Clarisa DeGries and the two guests listened as Harmon, his voice edged with remorse, told the tale-- of the homeless drifter who lived on his parents' Massachusetts estate when he was a teenager, of the day the drifter stole young Harmon's bicycle, and how he caught the man, knocked him off the bike and throttled him by the throat until he was dead.

"I buried him in a ravine. For years, I expected the body to be found, for the police to show up at my doorstep with some exotic forensic evidence tying me to it. As I get older, I find I think about it more, not less. Such a callous, horrible thing." He sipped his brandy. "Well, Douglas. Marilyn. Dear Clarisa. You know the worst about me now."
His English peer tried to think of something appropriate to say. This was his first trip to the wilds of America. The country certainly seemed to be living up to its reputation.

Marilyn Rivers, too, was at a loss. The man to whom she'd turned over all of Daddy's oil money with had just confessed to murder. "You mustn't tell anyone else."
Clarisa, a retired Las Vegas dancer, was the least shocked of the three. "I always knew you had a past. "If the police ever do come, would you tell them the truth?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Harmon snorted. "I feel guilty, not suicidal."
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