They made love with the heat and excitement of first love, lost in each other’s arms, hands roaming each other’s bodies, kisses and warm breaths trailing skin. Their passion had rarely waned, even after sixteen years. And it was never merely sex, despite the preternatural lust they felt for each other, there was always the selfless abandonment, each delaying fulfillment in deference to the other, each concerned with the other’s pleasure above his or her own, it was always making love.

And as they lay entwined, in the afterglow of the moment, the sheets in a ball at their feet, they both lost sense of time, of where they were, of whatever worries they faced in the coming day, taking comfort in each other’s embrace.

With the sunlight dancing upon the white pillows, Nick finally rose from the bed, stretching his toned body to full alertness, and caught sight of the small table on their porch.

Despite her own lack of sleep from too many hours at the office, Julia had risen to prepare breakfast and set the wrought-iron table on the private, second-floor deck just off the sitting room. There was bacon, eggs, fresh-squeezed orange juice, and skillet cake, all fixed and silently carried up from the kitchen as he’d slept.

In nothing but underwear and T-shirts they ate as the sun began its climb in the summer morning sky.

“Special occasion?” Nick asked, alluding to the meal.

“Can’t I just welcome you home?”

Nick smiled. “After that first course, a dry bagel would have been more than enough.”

Julia smiled back, her look warm and caring, but there was something else there, a hesitation in her eyes.

“What did you do?” Nick asked with a chuckle.

“Nothing.” But her voice and the slight dimple rising on her cheek said otherwise.

“Julia…?”

“We have dinner with the Mullers tonight at Valhalla,” Julia said quickly.

Nick stopped eating as he looked up. “I thought we agreed we were staying home.”

“They’re not so horrible.” Julia smiled a disarming smile. “I really like Fran. And come on, Tom’s not that bad.”

“When he stops talking about himself. If I hear one more word about how much money he makes, or what kind of car he just bought-”

“-He’s just insecure. Think of it as a compliment.”

“How could I possibly think of his yammering as a compliment?”

“He’s trying to impress you; he obviously cares about your opinion.”

“All he cares about is himself.” Nick cleared his plate, placing it on the large serving tray. Julia grabbed the remaining dishes, stacking them atop his.

“I thought we made plans together, not for each other,” Nick said.

“Nick.” Julia grimaced. “We couldn’t get reservations until 9:00.”

The moment was suddenly lost as a tension grew between them.

Julia picked up the tray and walked to the door. “It’s Friday night; I just wanted to go out.”

And she slipped back inside the house, leaving Nick standing there alone.

Nick walked inside, through the sitting room and into his bathroom, shutting the door, turning on the shower. He stepped in, hoping the cool water would wash away his suddenly foul mood. He hated wasting time with superficial friends, those whose thoughts never ran deeper than the menu.

Fifteen minutes later he was dressed in his favorite Levi’s and a polo shirt and walked back into the room to find Julia dressed and heading for the door. She had transformed from his sexy wife to a businesswoman in a black skirt, Tory Burch shoes, and a white silk blouse. She picked up her purse, throwing it on her shoulder, and looked at him.

“I think we should cancel,” Nick said calmly, in an almost pleading voice. “I really just want to be home.”

“You’ll be home all day,” she said.

“Yeah, in my office working, trying to finish my report,” Nick said a little too quickly.

“Why don’t you work out? Go for a run. Relieve some of that stress. I really want to go out tonight. It will only be two hours, we can even skip dessert.”

“Like that will make the evening any more bearable.” His dismissive tone came out as a challenge.

“Just do it for me,” Julia said as she walked to the door. “You never know, it might turn out to be a good time.”

“What about me? I’ve been on too many planes to count, and we both know how much I love flying. I’m lucky to know what state I’m in.”

“Nine o’clock.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Nine o’clock.” The anger was beginning to show in her voice as she walked out. “I’m late for work.”

“Fine,” Nick exploded, his voice echoing through the room and down the hall.

Her only response came ten seconds later with the slamming of the back door, the thud shaking the whole house.

It was the first time in months that a morning had ended badly. The days were always supposed to start with hope and optimism before being pulled into an abyss by the trials and tribulations of work.

And all at once he regretted his rage, regretted parting at odds over something so trivial as a dinner date. There was always tomorrow, there was always Sunday. He tried her on her cell phone but there was no answer, and rightly so.

THE LIGHTS OF the interrogation room flickered on and off, the windowless space falling in and out of a pitch-black dark before the overhead fluorescent light settled back into its pale dim glow.

“Sorry about that,” Dance said. “The generator’s been running over nine hours now. It’s seen better days.”

He settled back in his chair and tilted his head. “You a Yankees or Mets fan?”

Nick just stared at him, amazed that he would ask such a question, considering everything going on.

“Jeter just hit a grand slam in the bottom of the ninth to beat the Red Sox, six to five.” Dance shook his head, seeing Nick’s lack of interest, and reached into his pocket.

A second man had joined them and had yet to say a word. His chair was tipped back against the wall as he pushed a few strands of out-of-place hair from his face. Detective Robert Shannon was an unfortunate stereotype, his muscled body crammed into a black short-sleeved shirt two sizes too small, accentuating his arms and chest. His black Irish hair was slicked back, and there was a small scar on his chin. His slate-blue eyes were angry, accusatory. He was spinning an old-fashioned billy club in his hand, tossing it back and forth like a miniature baseball bat, as if he were some beat cop out of 1950s New York. Nick couldn’t help thinking the guy was already convinced of his guilt.

Dance pulled a small Dictaphone from his pocket, held it out, and hit play.

“Nine-one-one emergency?” a woman’s voice sang out.

“My name is Julia Quinn,” Julia’s whispered voice said. “ Five Townsend Court, Byram Hills. You have to hurry, my husband and-”

The phone clicked off. “Hello,” the operator said, “Hello, ma’am?”

And Dance clicked off the recorder.

“She made that call at 6:42,” Dance said. “May I ask where you were?”

Nick remained silent. Not out of defensiveness but because he was afraid that if he spoke he would break down. Hearing Julia’s voice only magnified his pain, the suffering that infused his heart.

He knew exactly where he’d been at 6:42; he was still in his library working, he had been there most of the day except for grabbing a few Cokes and Oreos from the kitchen.

The gunshot had startled him from his concentration, his hearing grew suddenly acute, and, as if he had been on some delay, he finally bolted up from his chair. He ran out through the living room, through the kitchen, to the mudroom, where the back door to the garage hung wide open.

He couldn’t understand why Julia had left the door open again. He saw her purse on the floor by the coat hooks where it usually hung, its contents scattered on the floor. And as he crouched to pick it up he finally saw the blood dripping down the white wainscoting, his eyes trailing it down to see her black skirt, her long leg, her foot in its yellow Tory Burch shoe sticking out by the back stairs, her body, her face concealed by the lowest steps.