“We thought you’d killed him,” Scott said. “He wasn’t even supposed to be at home that night. He was supposed to be in New York, but he came back unexpectedly. You grabbed that gun and you shot him.”

But Sally was just shaking her head, looking not frightened but thoughtful, her forehead furrowed. “No, I remember that when I got here I tried the front door. I didn’t expect it to be unlocked, but it was. Just as I turned the knob, I heard a shot. I ran into this room and there he was, on the floor, his chest covered with blood.

“I remember—” She paused, frowning ferociously. Then she pressed her knuckles against her forehead. “It’s so vague, so fuzzy. Those damned drugs you gave me—God, I could kill you for that.”

Quinlan said, “He’s in so much trouble now, Sally, that killing him would be letting him off lightly. I want to see him spend all his money on lawyers. Then I want to see him rot in prison for the rest of his miserable life. Don’t worry about him. You can do this. It’s all vague, but it’s there. What do you see?”

She was staring down at where his body had sprawled, arms flung out, his right palm up. So much blood. There had been so much blood. Noelle had laid a new carpet. But there’d been something strange, something she couldn’t quite put her finger on, something . . .

“There was someone else there,” she said. “Yes, there was someone else in the room.”

“How did you get the gun?”

She said without hesitation, “It was on the floor. He was bending down to pick it up when I came into the room. He straightened up real fast and ran to the French doors.”

She turned slowly and looked at the floor-to-ceiling windows that gave onto a patio and yard. There were high bushes and a fence between this house and the one next door.

“You’re sure it was a man?”

“Yes, I’m sure. I can see his hand opening the handle on the French doors. He’s wearing gloves, black leather gloves.”

“Did you see his face?”

“No, he—” Her voice froze. She began to shake her head, back and forth, back and forth. “No,” she whispered, looking toward those French doors. “It’s not possible, it’s just not possible.”

“You see him now, Sally?” Quinlan’s voice was steady and unhurried.

She looked at James, then at her mother, at Scott, and finally at Dr. Beadermeyer. She said, “Maybe they’re right, James. Maybe I am crazy.”

“Who was he, Sally?”

“No, no, I’m crazy. I’m delusional.”

“Who was he?”

She looked defeated, her shoulders bowed, her head lowered. She whispered, “He was my father.”

“Ah,” Quinlan said. Everything was falling neatly into place, though not yet for the others.

Noelle whispered, “Your father? Oh, Sally, that’s impossible. Your father was lying dead on the floor. I saw him, I went down on my knees beside him. I even shook him. It was your father. I couldn’t be wrong about that.”

Scott waved his pipe at her, shaking his head, saying, “She’s bloody crazy, crazier than we thought. Your father’s dead, Sally, just like Noelle said. I saw him dead too. Don’t forget there were the two of us.”

Dr. Beadermeyer said, “It’s all right, Sally. It’s another symptom of your illness. Will you come with me now? I’ll call your father’s lawyer, and he can come and make sure this man doesn’t take you to jail.”

Quinlan let all their voices float over him for a moment. He stood up and walked to Sally. He took her hands in his. “Well done,” he said, leaned down, and kissed her.

“You bastard, that’s my wife! I don’t want her, but she still is my wife.”

He kissed her again. “Everything makes sense now.” He turned to Dr. Beadermeyer. “Now it all fits. You’re a plastic surgeon, Norman. You must be very good at it. Where did you find the man whose face you reworked into Amory St. John’s?”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about. The murdered man was Amory St. John. No one doubted it. Why should they? There were no questions.”

“That’s because there was no reason to doubt it. Why would anyone check dental records, for example, if the wife of the deceased identified the body, if the face on the body looked like all the faces on all the photographs on the desk? It does bother me though that the medical examiner didn’t see the scars from the surgery. You must be very good, Norman.”