“The man you take to your bed wants you dead, and you will let him kill you. Only, no—he does not come to your bed anymore, does he? He is done with you. Aren’t you angry?” “Yes. No. Maybe. I don’t know.” “I don’t know.” She mimics me and leaps up. “Poor Lenore Crowther, so terribly sad about the inconvenience of her own murder.”
