It was at that moment, with Frank's voice filling the garage and both of them laughing, that the door from the breezeway opened behind them.
Rosemary Marchetti stood in the doorway in her red apron and her house slippers. She had seen the light from the kitchen window. She had come out, Lena would understand later, meaning to switch it off and say something sharp, and she had put her hand on the door and heard, from inside, her husband's voice.
She stood very still. The tape went on. "...anyway, that's it, I'm getting hollered at. See you at Christmas, kid. Bring your appetite. Rosie's doing the seven fishes and she'll be insulted if you don't eat at least four of them."
Click. Hiss.
Rosemary's face had gone the color of the snow. Her hand was still on the doorknob. She looked at the Mustang with its cover off, red and gleaming in the middle of the floor, the floor where she had found him, and at the steering box on the bench, and at the little gray recorder, and at her daughter sitting on Frank's stool with mascara running down her face, and last at Danny Rourke, in his black coat, standing where her husband used to stand.
"Mrs. Marchetti," Danny said quietly. "I'm sorry. I should have—"
"Get out," Rosemary said.