Marcus could make out Julia’s form under the black vinyl and morbidly wondered if there was any chance of a mortician’s reconstruction to honor her, to allow her husband to look upon her one last time, to say his final good-byes.

The floor was still pooled with blood, the rear wall covered in fragments of flesh and bone, several tufts of hair drifting on an unseen breeze. With everything going on down at the crash site, no one would arrive up here to clean this tragic reminder of violence against the innocent for days to come. That wouldn’t do. He would get on the phone and get someone up from the city, and while he was at it, he would begin the daunting task of arranging the funeral that Nick’s fragile mind was incapable of planning.

“Hey!” The voice startled Marcus, shocking him back to the moment.

“What the hell are you doing?” Shannon said. “We told you to stay next door with her husband until we’re done.”

“I thought-” Marcus looked around. “I thought you were done.”

“This is a crime scene, and it’s just the two of us. We’ve got to do all the printing and investigation on our own. We’re done when I say were done.”

“I’m sorry.” Marcus headed back to the kitchen door. “I’ll be next door.”

“Where’s Quinn? I thought you were going to stay with him. Shit.” Shannon paused, suddenly nervous. “Is he the type to run?”

“Run? Run from what? His wife is dead. He can barely stand.”

“You know what?” the cop said, holding up his finger. “You’re here. Let’s have a conversation.”

The cop turned and walked toward the living room as if he owned the place, indicating for Marcus to follow. “This won’t take long.”

Marcus nodded. “Whatever it takes to catch whoever did this.” Marcus could feel the other cop come in behind him but chose not to turn around.

“You said previously that you were very close to both the deceased and her husband. How close would that be?”

“Best friends. Equally close to them both,” Marcus said.

“Were either of them having an affair?”

“You’re crossing the line.” Marcus wanted to choke the cop for bringing up such a stupid question.

“We just need to ask,” Dance said from behind him. “Where were you when Mrs. Quinn was shot?”

“I told you before, next door in my garage, about to head out to dinner. I heard the shot and came running.”

“Anyone with you?”

“No, but I was on the phone with my girlfriend, who’s in California for the weekend, which you can verify.”

“What kind of relationship did Nicholas Quinn have with the deceased?” Shannon asked.

“Her name is Julia,” Marcus said, abruptly, trying to keep his anger in check. “They were as close as could be, more in love now than the day they married.”

“Were either of them emotional?”

“Not really. In fact, they’re both pretty even-tempered.” Marcus couldn’t refer to her in the past, he couldn’t get used to the fact he’d never hear her voice again.

“If that’s the case, why would he kill her?”

Marcus didn’t answer, as he thought he had misheard the question.

“Why would he do it?” Shannon continued to pressure Marcus. “Can you think of any reason, money, jealousy?”

“There is absolutely no way Nick killed her,” Marcus said. “He would never raise a hand to her, let alone shoot her.”

“Well, some things suggest otherwise,” Dance said as he held up a large clear plastic bag. Inside was a large, impossibly elegant pistol, something that looked to be owned by a king or a sheik. There was a hammered-gold plate on other side of the stock. The handle was made of ivory, inlaid with jewels. “Any idea why he would be keeping such an expensive weapon in the trunk of his car?”

Marcus stared dumbfounded at the sight. He’d never known Nick to own such a gun. “That can’t be his.”

Without a word, Dance put the plastic-encased pistol in a box and turned back to Marcus.

“Despite your doubts,” Shannon said, “I think he did it. If he has an attorney, I would suggest that you call him, because I’m going to interrogate this guy until he admits what he has done. And believe me, after a day like today, I have no time for lies.”

Marcus stared at the cop and suddenly remembered why he had come over. He looked at the detective in his too-tight shirt and jeans and thought him an asshole. He looked at his right hand but saw five fingers, five complete fingers.

“It’s Detective Dance, right?” Marcus said.

“No, I’m Robert Shannon, he’s Dance,” Shannon pointed to his partner as they all headed into the kitchen.

“Sorry.” Marcus turned to Dance. “Did I see you at the Jersey Shore?”

“No.” Dance glared at him and shook his head, suspiciously. “Why?”

“I thought maybe-”

“I hate the Jersey Shore,” Dance snapped as he walked into the mud room.

Marcus watched as Dance walked to Julia’s encased body. He pulled off his latex gloves, bent down, and helped Shannon and the white-haired coroner lift the black bag up onto the gurney.

Marcus looked once again at Shannon and Dance’s clothes. They were exactly as Nick had described them, but Nick had probably seen them through the window, maybe forgetting that he had looked. In his fragile mental state who was to say that his mind wasn’t retreating into its own reality?

Marcus felt an overwhelming confusion rush through him as he stared at the black bag containing Julia’s body, still coming to grips with the fact she was dead. But what took Marcus’s breath away, what compounded the effect of everything that had happened, was the moment when his eye was drawn back to Dance, now pushing the gurney out through the door, his eyes drawn to the detective’s right hand…

… to his right ring finger

… where it was missing below the second knuckle.

NICK HAD NOT moved from the couch in Marcus’s library. He had read the letter three times over, his thoughts bathed in a crippling confusion. All logic seemed absent from the European man’s written words, but equally absent from Nick’s own mind-how had he gotten here and how was it remotely possible? Nick wasn’t a superstitious man; he wasn’t prone to believe in the supernatural, myths, legends, UFOs. He didn’t believe in lucky pennies, rabbit’s feet, bad luck, or broken mirrors. But he would gladly embrace it all, preaching the merits of each, if it would bring Julia back.

He stood and walked about the library in a half-aware state looking at the pictures on the shelves. There was no consistency to Marcus’s past, no stability. Several frames contained pictures of Sheila, several older shots were obviously cropped, excising a former spouse, and two frames were altogether empty. His eyes finally fell on a picture of himself and Julia arm in arm with Marcus prominently displayed on the center shelf. They were all smiling. Nick couldn’t recall if it had been taken by Blythe or Dana of the discarded housewife crowd but he didn’t care. It was of a joyous time, a time before murder and plane crashes, when happiness had seemed eternal.

Nick finally pulled himself away from the photo, in fear of being overcome with grief again, and looked out the window. His fear began to arise anew as he saw Detectives Shannon and Dance emerge from his house, helping the white-haired coroner push the gurney with the black bag containing Julia into the coroner’s truck.

Marcus stood in the driveway, his head hung in sorrow as she was loaded in and the door was closed. The two detectives turned to Marcus and the three began a slow march across the large side yard.

Nick thought about running, but had no idea where he would run to, wondering if his fate was sealed no matter how fast or far he ran. He pulled the watch from his pocket and flipped it open, reading the time, 8:55, and became momentarily lost in the timepiece.

He pulled the letter from his pocket once again, rereading the impossible words, slowly, deliberately, digesting them as if he were reading the bible.