It would do.

He walked back to the library and placed the note on Father Dietrick’s chair. In the bathroom he touched a match to the rest of the note, held it for as long as he could while he watched the good bond curl into black ash. As the name neared his fingers he let go of the corner he held and flushed the toilet. He waited. When the toilet had finished, he wiped down the bowl with toilet paper and flushed it again.

He’d had to think fast when Rose had pulled out the yellow pad. It wouldn’t do to have secondary impressions of the note for someone to notice. The bond had been just the right answer.

There was a slight smell of smoke in the room, and he opened the bathroom window to get rid of it. He looked at his watch. It had only been twelve minutes. Rose was probably still alive.

It was important to establish his whereabouts and his calm. He did not feel like a man who was in the process of killing someone. He went out the side door of the rectory, crossed in front of the church and entered the school. In the office the principal’s secretary, an Indian woman named Mrs. Ranji, stood up to greet him.

He told her his usual joke and said he had just come by to see if there were any last details about the upcoming graduation he needed to know, and if there were any, to have Sister give him a call. Sitting at Sister’s desk, he proceeded to look over some correspondence, then asked Mrs. Ranji when the next period ended. She looked at the clock. Good. Fifteen minutes? No, that was too long to wait. He would check back with Sister later. He hummed loudly as he walked out.

Twenty-six minutes had passed. He went to the garage and opened the deadbolt, held his breath, and walked in. He flipped on the light at the switch by the door. Rose was still sitting up, propped by the door, looking like she was sleeping.

Moving quickly now, he took the picnic basket from behind the driver’s seat. He was running out of breath.

Outside again, with the basket, he stopped by the door, relocked it and looked back toward the school, then at the rectory. No sign of anybody. He crossed the lot.

Three sandwiches. One for him, one for Dietrick, and one for Father Paul. He unwrapped them and put them on a plate in the refrigerator. It was plausible, in character. Rose, planning to kill herself, might just have made sure she made lunch for the fathers first. He put the pickles back in the jar, washed out the Zip-lock bag and threw it in the garbage, scooped the potato salad back into the rest of it.

Breathing hard now, his nerves speaking, he once again began crossing the parking lot. About two-thirds of the way across, he called out Rose’s name. He started running toward the garage, and in what would look like a panic threw back the bolt, the picture of a man making a horrifying discovery. “Rose!” he called again.

Don’t forget to put the keys back in the ignition. He had to do that in any event to turn the car off, which is what he would do.

A final survey of the scene. He put his hand on Rose’s still-warm forehead. She had died peacefully-he was glad of that. He made the sign of the cross over her, giving her his blessing, last rites of sorts. Then he started jogging back to the house. He was surprised to find he was crying. But he didn’t try to stop himself. That was all right. Why shouldn’t he cry? And it would ring very true to the folks at 911.

STEVEN BELIEVED his mom was really trying.

After Dad and Jodie had left the house she came in and talked, or tried to talk, for a while. After she’d gone back out to her housework or whatever, he wondered what kind of teenager she’d been, if she had ever done anything like run away. It was the first time he’d thought of anything like that, and so it was a little hard to imagine-Mom screaming for Elvis Presley (as she said she’d done), or dating anybody but Pop.

Well, whatever she’d done, he was pretty sure it didn’t prepare her for him. She didn’t seem to be able to find a handle to grab on to, although Frannie’s pregnancy was as close as she’d gotten in a long while.

She sat on the bed, much the way Pop had done last night. He felt a little stronger and had managed a decent breakfast. She ran her hand through his spiky hair and asked him how he knew about Frannie.

“It’s true, isn’t it?” he asked.

She shook her head. “I didn’t want to call her yet. She’ll tell us when she wants to.”

“Why wouldn’t she want to?”

His mom’s face clouded, as though trying to decide whether to tell him one of the adult secrets. As usual, she came down saying no. “I don’t know,” she did say. “There are reasons. It might just be too soon. But how did you find out?”

He’d thought about it this morning after he woke up. It had been Hardy, yesterday. He was telling him about Father Jim and about his pride, how he had kind of blamed himself for Eddie’s death because of talking Eddie into confronting his boss. Which was dumb. Eddie was going to do that anyway. He’d told Steven all about it the day before.

Anyway, once he got into it, Hardy was good at sounding like different people, and he did Father Jim pretty well. Of course, he had an easy voice-kind of regular, but the words he used in a certain way that Hardy caught the rhythm exactly. He spent a lot of time talking about Father Jim, even though he didn’t really have any part of it. But Father Jim was like that-he caught your attention.

Anyway, Hardy was “doing” Father and he said, “I sent Eddie off to slay the dragon. Do I think about his pregnant wife, whether he’s the man for the job? No, not the smart Jim Cavanaugh.” (That part sounded perfect, and Steven had laughed.) “I only see what a wonderful notion it is.” Then he goes: “My pride killed him.”

But in there-that’s where he’d heard about Frannie. It had been like Hardy was telling him part of another story, not really telling him. He tried to explain that to his mom, who wondered why Hardy hadn’t told her.

She put her hand up to her brow and said, “God.” He could see that she’d started thinking about Frannie now, or Eddie again. Her eyes were gone, out to the backyard, staring at nothing.

“Mom?”

He was going to say something like “It’s all right,” or, “I’m going to help,” though he knew it wasn’t and wasn’t sure how he could. She looked back to him, smiling with her mouth. So instead he asked if it was too early to have another pill.

He’d just have to go ahead and do it, whatever it turned out to be. Make his mom see he wasn’t going to be any more trouble. He’d have to do something that would help them all get over this, maybe forgive him for running away and making them deal with him when Eddie-naturally-was the hardest, most immediate thing.

He’d do something on his own. Something worthwhile, adult. Maybe then his mom would appreciate him. Love him…

Next time she came in was only a couple of minutes later, but he was sailing into oblivion pretty fast and almost couldn’t answer when she talked to him. Though she did come in and tell him about the call.

That’s what he was starting to see. She was trying. “Steven.”

Not faking at all, he had to use most of his strength to open an eye.

“That was Mr. Hardy on the phone.”

He hadn’t even heard it ring and it was right there, next to his bed. “He says yes, Frannie’s pregnant.”

“Maybe he’ll look like Eddie.”

He meant it as a good thought, but he saw when he said it that it kind of hurt her. She leaned against the doorsill, then walked the few steps over and plumped herself down on his bed again. “I hope so,” she said. It was like she was forcing herself to talk. “He also”-she stopped and rubbed at her eyes-“he also said that neither one of the suspects killed Eddie.”