“Because we’re not talking about police business, Detective. We’re talking about my life. My husband. My marriage. My driveway. So please don’t condescend to me. The way I see it a wife’s right to know the truth trumps a friend’s desire to sweep his poker buddy’s indiscretions under the rug. Come to think of it, you didn’t seem all that surprised that there was a woman in my husband’s car the night he died.”

“Christine—”

“You knew, didn’t you? Maybe not her name, but you knew there was someone.”

Another sigh, this one weightier than the last. “I wasn’t sure, but I suspected. He’d let a few things slip now and then. Nothing specific, just . . . things. He never mentioned a name, though, and I never pressed him for one.”

“Of course not. That would be breaking the rules.”

“Rules?”

“The cheater’s club or whatever you call it. All for one and one for all. Isn’t that how it works?”

“Look, Christine, I know this hasn’t been easy for you, especially the way it all went down, but one thing I do know is that Stephen—”

“Don’t!” she snapped, cutting him off. “Don’t you dare say he loved me. That isn’t why I called, to have you reassure me that a half-naked woman in my husband’s car doesn’t mean anything. She means something to me. I think I have the right to at least know her name—and I don’t mean by reading it in the tabloids. It’s been a week, and honestly, I’m beginning to wonder if you’re not dragging your feet on purpose.”

“What is it you’re accusing me of?” The paternal tone was gone, replaced with a gruff wariness.

“I’m not accusing you of anything. All I want is a name. And the number or address of someone who might be able to tell me what was going on between that woman and my husband.”

“Look, I don’t have the information you want, but even if I did, I couldn’t share it with you. Victims have rights, Christine. So do their families. In other words, there are rules. And if we break those rules, we get in trouble. I’ve put in a whole lot of years here and put up with a whole lot of crap. At this point, all I want is to get out and spend a few years on a little sailboat down in the Keys. I’m not about to stick my neck out, not even for the wife of a friend. I know that sounds harsh, but I have to look out for myself here. Stephen’s death wasn’t a homicide, which means I’m not even the guy you should be talking to. If anything, it’s a missing-persons case, and it’s not even that since no one’s filed an actual complaint on her. Either way, it’s not my purview. Now I need to go do my job. I’ll make sure they send that patrol car around, but I’m sorry, that’s all I can do.”

And just like that Daniel Connelly was gone.

Christine was still leaning against the counter, wondering why she’d just been given the brush-off, when the phone rang. She pounced on it, hoping Connelly had changed his mind. Instead, it was Dorsey and Sons. In the mayhem, she had forgotten that Stephen’s friends and colleagues were at that very moment gathering to pay him tribute—and wondering what had happened to the widow.

As it turned out, she needn’t have worried. Apparently, the barrage of breaking news had whittled the number of mourners to an awkward handful. But then that really wasn’t surprising. Who in their right mind would want to look her in the eye now, let alone gush about what a great guy she’d married?

Using the vaguest language possible, she explained that she had been unavoidably detained and wasn’t likely to get there anytime soon. Mr. Dorsey, presumably one of the sons, was delicacy itself as he inquired about how best to proceed. In the end, she advised him to cancel the service but to go ahead with the cremation, which he had agreed to do in tones that could be described only as painfully polite. He hadn’t come right out and said so, but she was certain he’d seen the photos. Everyone had by now. Apparently the old adage was true—the wife really was the last to know.

Two hours later, Christine caught the sharp whoop-whoop of a police siren out in front of the house. She hurried to the living room window, peering out in time to see a Clear Harbor patrol car inching up the crowded drive, blue lights flashing. The officer stepped out and began waving his arms, gesturing to the NO TRESPASSING signs posted at regular intervals along the fence. There was a brief bit of protest, but eventually the gaggle began filing toward the open gates.

Christine watched as the driveway slowly emptied, and one by one, the news trucks pulled away. When the last truck was gone, she stepped to the control panel in the foyer and closed the front gates, then returned to the window to double-check. She stood there for a time, staring at the empty street, trying to locate something like relief. For the first time in seven days, there was no one camped out in front of the house, no reporters lying in wait.

It took all the energy she could summon to drag herself up to the bedroom and shuck off her funeral clothes. She was thinking about the scarf she had lost somewhere in the driveway when she heard a clatter out on the terrace. Curious, she stepped to the doors and peered past her reflection, stunned to find a reporter pointing a camera at her as she stood there in nothing but a pair of panties.

Too alarmed to scream, she dropped to a crouch, dragging the duvet from the bed and wrapping it around her as she dove for the phone. On realizing he’d been discovered, the intruder abandoned his shot and scrambled for the stairs, stumbling briefly as he hurdled a patio chair, then streaked for the back fence. A moment later, he was gone.