“Okay,” said Lieutenant Keats without rancor. “That seems to be that.”
“Do you think so?”
The voice came from another part of the room.
Everyone turned.
Laurel Hill stood inside the screen door to Priam’s terrace.
Her face was white, nostrils pinched. Her murky eyes were fixed on Delia Priam.
Laurel wore a suede jacket. Both hands were in the pockets.
“That’s the end of that, is it?”
Laurel shoved away from the screen door. She teetered for an instant, regained her balance, then picked her way very carefully half the distance to Delia Priam, her hands still in her pockets.
“Laurel,” began Crowe.