You go to your room and ring for your maid. She thought of the suitcase, the seventy-seven dollars for a Greyhound ticket that had expired. She was tired, hungry—and thus somewhat impatient for the food Mrs Ibstock might bring—and downcast. But her tears had been for Leonardo’s expulsion, and the loss of his companionship. She obeyed, extending her arm. Because of the woman’s pregnant status, a panic had spread in the county that a serial murderer was afoot, but she had made sure to copy the crimes of a famous serial killer that she had read about in the paper to cover herself and mislay blame. “I believe after all it’s coming out!” said Miss Stanley.
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