Raymond Talbot, my partner of three years, struck down in the observatory, at the opposite end of the mezzanine from the guest bedroom.

No, wait—I see the blood trail shining now. If that's at all accurate—and the killer had no time to lay any elaborate deceptions—Ray was attacked in the mezzanine and then dragged inside. Why? So they could finish the job in peace? So little time to do it. I entered perhaps forty seconds after I heard the scream.

The "observatory" contains a couple of reflecting telescopes and a few framed star charts, but it's really more of a scenic lookout. The northern wall is a series of sliding glass doors which open on a shallow balcony. They offer a matchless view of the city below: a jewel box spilling over with beads of amber. There's enough moonlight pouring through the glass to pick out the pinstripes on Ray's sport coat, but I find a light switch near the door and flick. 

Ray is lying face-down. I kneel as close as I dare (I do not intend to get a drop of blood on me—not with so many tense and paranoid parties roaming the house, hunting down a killer) and see a very clean hole in his back. A decided strike with a sharp dagger—it hardly tore the jacket. Ray's lung would have collapsed in seconds—that accounts for that sad, wheezing quality of his cry, a musical instrument dying. But this blow was not itself sufficient to kill.

Carefully, carefully, I pinch one shoulder of the jacket and ease Ray over. Yes—there's the second wound. The same dagger, applied to the heart this time. The stab in the back took place outside, then the killer dragged him in here for the coup de grâce—see how the carpet is soaked beneath...

I start. I almost drop Ray. There was a sheaf of papers pinned between his body and the floor, a half-inch stack bound up in a forest green folder. (Green dyed red, now). A case file. One of my own.

I forget all caution and snatch it up.  There's the tack of blood on my fingers, warm adhesion, as I turn it over and read the label. My god, Ray couldn't have had this. It was stolen from my office seven years ago, after his sister died. I've long dreaded seeing it again, but this exceed the worst of my recurring nightmares.

I slide it into a hidden waterproof pocket in the lining of my coat. There's blood on me now. It can't be helped; I'll have to wear it from here out.

I recover my nerves sufficiently to look about for some trace of the killer's passage. They were careful, deliberate, even graceful. What might have been footprints have been carefully smeared to frustrate interpretation. There are...yes. There are a few stray circles of the blood leading away from the body, a trail to one of the sliding doors. That's the most likely exit. From the balcony outside, the killer could climb down the ivy on the house's north face and escape. (Or, god forbid, re-enter the house through any of a dozen open windows. Old Clayburgh loved his ventilation.)

I now notice the mark on one of the glass doors. A circle of blood. It's beautifully drawn. A geometry teacher's circle.

I know already it won't yield any fingerprints. I know, too, through some horrible, inevitable intuition, what it means. I grasp all at once the teacher's lesson.

I step back to where Raymond lies. I can just reach the wall switch. A click, and Sandrine St. Clair disappears, replaced by the glowing city. I peer at it through the circle.

Oh god, oh my god: I can see my house from here.