And that's the problem, right there: Jeff lies as naturally as breathing. It's too easy for him. He's too confident in his uncertainty. Gil's shoulders sag a little, his eyes taking on a mix of tiredness and sadness.

"I think you killed somebody, Jeff, and I think you know you did. Maybe you didn't back then, but you know now." A pause, and he risks going too far. Too farther. "The crime scene was a stage with more blood on it than a person can survive losing. One person's blood, no other DNA mixed in. No body. But someone saw a young man about six feet tall, long blonde hair, your sense of style going into the theater earlier that evening. He went in alone. Nobody spotted someone coming out."

Killed or killer, Gil thinks, queasy at the thought. He can't tell which. That's the worst part.