Next, she opened the Work folder. This was far more complicated and confusing. There was no "work in progress" folder, just a long list of files with numbers instead of names. Claire assumed these were project numbers, but she couldn't be certain. She clicked on the date field to list them chronologically. There were fifteen recent files he'd been working on in the last two weeks. The last one had been opened the night before Paul died.

Claire clicked on the file. She expected to find a schematic or scope of work, but all that happened was the little iMovie icon on the dock started bouncing.

"Oh," she said, because at first she didn't understand what she was seeing. And then she smiled for the first time since the Snake Man had told them not to move.

Paul had been looking at porn on his computer.

Not just any porn.

Kinky porn.

A young woman in a leather bustier was chained to a concrete-block wall. She wore a studded dog collar. Her arms and legs were spreadeagled, giving her crotchless leather panties a workout. She was making squeaky, fearful noises that sounded more 1970s horny than present-day scared.

Claire shot a guilty glance at the open doorway to Paul's office. She muted the sound, but let the movie play.

The woman was in a filthy room, which made it all the more shocking that Paul was interested. She was obviously young, but not alarmingly so. Her brunette hair was cut in a chic pixie. Heavy mascara ringed her eyes. Bright red lipstick made her lips seem bigger than they were. Her breasts were small, but she had fantastic legs. Paul had always liked Claire's legs, even when she had on the ankle monitor.

Actually, he'd especially loved the ankle monitor, which was the kinkiest thing she'd ever gotten out of him until he'd turned inexplicably rough with her in the alley.

And now, of course, because this movie was pretty out there.

Suddenly, a man's head filled the screen. He was wearing a leather ski mask with open zippers at the mouth and eyes. He smiled into the camera. There was something disturbing about the way his red lips showed against the metal teeth of the zipper, though Claire doubted Paul had been looking at the man.

The focus blurred, then sharpened. The smile disappeared. And then the man started walking toward the girl. Claire saw his erect penis jutting out from his tight leather briefs. There was a machete in his hand. The long blade glinted in the overhead light. The man stopped a few feet away from the girl.

The machete arced into the air.

Claire gasped.

The machete came down on the woman's neck.

Claire gasped again.

The man wrenched out the blade. Blood sprayed everywhereonto the walls, onto the man, onto the camera.

Claire leaned forward, unable to look away.

Was this real?

The woman's body convulsed, arms and legs pulling at the chains, head jerking. Blood poured down her chest, pooled at her feet.

The man started fucking her.

"Mrs. Scott?"

Claire jumped back so hard that the chair slammed into the wall.

"Are you up there?" Fred Nolan was walking up the stairs.

Claire banged on the keyboard, blindly searching for a way to stop the movie.

"Hello?" Nolan's footsteps were getting closer. "Mrs. Scott?"

She held down the control button and furiously tapped on the Q to quit the program. Error messages started popping up. Claire grabbed the mouse and clicked each one closed. The rainbow wheel started to spin. "Shit!" she hissed.

"Mrs. Scott?" Fred Nolan was standing in the open doorway. "Something wrong?"

Claire looked back at the computer. Sweet Jesus. The desktop was blank again. She willed her voice not to shake. "What is it?"

"Just wanted to say that I'm sorry about before."

Claire nodded. She didn't trust herself to speak.

Nolan let his gaze travel around the room. "Nice office."

She tried not to blink because every time her eyes closed, she saw the woman. The man. The blood.

"Anyway," he tucked his hands into his pockets, "I wanted you to know that I talked to Detective Rayman about your husband's case."

She had to clear her throat a few times before she forced out, "What?"

"Detective Rayman with the Atlanta Police? You spoke to him the night your husband was murdered?"

She held her breath, trying to calm it. "Yes."

"I want you to know that we looked at all possible connections, and there doesn't seem to be one between what happened to your husband and what happened today."

Claire nodded. She felt a sharp jab of pain in her jaw from clenching her teeth.

Nolan let his eyes slowly take another tour of the office. "Your husband was a tidy guy."

Claire didn't respond.

"Kind of a control freak?"

She shrugged, though Paul had never tried to control her. Except when he jammed her face into that brick wall in the alley.

Nolan indicated the digital lock on the door. "That's some pretty serious security."

She echoed the words that Paul had often told her. "Doesn't really matter if you don't set the alarm."

Nolan smiled his deeply unsettling smile. He wasn't standing over her, but he might as well have been. "We'll need to send a crew up here anyway."

She felt her heart stop. The computer. The files. The movie. "That's not necessary."

"Better safe than sorry."

Claire tried to think of a good excuse to contradict him. "Did the security cameras show the men breaking into the garage?"

"You can never be too sure."

She summoned a weak copy of her mother's librarian voice. "I would think sixteen cameras would make you as sure as possible."

Nolan shrugged. He was smiling at her again.

"Not to mention half a million dollars' worth of automobiles that are still parked in the garage."

He kept smiling, and Claire realized that she was talking too much. Her hands were sweating. She gripped the arms of the chair.

Nolan asked, "Something up here you don't want us to see?"

Claire forced herself not to look at the computer. Instead, she looked at his lips and tried not to think about the red, wet lips behind the zippered mask.

He said, "I'm curious, Mrs. Scott, did your husband say anything to you before he was murdered?"

She remembered the alley, the rough texture of the brick, the burn of skin being scraped from her cheek. Was Paul suddenly into that kind of thing? Was that why he had this movie on his computer?

"Mrs. Scott?" Nolan mistook her silence for embarrassment. "Don't worry. Detective Rayman told me why you and your husband were in the alley. No judgment here. I'm just curious about what your husband said."

She cleared her throat again. "He promised me he wasn't going to die."

"Anything else?"

"I already told all of this to Detective Rayman."

"Yeah, but that was a few days ago. Sometimes it takes some perspective to jog your memory." He pressed a little harder. "Sleep usually does it. I've dealt with a lot of victims of violent crime. There's this adrenalin rush that gets them through the hard parts, and then they have to tell their story to old gumshoes like me, and then they go home and they're alone and they start to crash because the adrenalin's gone and there's no forward momentum and they fall into a heavy sleep and then suddenly they wake up in a sweat because they remembered something."

Claire swallowed again. He was perfectly describing her first night alone, but the only revelation that had come when she'd woken up with the sheets soaked in sweat was that Paul was not there to comfort her.

Comfort.

How could the man who looked at such vile filth possibly be the same gentle man who had comforted her for eighteen years?

"So," Nolan said, "did you remember anything? Doesn't have to seem useful. Just a stray comment he might have made, something unusual that he did. Before or after the attack. Anything you can think of. Maybe not even something he said, but his demeanor."

Claire's hand went to her thigh. She could almost feel the missing streaks of skin where Paul had raked his fingers up her leg. He'd never marked her like that before. Had he wanted to? Had he been fighting the impulse all those years?

"General demeanor," Nolan prompted. "Anything he said."

"He was shocked. We were both shocked." Claire clasped her hands together on the desk so that she wouldn't start wringing them. "It's called Masters of the Universe Complex." She sounded like Paul, and in fact the phrase had come from her husband. "It's where people think that status and money insulate them against tragedy."

"Do you think that's true?" Nolan asked. "Seems like you've seen more tragedy than most."

"That's a keen bit of detective work on your part." Claire forced herself to stay in the present. "Are you a detective? Because when I met you in the driveway, you didn't give your title or show me your credentials."

"You're right."

He didn't volunteer the information, so she said, "I'd like to see your identification."

Nolan was apparently unflappable. He reached into his coat pocket as he walked toward her. His wallet was a cheap bifold. Instead of a detective's shield, there were two laminated cards behind plastic sleeves. Everything on the top card was in gold inkthe words Federal Bureau of Investigation, the blind Lady Justice, and the bald eagle. The bottom card was in blue ink and showed Fred Nolan's color photograph, his name, and revealed that he was a special agent from the Atlanta field office on West Peachtree.

The FBI. What was the FBI doing here?

She thought about the file on Paul's computer. Had the FBI tracked the download? Was Fred Nolan here because Paul had stumbled across something he shouldn't have? What Claire had seen could not be real. It was a made-up movie designed to appeal to a sick fetish.

A sick fetish that, apparently, her husband had either stumbled across by mistake or kept hidden from her for the last eighteen years.

"Satisfied?" Nolan was still holding out his wallet. He was still smiling. He was still acting like this was a casual conversation.

Claire looked at the credentials again. Nolan had fewer gray hairs in the photograph. "Does the FBI routinely investigate foiled burglaries?"

"I've been doing this job long enough to know that nothing's routine." He flipped the wallet closed. "The gang who robbed your house crossed county lines. We're helping coordinate between the police forces."

"Isn't that the job of the Georgia Bureau of Investigation?"

"You're certainly up on your law enforcement hierarchy."

Claire had to put a stop to this before she gave everything away. "It's just occurred to me that you never answer my questions, Agent Nolan, so maybe I should stop answering yours."

Nolan chuckled. "I forgot you've had experience with the justice system."

"I'd like you to leave now."

"Sure." He indicated the door. "Open or closed?"

When she didn't answer, he closed the door behind him anyway.

Claire ran to the bathroom and threw up.

FOUR.

Lydia tried to concentrate on the road as she drove her daughter to an away game. She had lasted twenty-four hours before the full impact of Paul Scott's death hit her. The hangover from her ensuing breakdown was breathtakingly awful. All day, she'd felt weepy and exhausted. Her head throbbed with every heartbeat. The coffee she'd gulped down to stave off the headache had made her fidgety. She hated the feeling of being punch-drunk and she hated it even more that her first thought when she opened her eyes this morning was that a bump of coke would even her out.

She wasn't going to give up seventeen and a half years of sobriety for that asshole. She would throw herself off a bridge before she did something so stupid.

But that didn't stop her from hating herself for even thinking of using. And it didn't stop her from crying like a baby last night.

She had wept in Rick's arms for over an hour. He'd been so sweet to her, stroking her hair and telling her that she had every right to be upset. Instead of making her talk it out or driving her to a meeting, he'd put on John Coltrane and fried some chicken. The chicken was good. The company was better. They had started arguing about which was the best Coltrane solo, "Crescent" or "Blue in Green," and right in the middle of it Dee came out of her room and gave Lydia the greatest gift a teenage daughter can ever give her mother: She had agreed with her.

The cordiality had been short-lived.