Smiling, she said, “So was I, you arrogant, conceited-”

She gasped when he retreated and thrust into her again as he lifted her buttocks in his hands and claimed her completely.

“Oh, Dean…!”

An hour later, Dean’s alarm went off, waking both of them. Just as he leaned over and kissed her, his phone rang.

“Who the hell?”

“You’d better get it,” she said. “It could be Phil Hughes or even Uncle Charlie.”

Dean picked up the phone on his nightstand, not bothering to check the caller ID. “Hello.”

“Lieutenant McMichaels?”

A woman’s voice. Dean sat up in bed. “Yeah, this is he.”

“I’m Marilyn Dewey. I hope I didn’t wake you.”

“No. No, ma’am, you didn’t.”

“My son has convinced me that I should talk to you.”

“Yes, ma’am, I’d certainly appreciate it if you’d let me drive up to Salem and ask you a few questions about the old Cupid Killer case.”

“I-I’m in the middle of moving from my house into a condo near my elder son and everything is a mess here.”

He heard reluctance in her voice. And something else. Trepidation?

“Mrs. Dewey, you could come here to Portland, if you prefer. Your son could come with you.”

Rachel punched Dean in the ribs and mouthed the name Marilyn Dewey.

“No, no, I’d rather not,” Mrs. Dewey said. “You come here. Next week.”

“Why wait?”

“Why hurry? Jake Marcott was killed twenty years ago.”

“The Portland P.D. believes there is a possibility that Jake’s killer has resurfaced and recently killed three of Jake’s old friends, three girls Jake once knew quite well.”

“That’s not possible,” Marilyn said.

“What do you mean?”

“Jake Marcott’s killer is dead.”

The Dewey home, in a suburb of Salem, was in an older neighborhood with well-kept lawns and neat houses, most built in the sixties. A robust, auburn-haired Pat Dewey Jr. met Rachel and Dean at the door and invited them into his mother’s living room.

“Mom,” he said to the plump, rosy-cheeked lady with sad brown eyes and gray-streaked auburn hair, “Lieutenant McMichaels and Sergeant Alsace are here.”

Marilyn Dewey looked up at them from her wheelchair and motioned to the nearby plaid sofa. “Please, have a seat.” She glanced around at the numerous stacked boxes that littered the room. “And excuse this mess. You know I’m in the middle of moving.”

Putting a pleasant expression on her face, Rachel shook hands with Marilyn. “Thank you so much for seeing us.”

Dean nodded. “We really appreciate this.”

He and Rachel sat on the sofa facing Marilyn. Her son stood behind her wheelchair, one hand on her shoulder. “Go ahead, Mom. Tell them what you know.”

Marilyn Dewey looked down into her lap where she held her clasped hands, her fingers knotted and swollen. “If Patrick were alive, I’d never…I’ve kept his secret all these years.”

Rachel scooted to the edge of the sofa. What secret?

“Patrick was a good man,” Marilyn said. “A good husband and father.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Dean glanced up at Pat Jr. before focusing on Mrs. Dewey. “Just take your time in telling us what you know.”

“Patrick wasn’t with me the night that Marcott boy was killed.” The words rushed out of her in one long, run-together sentence.

Rachel and Dean exchanged questioning glances.

Silence hung over the room like a heavy fog.

“Are you saying that when the police questioned you twenty years ago, you lied?” Rachel asked.

“Yes, I lied for my husband. Patrick told me that if I didn’t give him an alibi, the police would dig deeper and he’d be in big trouble,” Marilyn explained. “I asked him why he needed an alibi, and he said I was better off not knowing, to just do as he asked and everything would be all right.” Tears welled up in her eyes.

Pat Jr. squeezed his mother’s shoulder reassuringly. “It’s all right. You’re doing just fine. Tell them the rest of it.”

Marilyn swallowed hard. “I was a young woman with two children and no job. I didn’t even graduate from high school. I needed Patrick.” She paused, sighed heavily and looked pleadingly at Rachel. “And I loved him.”

“We understand,” Rachel said. She did understand why a woman would lie for her husband. But understanding didn’t mean approval.

“I lied to the police about two things. Patrick was not with me the night the Marcott boy was murdered. And the crossbow that he reported stolen wasn’t stolen. He-he hid it in the garage, inside this big old toolbox that had belonged to his father.”

Rachel tensed. “Do you know why he reported the crossbow stolen?”

Marilyn shook her head. “I asked him, but he wouldn’t tell me. We never discussed it-none of it-ever again. Not until…” Tears streamed down her face.

Pat Jr. whipped out a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to his mother. She wiped away the tears and wadded up the handkerchief in her trembling hands.

“Patrick had throat cancer. He’d been a heavy smoker all his life,” Marilyn said. “A few days before he died, he told me he had to clear his conscience before…He needed to bare his soul to me, to beg me to forgive him.”

Rachel held her breath. Dean didn’t move a muscle. A deadly soft anticipation filled the room.

“Patrick killed that boy,” Marilyn said. “That Marcott boy.”

“Did he tell you that he killed Jake Marcott?” Dean asked, his voice sympathetically gentle.

“Yes. He said that he planned it a few weeks beforehand and that’s why he reported the crossbow stolen, so that when he used it…”

“Why did your husband kill Jake?” Rachel asked.

Marilyn hesitated, then said, “There was a girl, you see. A girl that Patrick had been seeing.” She paused as if the truth were too terrible for her to utter aloud. “My husband had an affair with a teenage girl.”

Oh my God! Rachel’s mind worked at lightning speed, putting together the missing pieces to a twenty-year-old puzzle.

Marilyn Dewey wept, her heart breaking anew because her husband had been unfaithful to her all those years ago. “This girl had been involved with the Marcott boy, too.” Marilyn looked up at her son and grasped the hand that clutched her shoulder.

Pat Jr. leaned down and hugged her.

She regained her composure and continued. “Patrick said this boy had been cruel to the girl, that he’d mistreated her badly, that he deserved to die. The only way to stop the boy from continuing to abuse the girl was to kill him.”

“Did your husband tell you the girl’s name?” Rachel asked, hoping beyond hope that he had.

Marilyn shook her head. “No.” She glanced from Rachel to Dean and then up at her son. “Even on his deathbed, he wanted to protect her.”

Several days following Rachel and Dean’s interview with Marilyn Dewey and a follow-up interview that was officially recorded, the Portland P.D. had permanently closed the cold case file on the Cupid Killer murder. Chief Charlie Young made the wise decision to delay making the news public until after the St. Elizabeth’s reunion. And Dean had managed to persuade the powers that be not to press charges against Mrs. Dewey, a woman in her sixties who suffered from crippling arthritis. In Rachel’s opinion, the woman had suffered enough, and Dean agreed. It seemed they agreed on a great many things.

If only Mrs. Dewey could have given them the girl’s name…

Everything made sense now. All except one of the old puzzle pieces had been placed together. Patrick Dewey had been having an affair with a girl Jake had also been involved with, a girl Jake had abused. Patrick had plotted Jake’s demise and killed his rival in a spectacular way. The expert bowman had shot Jake directly in the heart with “Cupid’s arrow.”

But what had happened after Jake’s murder? Had the girl turned against Patrick? Or had Patrick ended the secret affair?