“Did you know her?”

“I saw her once at a College function, not long after I came here. Unfortunately, I didn’t know anyone well enough to ask for an introduction, and I never had another chance.” Shrugging, Vic added, “I know it sounds odd, but I felt a connection with her even then… the old ‘across a crowded room’ thing.” She smiled, mocking herself, then sobered. “It’s not necessarily sexual, that sort of recognition, and it’s only happened to me a few times. And then when I heard she had died, I felt devastated, as though I’d lost someone very close.”

Kincaid raised an eyebrow and waited.

“I know that look.” Vic grimaced. “Now you’re beginning to wonder if I am completely bonkers. But I think that sense of kinship with Lydia has contributed to the uneasy feeling I have about the manner of her death.”

“But surely there was no question that it was suicide?”

“Not legally, no.” Vic gazed out the window at the sky, heavy now with darkening clouds, and seemed to gather her thoughts. After a moment, she said, “Let me see if I can explain. Lydia was thought to have killed herself in the midst of one of the periodic bouts of depression she’d suffered all her adult life, but I don’t believe her death fits that pattern.”

Kincaid couldn’t help remembering the hours he’d spent on similar theorizing when he and Vic had first been married, and how utterly disinterested she’d been in his cases. It had been understandable, he supposed, as he’d been new to homicide then, and fascinated with it to the point of boring even the most patient listener. “Why not?” he asked mildly.

Vic slid her feet to the floor and sat forwards.