickets. But the van and the pickup truck stayed, and no one paid attention to the couple sitting in the innocuous midsize car between them.

“Your fingerprints were on the hilt of the letter opener.”

“So were Manuelo’s.”

“But he could have handled it at any time.” She tried to make eye contact, but he avoided it. “Griff?”

“I didn’t want you to know how he died.”

“I have to know.”

He looked away from her, out the windshield, his eyes following a family of four, mom and dad, two children, who’d just come out of a movie. The young son was rolling his eyes, flapping his arms, doing a disjointed jig, obviously imitating an animated character. They were laughing as they piled into their SUV and drove away.

“Why were your fingerprints on the letter opener?”

“I was trying to save his life,” he replied in a quiet voice. “When I saw what had made Manuelo scream, I pushed him aside and shouted at him to call 911. But he was transfixed by the horror of what he’d done. So I placed the call. While I was doing that, Manuelo split.

“I bent over Speakman to see just how bad it was. My initial reaction was to try to pull the letter opener out of his neck. I took hold of it but almost immediately realized it would be better to leave the thing where it was. It was partially plugging the wound, and even at that it was gushing.” He stopped, cursed softly. “Laura, you don’t want to hear this.”

“I must.”

He hesitated, then continued. “There was nothing I could do but what I did, which was to apply pressure around the blade, try to slow down the bleeding.”

She swallowed. “Rodarte said that there was blood on Foster’s hands, tissue under his fingernails. That he had…”

Griff held out his hands to her, palms down, so that she could see the scratch marks on the backs of them. “He was trying to pull the letter opener out. I knew for certain he would die if he did, so, yeah, we fought over control of it.”

He waited to see if she would respond to that, but when she didn’t, he went on. “I talked to him, trying to calm him down and stop him from struggling. I told him that help was on the way. Told him to hold on, to hang in there. Stuff like that. But…” He shook his head. “I knew he wasn’t going to make it, and I think he did, too.”

“Did he say anything?”

He shook his head. “He couldn’t articulate.”

“Were you with him when-”

“Yes. I stayed.”

“Thank you for that.”

“Jesus, don’t thank me,” he said, sounding almost angry. “Believe me, as soon as he was gone, I was out of there. I knew what it would look like. I showed no more guts than Manuelo. I grabbed my ass and ran. And…” He stopped, looked away, toward the brightly lit entrance to the theater.

“What?”

He blew out a gust of breath. “There were plenty of times after that last afternoon with you when I wished he was dead.” He looked directly into her eyes then. “Not dead specifically. Just…just not. In the depths of my rotten soul, I wished him away.” He continued looking at her for ponderous seconds before speaking again. “But I didn’t kill him. Do you believe that?”

She opened her mouth to speak but discovered she couldn’t. His story was more credible than she wanted it to be. But she also remembered that afternoon of fevered lovemaking, the hunger and urgency of it. Her impassioned responses had unleashed from him a wild possessiveness. She remembered the way his large hands had moved over her body, claiming it, the intensity with which he had thrust into her, and how jealously he’d held her afterward.

She lowered her head and massaged her temples.

“Forget I asked,” he said curtly. “You’re not going to believe me until you have Manuelo Ruiz’s sworn statement that he accidentally stabbed your husband. You and Rodarte.”

She reached out and angrily grabbed his hand. “Don’t you dare compare me to Rodarte. And don’t give me attitude, either. You’re asking me to believe in your innocence. I want to, Griff. But believing you also means accepting that my husband, the person I had loved and admired for years, was a madman who plotted your murder. It’s a lot to absorb so soon after burying him. Forgive me if that’s proving to be difficult.”

She dropped his hand, and for several moments the atmosphere crackled. He was the first to relent. “Okay. No more attitude.” He reached into the backseat and got the duffel, placed it in his lap, and unzipped it. “My only hope of exoneration-from anybody-is to find Manuelo Ruiz.”

He rifled the bag, removing what appeared to be the aide’s keepsakes from El Salvador. A rosary. A map of Mexico, with a red crayon line snaking up through it to a starred spot on the Texas border.

“His route,” he said. There was an old photograph of a couple on their wedding day. “His parents, you think?” He passed her the picture.

“Possibly. Their age looks right.”

That was it except for a few Spanish-language paperback books and an inexpensive wallet. Griff checked every compartment. In the last one he looked, he found a piece of stained paper. It had been folded so many times, the creases were dirty and almost worn through. Griff carefully spread it open on his thigh.

He read what was printed on it, then smiled and passed the sheet to her. Written in pencil were four digits and a name. She looked back at him. “An address?”

“Appears to be. It’s a place to start looking.”

“It could be right here in Dallas or in Eagle Pass.”

“Yeah, but it’s something.” He seemed suddenly galvanized. “Do you have a cell phone?”

She reached into her handbag and withdrew it. Checking the readout, she saw that she’d missed several calls. “I had silenced it at the office and forgot to turn it back on. Kay called once. Rodarte’s called three times. The last time was twelve minutes ago.”

She handed the phone to Griff. He pressed the send button, so that Rodarte’s number would be automatically dialed. It rang only once before he answered. “Mrs. Speakman?”

“Sorry to disappoint you, Rodarte. You’ve got me. And I’ve got her.”