0945820950924859

and she never has.”
“I can see why you both fell into the same confusion,” Trevor continued, still looking down at the
painting. “For there is an undeniable similarity in the faces, something very like in the mouth and the
chin. And yet the woman in this portrait is not Dorinda Spencer.”
“Meaning what?” said Rayley, throwing up his hands in exasperation.
“Meaning that your casual comment was closer to the mark than Emma’s theory,” Trevor said.
Rayley had heard this tone in Trevor’s voice before and knew what it meant. Pieces were dropping
into place for his friend, and the larger picture was beginning to become clear. “LaRusse’s madness
is born from guilt as well as poison. It is not Dorinda whose face he paints alone, by the dark of
night. It is her sister Rose, the woman who bore his illegitimate child and then disappeared.”