Harley had picked up the gun from the floor where the suicide had taken place, and realized he couldn’t drop it. Some compulsion prevented him from releasing possession of the weapon. Terrified that he would be blamed for the death, he hid it in his pocket. As the day grew on, he felt a growing desire to fire the weapon. He found himself peering around a corner, aiming the gun at an unidentifiable figure down the hall, the sunset blinding him through the window and obscuring their features. But as his finger squeezed the trigger, he felt the safety catch. A final flash of light and Harley finally was able to fling the smoking gun away, sprinting in the opposite direction before whoever his near victim could catch him. He collapsed into an armchair in the library. “This whole place is cursed,” he muttered, breathless. At least he wasn’t under its control. He had to leave as soon as possible. But first, he had to clear up the last loose end in this case. The nagging feeling in the back of his mind that there was still one last secret left to uncover.