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constables were for. He was doing it because Melisande was here, and perhaps because the crime had raised such terror on the island that people were close to panic. The brutality of it was something they had never experienced before.
    Should Runcorn lie to her, he wondered.
    â€œQuickly enough?” he questioned. “Do you fear it will happen again?” Why had he asked her that? It was no comfort at all.
    â€œWon’t it?” she said softly. “You know about these things. Does somebody do this once and then stop? Won’t they defend themselves if we get close to them, if we seem to be about to tear the mask off and show who they really are?”
    He shivered in spite of himself. Her fear touched him more sharply than the dusk wind. She was right, the only safety lay in swiftness, in striking before the victim knew the direction of the blow, and striking fatally. He longed to be able to protect her, but he had no duty, no place here at all.
    â€œWon’t they?” she repeated. “Have I put you in an impossible position?” She looked away from him. “I am very afraid that we are out of our depth. Sir Alan is speaking as if it is some random beast come out of the wild places in the center of the island, the hills beyond our climbing.” She stopped abruptly, biting her lower lip, afraid to say the rest of what was crowding her mind.
    He said it for her. “But you think the beast comes from within someone here in the houses and streets you think you know?”
    Her eyes opened wide and there was a warmth in them, even a kind of relief. “Don’t you? Please be honest with me, Mr. Runcorn. This is too terrible for us to be exchanging lies because we think they are easier. Olivia deserves better than that, and for our own sakes we can’t afford to keep looking the other way.”
    Why did she think so? She had not seen the body as he had. What had she heard or felt that she understood this? Who was she afraid for? Did she know who it was, or perhaps suspect? She knew Costain and his wife, and of course she knew her brother Barclay. She had been fond of Olivia, so it was possible she had learned from her something of Newbridge, or even of the curate Kelsall. Was she afraid the investigation would expose things that were ugly in any of them, or all?
    Everyone has actions, wounds they are ashamed of, secrets they will fight to protect. Someone might even lash out to protect the memory of Olivia herself. Grief can cause many violent things no one could foresee, even in those most affected. Sometimes it deepens love, other times it breaks it.
    â€œHave you told Sir Alan your fears?” He hated even mentioning the man’s name.
    She shook her head fractionally. “No. I think he has enough to worry about, with the feeling that’s growing among people, and their demands for help, and for a solution. Nobody can just … produce it because it’s needed. We are not children to have all our fears soothed away. Something terrible has happened, and Alan cannot undo it for us, or provide the answers we want.” Distress, and something like pity, touched her face. “I don’t suppose anyone can.”
    Runcorn wondered if she meant only what she said—that they must all endure it because there was no other way, and it was unfair to expect it. Was she defending Faraday, or saying he could not handle the task, or both? Runcorn struggled to read her eyes, the line of her lips, but it was too dark to see clearly anymore, and he did not understand anyway.
    He knew she was afraid, but then only a fool would not be. Whatever the truth was, it would bring pain. Their lives would never heal over the things they would hear of each other, the shortcomings, the secrets ordinary life could have left decently covered. Murder swept all that away.
    Did she love Faraday? The helplessness and the mercy of it was that one did not have to be perfect to be loved,