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found nothing missing from the house. That meant the arsonist was someone who'd been in the house that evening: Philip. Philip had been a hothead before Mike killed his sister. Her death must have driven him insaneone more thing that Mike could blame on himself. Or, more likely, Philip had hopes he'd inherit something on Mike's death, since he hadn't gotten much on Dixie's. But so far the police hadn't found enough evidence to arrest Philip. At least Mike no longer believed Abby had conspired with him, not when she'd been the one trapped by the fire. |
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Mike heard fleet footsteps behind him. He turned in time to see Abby enter the hall. |
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"I want you to know I understand, Mike," she said. Reaching him, she looked up wistfully. "You can't force yourself to believe something that sounds crazy. The last thing I wanted was to add to your feeling of guilt." |
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What did she think she wasan amateur pre-Sigmund Freud shrink? "My guilt is my own concern," he said childishly, stomping away. |
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He had gotten into the habit of watching TV with Abby after dinner, but now he headed for his workshop, his evening haven for years. He tried to lose himself in lathing an intricate chair leg but gave up after half an hour, before he ruined any more wood for lack of concentration. |
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He read in his room until quite late. Eventually he heard Abby enter the bedroom next door. He felt nearly crazy, imagining her undressing, hearing her shower run, knowing she was so near. |
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He'd visited her in her room nearly every night |
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