When Mulrooney strode into the den, he knew immediately which woman was the widow. Lauren Brandeis Connolly was sitting on a straight chair, leaning on its arms for support. There were streaks of blood on her face, and strands of her tawny shoulder-length hair were matted to the right side of her face. Her eyes were unfocused and her body shook uncontrollably. Lauren clutched an afghan that was draped around her back. Her bare feet grasped the floor as though attached by ground wires.
“Mrs. Connolly?” Mulrooney said as he walked slowly toward her. Lauren showed no sign of response other than to lick her lips as if tasting something unfamiliar.
Mulrooney glanced toward the door of the den to see if Clarke had come back in. Usually their routine was for Mulrooney to calmly question the sus
