Joan rose and emptied the remains of her coffee into the sink, then placed the mug in the dishwasher.

“I think Rachel and Sam are going to come stay with us for a little while,” she said. “You need time to finish whatever it is you’re doing, and to think. I’m not trying to come between you. None of us is. I wouldn’t be having this conversation with you if that was the case. But she’s frightened and unhappy, and that’s not even taking into account the aftermath of the birth and all the confused feelings that brings with it. She needs to be around other people for a time, people who’ll be there for her round the clock.”

“I understand,” I said.

Joan placed her hand on my shoulder, then kissed me gently on the forehead.

“My daughter loves you, and I respect her judgment more than that of anyone else that I know. She sees something in you. I can see it too. You need to remember that. If you forget it, then it’s all lost.”

The Black Angel walked in the moonlight, through tourists and residents, past stores and galleries, scenting coffee and gasoline on the air, distant bells tolling the coming of the hour. It examined the faces of the crowds, always seeking those that it might recognize, watching for eyes that lingered a second too long upon its face and form. It had left Brightwell in the office, lost among shadows and old things, and now replayed their conversation in its head. It smiled faintly as it did so, and lovers smiled too, believing that they saw in the expression of the passing stranger the remembrance of a recent kiss, and a parting embrace. That was the Angel’s secret: it could cloak the vilest of feelings in the most beautiful of colors, for otherwise no one would choose to follow its path.

Brightwell had not been smiling when earlier they had met.

“It is him,” said Brightwell.

“You are jumping at shadows,” the Black Angel replied.

Brightwell withdrew a sheaf of copied papers from the folds of his coat and placed them before the angel. He watched as its hand flicked through them, taking in snatches of headlines and stories, and with each page that it read its interest grew, until at last it was crouched over the desk, its shadow falling upon words and pictures, its fingers lingering upon names and places from cases now solved or buried: Charon, Pudd, Charleston, Faulkner, Eagle Lake, Kittim.

Kittim.

“It could be coincidence,” said the angel softly, but it was said without conviction, less a statement than a step in an ongoing process of reasoning.

“So many?” said Brightwell. “I don’t believe that. He has been haunting our footsteps.”

“It’s not possible. There is no way that he can know his own nature.”

“We know our nature,” said Brightwell.

The angel stared intently into Brightwell’s eyes and saw anger, and curiosity, and the desire for revenge.

And fear? Yes, perhaps just a little.

“It was a mistake to go to the house,” said the angel.

“I thought we could use the child to draw him to us.”

The Black Angel stared at Brightwell. No, it thought, you wanted the child for more than that. Your urge to inflict pain has always been your undoing.

“You don’t listen,” it said to him. “I’ve warned you about drawing attention to us, especially at so delicate a juncture.”

Brightwell appeared about to protest, but the angel stood and removed its coat from the antique coat stand by its desk.

“I need to go out for a while. Stay here. Rest. I’ll return soon.”

And so the angel now walked the streets, like a slick of oil trailing through the tide of humanity, that smile darting occasionally across its face, never lingering for more than a second or two, and never quite reaching its eyes. Once an hour had gone by, it returned to its lair, where Brightwell sat patiently in a shadowy corner, far from the light.

“Confront him if you wish, if it will confirm or disprove what you believe.”

“Hurt him?” said Brightwell.

“If you have to.”

There was no need to ask the last question, the one that remained unspoken. There would be no killing, for to kill him would be to release him, and he might never be found again.

Sam lay awake in her crib. She didn’t look at me as I approached. Instead, her gaze was fixed raptly on something above and beyond the bars. Her tiny hands made grabbing motions, and she seemed to be smiling. I had seen her like that before, when Rachel or I stood over her, either talking to her or offering her some bauble or toy. I moved closer, and felt a coldness in the air around her. Still Sam didn’t look at me. Instead, she gave what sounded like a little giggle of amusement.

I reached across the crib, my fingers outstretched. For the briefest of moments, I thought that I felt a substance brush against my fingers, like gossamer or silk. Then it was gone, and the coldness with it. Immediately, Sam began to cry. I took her in my arms and held her, but she wouldn’t stop. There was movement behind me, and Rachel appeared at my side.

“I’ll take her,” she said, her arms reaching for Sam and irritation in her voice.

“It’s okay. I can hold her.”

“I said I’ll take her,” she snapped, and it was more than annoyance. I had been called to scenes of domestic arguments as a cop and seen mothers latch on to their children in the same way, anxious to protect them from any threat of violence, even as their husbands or partners attempted to make up for whatever they had done or had threatened to do, once the police were there. I had seen the look in those women’s eyes. It was the same as the one that I saw in Rachel’s. I handed the baby to her without a word.

“Why did you have to wake her?” said Rachel, holding Sam against her and stroking her gently on the back. “It took me hours to get her down.”

I found my voice.

“She was awake. I just went over to look at her, and-”

“It doesn’t matter. It’s done now.”

She turned her back to me, and I left them both and undressed in the bathroom, then took a long shower. When I was done, I went downstairs and found a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt, then headed into my office and rousted Walter from the couch. I’d make a bed there for the night. Sam had stopped crying, and there was no sound from upstairs for a time, until at last I heard Rachel’s soft footfalls on the stairs. She had put on a dressing gown over her nightshirt. Her feet were bare. She leaned against the door, watching me. I couldn’t say anything at first. When I tried to speak there was again that tickling in my throat. I wanted to shout at her, and I wanted to hold her. I wanted to tell her that I was sorry, that everything would be all right, and I wanted her to say the same to me, even if neither of us was telling the entire truth.

“I was just tired,” she said. “I was surprised to see you back.”

Despite all that Joan had said, I still wanted more.

“You acted like you thought I was going to drop her, or hurt her,” I said. “It’s not the first time, either.”

“No, it’s not that,” she said. She moved toward me. “I know you’d never do anything to harm her.”

Rachel tried to touch my hair, and to my shame, I pulled away. She started to cry, and the sight of her tears was shocking to me.

“I don’t know what it is,” she said. “I don’t know what’s wrong. It’s-you weren’t here, and someone came. Something came, and I was frightened. Do you understand? I’m scared, and I hate being scared. I’m better than that, but you make me feel this way.”

Now it was out. Her voice was raised as her face contorted into an expression of utter hurt and rage and grief.

“You make me feel this way for Sam, for myself, for you. You go away when we need you to be here, and you put yourself in harm’s way for-for what? For strangers, for people you’ve never met? I’m here. Sam is here. This is your life now. You’re a father, you’re my lover. I love you-God Jesus, I do love you, I love you so much-but you can’t keep doing this to me and to us. You have to choose, because I can’t go through another year like this one. Do you know what I’ve done? Do you know what your work has made me do? I have blood on my hands. I can smell it on my fingers. I look out of the window and I can see the place where I spilled it. Every day I glimpse those trees, and I remember what happened there. It all comes back to me. I killed a man to protect our daughter, and last night I would have done it again. I took his life out there in the marshes, and I was glad. I hit him, and I hit him again, and I wanted to keep hitting him. I wanted to tear him to pieces, and for him to feel every second of it, every last iota of pain. I saw the blood rise in the water, and I watched him drown, and I was happy when he died. I knew what he wanted to do to me and to my baby, and I wasn’t going to let that happen. I hated him, and I hated you for making me do what I did, for putting me in that place. Do you hear me? I hated you.”