Ambrose Nast

They lay atop the bed, fully clothed, close to one another, as if they were husband and wife.

Arms to their sides, their grey faces were turned to the ceiling, looking up with vacant stares.

They were cold and dead.

I reached for the lamp beside the bed and brought the beam close to Rankin's.

Now the large patchwork of bruises on both their necks became apparent.

They had been strangled.

Strangled and then laid gently on the bed with a kind of demented courtesy.

One of Beverly's eyes had gone red.

Of Florence there was no sign.

A hand mirror and a bottle of lavender water had fallen to the floor from the dressing table.

The south-facing window was open.

Much later, the police would find that the sill was splintered where Rankin's single bullet had slammed into it.

His gun had been removed from his hand at some point after the shot and placed indifferently on the table among Florence's hairpins.

To the beach it was then.

I found myself hurrying no longer, all hope leaving me.

In shock, I believe I walked like a marionette whose feet were guided by an amateur puppeteer.

Colonel Morrow had pressed upon his coachman to drive him directly toward Galloway Rock, and he now stood in the blue darkness near the crushed remains of Florence's fire.

looking out over the bay while the coachman lingered well behind, yet he witnessed the scene on the horizon as well.

It was impossible to not see, for the clouds had relinquished their cover of the moon again, and it shone down at full strength.

I came up close behind Morrow, yet transfixed he did not move.