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mugging.’
    Lloyd looked at Trista, and then they both turned to Dulcie. The impact of Trista’s discovery countered all the good the hot coffee had done her, and she slumped further against the wall. ‘So Cameron knew his killer,’ she said, her voice flat. ‘And maybe we do, too.’

FIVE
    ‘ W ell, what about that Polly woman? Couldn’t she have been involved?’
    Dulcie didn’t like to be needy, but after the meeting she’d called Chris back. She’d caught him just waking up, and as soon as he heard the strain in her voice, he suggested they meet for a late breakfast at the Greenhouse.
    The Greenhouse was as close as Harvard Square came to a diner, its low prices and breakfast all day somehow surviving even as other student-oriented outlets gave way to pricey boutiques. And usually Dulcie enjoyed its hearty, if greasy fare. Today, however, food hadn’t had much appeal, so she’d been toying with a muffin as Chris talked. Forcing herself to swallow a dry-as-dust mouthful, she shook her head. ‘Polly was out. Doing errands, I think. She’d have let me in if she’d been around.’ In her mind, she could still hear the washed-out blonde’s strangled scream. ‘She saw Cameron, too.’
    ‘Yeah, but who’s to say that she didn’t stage that?’ Chris gestured with a fork full of pancakes. ‘That she didn’t kill him and then get lost for a while?’
    ‘Not likely.’ Dulcie thought of the wan assistant and tried to explain. ‘You might as well sic a scared rabbit on someone.’
    Chris continued shoveling syrup-soaked pancake into his mouth. On most days, Dulcie was frankly envious of his capacity. If anything, her tall boyfriend was too skinny, while Dulcie was, well, curvaceous. But today neither of them was thinking much about food. Even as he ate, he kept his dark eyes on her, pushing the question.
    ‘Besides, I’m sure she has an alibi.’ Dulcie almost choked on the word and took a sip of her coffee while she thought. ‘She only came in after – you know. Poor girl.’
    Chris paused for breath, fork in air. ‘Dulce, you were the one who found him. A certain amount of shock, of post-traumatic reaction, would be normal.’
    ‘I know. Believe me, I know.’ The moment came back to her – the intense stillness of the scene. The calm as her own mind began to shut down at the sight. The white face, the blood. And just as the dizziness threatened to overwhelm her, she recalled once more that brief touch of fur. Her late cat had been there with her, and she had felt safe because of him. Despite the horror of the day, that one touch had stayed with her. Polly didn’t seem to have anything in her life like Mr Grey. Nothing that gave her such comfort. She thought about explaining this. Suze hadn’t believed her about the spectral pet, and she’d been hesitant to tell Chris about the latest visitation from Mr Grey. They hadn’t been together that long. ‘But there was something else.’
    They both paused as a waitress refilled their mugs. ‘Yes?’ Chris looked over, waiting. He’d been in therapy ever since his mother had been diagnosed with cancer, and some of the habits had worn off. At least the twice-weekly sessions had made him a good listener.
    Still, Dulcie hesitated, recalling the day before. What had really happened anyway? All she could say with certainty was, as she had been sitting there, trying to answer the policeman’s questions, the other woman had come in and collapsed with more than the expected thump.
    ‘Polly had just arrived with a load of books for Professor Bullock.’ As she thought back, Dulcie could see the older woman, collapsed. ‘Nice ones, for his private library, probably. And she dropped them.’ She saw the image of leatherbound spines piled haphazardly on the floor, of pages splayed open. She was the professor’s servant in all but name, and for a moment Dulcie glimpsed her own future. But no, she had Mr Grey. That, ten years’ grace, and the doctoral thesis