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was some question of a possible homicide investigation, but the police now pretty much believe that she passed out as she hit the water."
    "Then I think the police are stupid."
    Joel Nieman's expression became curious. "You think Alison was
murdered
?"
    The Owl realized suddenly that perhaps he looked and sounded too vehement. "From what I read, she made a lot of enemies along the way," he said carefully. "But who knows? The police are probably right. That's why they always say that no one should go swimming alone."
    "Romeo, my Romeo," a voice squealed.
    Marcy Rogers, who had been Juliet in the school play, was tapping Nieman's shoulder. He spun around.
    Marcy still wore her chestnut hair in a mass of tangled curls, but now it was highlighted with random streaks of gold. She struck a theatrical pose. "And all the world shall be in love with night."
    "I can't believe it. It's Juliet!" Joel Nieman exclaimed, beaming.
    Marcy glanced at The Owl. "Oh, hi." She turned back to Nieman. "You've got to meet my real life Romeo. He's over at the bar."
    Dismissal. Just the way he'd always experienced it at Stonecroft. Marcy hadn't even bothered to look at his ID. She simply wasn't interested in him.
    The Owl looked around. Jean Sheridan and Laura Wilcox were standing next to each other on the buffet line. He studied Jean's profile. Unlike Laura, she was the kind of woman who got better looking as she aged. She looked decidedly different, although her features certainly hadn't changed. What had changed was her poise, her voice, the way she held herself. Oh, sure, her hair and clothes made a difference, but the change in her was more interior than outward. Growing up, she had to have been embarrassed by the way her parents carried on. A couple of times the cops had been exasperated enough to cuff them.
    The Owl walked over to the buffet line and picked up a plate. He realized that he was beginning to understand his ambivalence toward
    Jean. During the years at Stonecroft, a couple of times, such as when he didn't make the football team, she'd gone out of her way to be nice to him. In fact, in the spring of senior year he'd actually considered asking her for a date. He had been sure she wasn't going out with anyone. Sometimes, on warm Saturday nights, he would hide behind a tree in lovers' lane and wait for the cars to drive there after the movies. He never saw Jean in one of them.
    Positive thoughts aside, it was too late to change course now. Only a couple of hours ago, seeing her come into the hotel, he'd finally made up his mind to kill her, too. At this moment he understood why he had made that irrevocable decision. His mother used to say "still waters run deep." Jeannie may have acted nice to him a couple of times, but she was probably just like Laura underneath, snickering about the poor dope who had wet his pants and cried and stuttered.
    He helped himself to salad. And so what if she hadn't been in lovers' lane with one of the jerks in their class, he reflected. Instead, Miss "Butter-Wouldn't-Melt-in-Her-Mouth" Jeannie had been romancing a West Point cadet—he knew all about that.
    Fury lashed through him, alerting him that soon he would have to release The Owl.
    He skipped the pasta, selected poached salmon and green beans with ham, and looked around. Laura and Jean had just settled at the honoree table. Jean caught his eye and waved him over. Lily looks just like you, he thought. The resemblance is really striking.
    The thought sharpened his hunger.
    11
    At two o'clock, Jean gave up the attempt to sleep, turned on the light, and opened a book. But after reading for an hour and realizing that she had not absorbed one word, she restlessly put the book down and turned off the light again. Every muscle in her body felt wired and taut, and she had the beginning of a headache. She knew that the effort to socialize all evening, despite the constant gnawing worry that Lily might be in danger, had exhausted her. She realized that she was