He waited.
"I don't know how to say it," she stumbled. "I knew you were Bruce's—Bruce's brother, the one he should have had. But only tonight could I feel it." She searched for a phrase. Finally: "I don't believe I could hurt myself by being serious with you."
"I hope not," he said, as grave as she. "I can't promise it."
"Why did you go to the Michaelises last night?"
"I'm not quite sure."
"You want to discover who killed Bruce? Isn't that it?"
"I am not a self-appointed detective. The police can do that job infinitely better than I. But I have been thinking."
"What do you think?" she persisted.
"I certainly wouldn't go accusing someone who—"
"Can you realize what Bruce meant to me?" She asked it quietly, as a meaningful request for truth. "We were more than siblings. We were friends, all our lives, in a way they haven't made words for."