Meredith’s daughter had been adamant that her mother wasn’t living a secret life—which Crystal is now inclined to take with a grain of salt, given Rebecca’s husband’s illicit affair.

Keith Drover seems certain his wife is clueless about it—but then that, too, could be open for debate.

In any case, Rebecca had insisted that no one close to her mother—no one she knew, anyway—would have been capable of hurting her.

“Everyone loved her,” she said tearfully. Clutching a handful of sodden tissues, she answered all of Crystal and Frank’s questions about friends and individual family members . . .

Something flickered in her eyes, though, when she was first asked about her father.

A hint of . . . something, and then it was gone.

Her parents had a great, loving marriage, she said.

Right.

Diaphanous Jones’s family had told Crystal she’d been a great, loving mother.

She loved that baby more than anything . . .

“My mother and father worshiped each other,” Rebecca said.

Most kids are going to believe that about their parents, if there are no overt signs of marital trouble in the household. Especially adult children who have moved on. Crystal’s own son was stunned and bewildered when she called him at boot camp to tell him that she and his dad would be going their separate ways.

“But why?” he kept asking. “You guys never even fight.”

Not true, exactly—but damn, she and her ex were good at hiding the tension. Practice makes perfect.

Maybe Meredith and Hank Heywood really were happily married.

Maybe not.

Hell, some days she wonders if any marriage—outside of her own, of course—is entirely happy.

“The other thing we’re looking at,” she muses aloud to Jermaine, “is the Internet.”

“What about it?”

“The victim was a blogger. She put way too much of her personal life out there for anyone to read.”

“Yeah, well, we’ve seen more and more of that sort of thing. People go blabbing on social networking Web sites, not just about birthdays and their mother’s maiden names, but where they’re going, and for how long, and who they’re with. The next thing you know, they’re reporting that someone’s stalking them, or their identity’s been stolen, or their empty home was burglarized . . .”

“Or worse,” Crystal says with a nod.

She explains to her husband that Meredith Heywood was a breast cancer survivor who wrote a very public blog that had hundreds, maybe thousands, of followers.

“You think one of them killed her?”

“Could be. But if that was the case, it wasn’t necessarily a complete stranger. Not in the usual sense of the word.”

“What do you mean?”

She tells him about the last piece of evidence—the one that’s been nagging her from the moment she first saw the body.

Jermaine shakes his head. “So you really do think it was the husband, don’t you?”

She hesitates, remembering the raw pain in Hank Heywood’s face.

Remembering the flicker of doubt in his daughter’s eyes.

“I don’t know,” she says. “I honestly don’t know.”

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

How on earth did this happen—again?

It’s not like I’m someone who just goes around . . . killing people.

Meredith was the first, and she was supposed to be the last, the only.

But now look.

The crumpled figure lying on the ground moans, clenching and unclenching the hand that until moments ago held a puppy on a leash.

The puppy is running loose somewhere down the street, still dragging a length of leather and chain from its tagged collar.

The man’s hand is covered in blood, reaching for the knife sticking out of his stomach, reaching . . . reaching . . .

He’s too weak. He’s not going to make it.

It was different with Meredith. She was likely unconscious before she grasped what was happening, unlike this poor soul who must know he’s dying, an ugly, painful death at that.

With Meredith, it wasn’t ugly and painful.

It wasn’t impulsive, and it wasn’t about anger. No, it was about—

Well, it was far more complicated than anyone could possibly understand. But it was the right thing to do.

This . . .

This was probably the wrong thing.

It was probably the wrong thing? It was definitely the wrong thing!

Look at him! Look what you did to him!

The man on the ground moans again.

Oh, dear.

“I’m sorry. Really. I didn’t mean for this to happen, but . . . I only wanted to be left alone. Why did you have to stop me and ask for a light? Why couldn’t you just walk on past me?”

Another moan, the low, terrible sound of an animal being tortured.

This is bad. This is wrong.

But I couldn’t help myself.

He kept talking, and he said the wrong thing, and . . . and I’ve been under so much pressure these last few days with everything, that I just . . .

Snapped.

Yes, snapped, like a turtle, when someone gets too close.

Now someone is suffering.

Because of me.

No—that’s wrong. This isn’t my fault. It’s his.

“You know, I told you I didn’t have a light! Why didn’t you let me walk away? Why did you have to try to make conversation? Who does that at this hour on a deserted street? Who are you? Who are you?”

Unlike Meredith, this person is a stranger in every sense of the word.

Unlike Meredith, he’s suffering terribly.

All that’s visible of his face in the predawn shadows is his mouth, surrounded by a stubbly growth of beard. Just a few minutes ago the mouth was smiling and forming questions, far too many questions. Now, it’s contorted in agony, and blood is beginning to gush from it.

I can’t stand to see him in pain, whoever the hell he is.

He’s a human being.

I’m a human being, for Pete’s sake. I have a heart. No matter what anyone thinks . . .

But who would think anything different?

No one in this world knows what really happened to Meredith, and no one is going to figure it out.

As for this stranger . . .

I have to do something to help him. Out of the goodness of my heart.

But . . . ugh. The lower part of the knife handle is covered with blood that’s still gushing from the wound.

I wish I had gloves. From now on I should never go anywhere without gloves in my pocket.

Gloves were an integral part of Saturday night’s plan.

But this, today, wasn’t planned by any means. This was a spur of the moment impulse, an instinctive reaction.

Turtles only snap because they’re trying to protect themselves.

That’s the reason I snapped. It’s the reason I was even carrying the knife in the first place.

This is a relatively safe part of town, but no neighborhood is immune to crime. At this hour, before the world has fully stirred to life, it would be foolhardy to walk the streets alone without some form of protection. You just never know what kind of lunatic might be lurking around the next corner.

That’s why the knife was such a great find when it turned up in a secondhand store a while back.

“Now this here’s a great tool,” the shop owner said, demonstrating how the knife’s four-inch blade opened and closed. “See how it folds up so that it’ll fit right into your pocket?”

Yes. It was a great tool. But hardly worth the asking price.

The owner begged to differ. “That’s a valuable antique, my friend. The handle is the real thing, not imitation. You can’t buy something like this anymore. They outlawed using tortoiseshell a hundred years ago.”

“Not a hundred years ago. Not even fifty. It’s old, but technically it’s not an antique. Tortoiseshell was banned in 1973 under the Convention of International Trade on Endangered Species.”