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years ago, when it seemed to Hazel that even the town’s children were aware of it. But she thought better of mentioning it to him now lest it somehow convince him to start liking her mother for the crime. And no matter what her training told her about what kinds of people were capable of which kinds of crimes, she just couldn’t see a woman doing what had been done to Delia.
    “We’ll keep an open mind for now,” she said. “But I guess I agree with you.” The phone rang again. “Hold that position,” she said to Greene.
    It was her assistant, Melanie Cartwright, calling from her desk. “Do you know a Carl Stratton?”
    “Must be Sandra Stratton’s son.”
    “Well, he called,” said Cartwright. “He said he was up from Toronto for the weekend and that his mother was scared and wanted to come back to the city with him.”
    “So?”
    “He wants you to call her and tell her she’s got nothing to worry about.”
    “I’ve got my own crone to worry about, Melanie.”
    “Do you want me to tell him that?”
    “In your own words, please.” There was a long pause on the other side of the line. “Melanie?”
    “Do you think this guy’s still out there? I mean here? In town?”
    “No,” she said. “He did what he came to do. I’m sure he’s long gone.”
    Cartwright thanked her and hung up. Hazel knew she’d already committed to memory the phrase
He did what he came to do.
She wasn’t going to be surprised to see those very words show up eventually in the
Record.
Small-town hotlines.
    Greene held up the bottle. “You okay yet?”
    “I’d better not, Ray.” He screwed the cap back on. “Do me a favor and call up Bob and Gail Chandler. We should go there now.” He nodded and left, closing the door behind him. Hazel looked at the phone and then took it off the hook. The more she tried to hold the thought in her head that there was a procedure to be followed, the more it felt that something uncontainable had happened to her town, something that would resist all protocols. She felt a presence behind her, breathing on her, casting its shadow. Someone had come through town—without being

seen, apparently—and carried off Delia Chandler. Who was this person? Why did he kill her the hard way, when it looked as if she’d already agreed to the easy way? Where were they going to begin?
     
    Robert and Gail Chandler’s house was out in Hoxley. The entire way, Greene stared out the window at the fall scenery and the failing light, and that suited Hazel, lost in her own thoughts. Some of the horror of the morning would have had time to sink in for Bob Chandler; she dreaded what kind of state they’d find him in.
    When they got to the house, Hazel recognized Gord Sunder-land’s car sitting at the curb. “Gord,” she said when he rolled down the window, “we don’t have a comment at this time, and neither do the Chandlers. You’re just going to have to wait for a statement back at headquarters.”
    “Is there
going
to be a statement?”
    “Not today,” she said. “Monday morning, business hours.”
    “That’s for the boys from Hillschurch and Dublin, Hazel,” he said. “I’d appreciate a one-on-one.”
    “I can’t make any promises, Gord.”
    “The
Westmuir Record
is the main source of news for the people of this county, Detective Inspector. They expect a thorough report from us and the Monday paper was already put to bed Thursday night. If you don’t want me speculating aloud, you’ll call me at my office when you’re done here.”
    “I’ll call you. Will you go now?” He closed his window without another word and she waited for him to drive off. Greene came up behind her.
    “What’d you offer him?”
    “Knitting tips.”
    “He’s a sucker for the knitting tips,” said Greene.
    The Chandler house was a nicely appointed second home—after their children, Diane and Grant, had left the childhood house in Port Dundas, Bob and Gail had bought themselves this brand-new bungalow, the