Andrews insisted incredulously, lumbering down the stairs. “Of course he was the victim!” “We don’t know he’s the only one dead.” I lifted the needle, turned off the stereo. “Truevine’s missing; no one knows where Able is.” “But in this case the definition of victim—” “You know,” I said, “a hot shower does sound good. I hope you didn’t use all the water.” An expletive exploded from Andrews that made the house creak. He returned to his room. “Why couldn’t you look at it another way?” I said, climbing the stairs after him. “Harding was angry enough to attack Able, Able defended himself, Harding fell down the hill, hit his head, Able panicked, now the Deveroes are out for blood, so Able’s the victim.” “You’d panic, too,” he shouted from his room, “if the Deveroe boys were after you!” “They saved my life last year on the Devil’s Hearth.” “They didn’t mean to,” he corrected, showing his face in the doorway to his room as I hit the top of the stairs.
