Laura stopped. Though she knew the office was deserted, she felt eyes on her. She slowly raised her head toward the door.

“Hi,” David said softly.

She looked at him. There were tears nestled in the corners of his eyes. “How long have you been standing there?” she asked.

“About five minutes.”

“Are you okay?”

He nodded. “I’m fine. I just wanted to surprise you.”

“What’s wrong, David?”

He smiled now. “Nothing, my love. Nothing at all.”

“You’re crying.”

“Just tearing, Laura.”

“Why?”

He shrugged, moved into the room, and embraced her. “What can I tell you? I came in to surprise you. You’ve been working so hard lately and I thought a little break would be fun.”

“You thought right,” Laura added.

“Anyway, I came up to the door. You were sitting there at work and . . . I don’t know. I just love watching you. I love watching the way your head tilts when you’re reading. I love the way you smile when you’re thinking of a new idea. I love the way you brush back your hair with your finger. I even love the way your leg shakes. So I was watching you, mesmerized, and I was thinking about how beautiful you are and about how much I love you and all. . . .”

Laura kissed him. “You are the sweetest—”

“Don’t you start, too,” David interrupted. “Only so much corny stuff I can handle at one time.”

“I love you, David. I will love you forever.”

“This Svengali Special by Benito Spencer is perfect for the woman on the go. It can be worn with or without the jacket. . . .”

Why had it all been cruelly snatched away from her?

The faces of the important critics in the front row blurred into one large mass of fleshy tones. More than two weeks had passed since Laura had confronted and made up with her mother—two weeks during which Laura had done her best to bury herself in the preparation for this show. But still the conversation with her mother kept pricking at her mind with tiny needles. Her mother was hiding something—Laura was sure of it. Her mother was hiding something about David.

But what could it be? Could there have been something in David’s past that he had kept from her? And if he had, how would Laura’s mother know about it? And why wouldn’t her mother say what it was? What could have happened to David that would explain all the peculiar happenings . . . ?

Murder.

Laura’s thoughts jerked wildly. She tried to push the thought away, but it remained anchored in her mind. T.C., Aunt Judy, her father—they were all acting so strangely . . .

Murder.

. . . as if they suspected something . . .

In the background the Svengali announcer: “You’re sure to be a hit in this red ensemble. . . .”

A half a million dollars was missing. Five hundred thousand dollars. People would do crazy things for that kind of money. Cheat. Swindle. Deceive. Rob. Mug. Kidnap.

Murder.

Laura replayed her conversation with Richard Corsel at the bank.

“Your husband had me transfer the money to Switzerland.”

“When?”

“Please, I can’t say.”

Why was Corsel so damn protective about telling her when? Unless . . . So many questions about David’s death hounded her. He had drowned in the rough waters of the Coral Sea.

Drowned? David?

It didn’t make any sense. She had listened to all their talk about the ocean’s dangerous currents, but the excuse rang hollow in her ears. Rough currents or no rough currents, David was an excellent and careful swimmer. He would have checked the currents and tides before diving in. David may have been unpredictable but he never took foolish risks, especially when it concerned his health.

And a man like that drowned?

Murder.

The walls around her seemed to whisper that word. Five hundred thousand dollars was missing, disappearing within a few days of David’s death. Coincidence or . . . ?

Murder.

And maybe T.C. and the others suspected the same thing. That would explain their strange behavior toward her. Were they trying to protect her from the truth? Was that the reason T.C. didn’t approve of her strong-arm approach to handling Corsel at the bank? Had the devastation of David’s death blinded her to the truth?

“The final ensemble is an innovative evening gown. . . .”

Laura sat down. The Nikko Hotel and the fashion show evaporated from her mind, dissolving into the sounds of a distant background. Was she going crazy, or for the first time, were events starting to make sense? Almost four months had painfully crawled by since David’s death and Laura still could not accept it. People like David just don’t up and die, her mind told her. It just doesn’t happen. Not to David . . .

David, what happened to you? What did they do to you? The fashion show finally came to an end. Serita moved toward Laura and sat down. “I think it went well.”

Laura nodded.

Serita recognized the familiar blank expression on Laura’s face, but now there was something more in her friend’s glazed look. “Uh-oh, what now?”

Laura turned to her. “Something’s not right, Serita.”

“What do you mean?”

Before she could answer, one of Benito Spencer’s helpers tapped Laura on the shoulder. “Telephone call for you.”

“Take a message,” Laura said.

“It’s a Mr. Richard Corsel from some bank in Boston. He says it’s urgent.”

GLORIA gently dried off her face with a gray towel she grabbed from the rack. Interesting how Gloria’s bathroom had been done all in gray. Her parents’ was red. Laura’s blue. The downstairs one yellow. Yet Gloria’s was gray. She wondered if it had been an omen.

Well, not anymore.

She finished drying herself and draped the towel over the rack. She turned back toward the mirror, using her hands as a sort of comb in her thick blond hair. She studied her reflection for a moment and decided she had never looked or felt better. In fact, Gloria felt so well that despite Dr. Harris’s protest, she had canceled the rest of her sessions. She no longer needed psychiatric help. Love was her cure from now on.

Gloria moved back into her bedroom, stepped over her two suitcases, and headed down the stairs. When she reached the entrance to the den, she hesitated for a moment before going in.

Gloria turned the corner. Her parents were both reading on the couch. James Ayars’s head tilted up when she came in. He glanced at her from behind his half-glasses. In his hands he held the New England Journal of Medicine. Beautiful Mary Ayars sat with her feet on a stool, her hair tied back away from her face. She was skimming through the most recent issue of the New Yorker.