“They think I’m crazy.”

It was the first time Remington had spoken to him without prompting. It took everything Harding had not to jump at the quiet, reasonable sound of his voice. He gazed at the recorder to be sure the tape was running.

“Who thinks that?”

“The people here. My traitorous sister. My adulterous wife. Have you met my wife, Mr. Harding?”

Something icy seemed to slick the inside of Harding’s gut at being called by name. He had introduced himself on every visit, but he’d never believed, never really considered, that Remington had heard, or understood.

“No, I haven’t. I was hoping you would tell me about her.”

“What can I tell you about Helen?” There was a sigh, a sound of patient amusement. “She deceived me. She’s a whore, a cheat, a liar. But she’s my whore. I gave her everything. I made her beautiful. She belongs to me. Has she tried to seduce you?”

The spit in Harding’s mouth dried up. Ridiculous as it seemed, it felt as if Remington could see into his mind. “I haven’t met . . . your wife, Mr. Remington. I hope to have the opportunity to meet her. When I do, I’d be happy to take her a message from you.”

“Oh, I have plenty to say to Helen. But it’s private ,” he said, whispering the last word as a slow smile curved his lips. “Many things between a man and his wife should be private, don’t you agree? What happens between them in the sanctity of their home is no one’s concern.”

Harding offered a sympathetic nod. “It’s difficult, isn’t it, to balance that privacy when you’re a man who has the public’s attention.”

Remington’s eyes clouded, fog over ice, and began to dart around the room. The intelligence, the crafty humor in them, had vanished. “I need a phone. I seem to have misplaced my phone. Where’s the damn concierge?”

“I’m sure he’ll be right here. Could I ask you what it was about Mrs. Remington that first attracted you to her?”

“She was pure, simple, like clay waiting to be formed. I knew immediately she was meant to be mine. I sculpted her.” His hands flexed at the ends of his restraints. “I didn’t know how deeply flawed she was, how much work would be involved. I devoted myself to her.”

He leaned forward, his body vibrating as it strained. “Do you know why she ran?”

“Why?”

“Because she’s weak, and stupid. Weak and stupid. Weak and stupid.” He said it again and again, like a chant as his fisted hands pounded. “I found her because I’m not.” He turned his wrist as if checking the Rolex that was no longer there. “It’s time I left here, isn’t it? Time I fetched Helen and took her home. She has a lot of explaining to do. Call the bellman for my bags.”

“He’s . . . on his way. Tell me what happened that night onThreeSistersIsland .”

“I don’t remember. Anyway, it’s not important. I have a plane to catch.”

“There’s plenty of time.” Harding kept his voice low and soothing as Remington began to squirm in his chair. “You went to find Helen. She was living on the island. You must have been pleased to find her alive.”

“Living in a hovel, hardly more than a tool shed. Little bitch. Pumpkins on the porch, a cat in the house. Something wrong with the house.” He licked his lips. “It doesn’t want me to be there.”

“The house didn’t want you?”

“She cut her hair. I didn’t give her permission to do that. She whored herself. She has to be punished, has to be taught. Has to remember who’s in charge. She makes me hurt her.” Remington shook his head.

“She begs for it.”

“She asked you to hurt her?” Harding asked cautiously. Something stirred in him, something ugly and unrecognizable. Something that was aroused by the thought.

It shocked and appalled him, nearly made him pull back once more. But then Remington was speaking.

“She doesn’t learn. Can she be that dense? Of course not. She enjoys punishment. She ran when I killed her lover. But he came back from the dead,” Remington went on. “I had a right to kill him for trying to take what belonged to me. A right to kill them both. Who are all those people?”

“What people?”

“In the woods,” Remington said impatiently. “The women in the woods. Where did they come from?

What business is this of theirs? And him! Why didn’t he die when I killed him? What kind of world is this?”

“What happened in the woods?”

“The woods.” He rubbed his lips together as his breath began to rush through them. “There are monsters in the woods. Beasts hiding behind my face. Crawling inside me. Light, in a circle. Fire. Too many voices. Screaming? Who is that screaming? Hang the witch. ‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.’ Kill them all, before it’s too late!”

He was screaming now, howling like a madman. As aides rushed in, ordered Harding to leave, he picked up his tape recorder with a trembling hand.

And didn’t see the crafty gleam in Remington’s eyes.

Ripley slogged her way through paperwork. She’d lost the coin toss with Zack, which still irritated her, since the false spring was hanging on. It would be close to sixty degrees by afternoon, and she was stuck on desk duty.

The only good part was that he wasn’t around, so she was free to sulk and call him nasty names under her breath. When the door of the station house opened, she prepared to launch a few at him, face-to-face. But it was Mac who walked in, behind what looked to be most ofHolland ’s supply of tulips.

“What’re you doing, going into the florist business?”

“No.” He crossed to her, held out the rainbow of spring flowers. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

“Oh, well. Wow.” Even as her heart went soft as putty, her stomach jumped. “Um.”

“You say thanks, and kiss me now,” Mac told her helpfully.

“Thanks.”

There were so many of them, she had to hold them out to the side before she could manage the kiss. And when she would have kept that part of the ritual light, he simply slid his arms around her, drew her closer, sucked her down into that soft, slippery world.

“There are a lot of flowers.” He rubbed his lips over hers, stirring them both. “Say thanks again.”