His mom wanted to testify that Richard Fletcher obviously hadn’t thought much of this argument, because he hadn’t mentioned it to her that evening, their last together. But the defense attorney decided it wouldn’t be a good idea to put her on the stand, fearing other questions about Mason the prosecutor might ask.

She had been strong throughout the ordeal of this trial. Most of the time, anyway. She had a bad moment when the prosecution showed the jury the oversized photographs of the fatal damage done to Richard Fletcher. Another when they showed the photographs of Jenny Fletcher-alive and well in those photos, three years old then, almost four. A reminder that none of them knew if she was alive or dead. He refused to believe she was dead, no matter what the prosecutors said. She was just five now-her birthdays had been terrible, grief-filled days for Caleb, Mason, and their mother. Did Jenny miss them?

That was the most innocent question he could ask himself about Jenny.

He thought about the less innocent ones all the same, and knew the prosecutors’ insistence that Jenny was dead had undermined his mother’s hope. Even when they had shown the photos of Jenny, though, his mother had summoned her courage and managed to regain her composure.

She was falling apart now.

THE jury came in and was seated. They avoided looking at his brother.

They reached the moment when Mason was asked to stand.

Caleb’s mom was looking at the jury, but Caleb was watching Mason. Mason Delacroix Fletcher. Mason Delacroix, the prosecutors insisted on calling him, even though Caleb’s father had adopted him.

Mason stood next to his attorney, just beyond Caleb’s reach, pale and stone still, and Caleb supposed the reporters would say that as the verdict was read, the defendant showed no emotion. But Caleb could see that he was scared, as scared as he had ever been. Caleb was scared, too.

The judge was talking to the jury foreman, but Caleb already knew what the verdict would be. Caleb thought Mason and his mother knew, too.

Caleb couldn’t hear the words, not over the part of his mind that wanted to reach Mason, to tell him he would always believe in his innocence, that he would keep fighting for him.

He knew that even his mother didn’t believe in that innocence, not completely. He knew the things the police and prosecutors said made her uneasy. Maybe Uncle Nelson’s certainty of Mason’s guilt, and the certainty of her parents, had damaged her faith in Mason more than Caleb knew.

Her parents had wanted her to give Mason up for adoption, all those years ago, but she had refused.

She didn’t abandon him now, either. She sat here dutifully every day, and paid for the defense lawyer out of her already strained resources, and never breathed a word of the doubts she felt about Mason’s innocence to anyone but Caleb, who steadfastly argued that being a problem child didn’t make Mason a murderer.

Caleb could tell that for all the trouble between his mother and Mason, she was hoping for the impossible now, hoping that when the verdict was read, the foreman would say, “Not guilty.”

But that wasn’t what he said, of course. Caleb’s mother made a sound, low and harsh, as if the air was being forced from her lungs by a blow, then half-fainted against him.

Even as he caught her, Caleb looked up at his brother, who turned and gave him a soft smile. Cameras flashed, and the guards pulled Mason away.

Tuesday, July 16

4:12 P.M.

LAS PIERNAS

NELSON FLETCHER didn’t like publicity, but he understood the need to give the jackals of the press a little snack, something to tide them over until some other wounded animal came along and drew their attention. His siblings would make sure their father was able to get away from here, but now, on the courthouse steps, at a bank of microphones, Nelson must take this task on.

He would also try to keep the media away from Caleb and Elisa as long as possible. He was proud of Caleb, who had handled himself well in there. To Nelson’s surprise, Detective Harriman had been there, and helped Caleb get his mother away without letting anyone shove a microphone at her. If he hadn’t known her so well, Nelson would have suspected that Elisa’s fainting was a ploy, but she wasn’t the type to do something like that. He worried, but there wasn’t anything he could do about it now. Caleb would watch over her.

He carefully unfolded his prepared statement. “I’m sure you can understand that this is an extremely difficult time for the family-” he began, but was interrupted by a shouting reporter.

“Did your brother ever express fears about his adopted son?”

He had told himself that he wouldn’t let them distract him from reading the statement, but this question was one he would not let pass. “Richard always referred to Mason as his son. And that wasn’t a matter of hiding anything-we’ve never hidden the fact that Richard and I were adopted together and raised as brothers. I do not believe having the same biological parents could have possibly made us any closer, allowed us to love each other more, made me miss him any more than I do now…” He paused, took a shaky breath, and went on. “Richard Fletcher was a genius. A bright and creative and kind man. A good man. My brother.”

He paused again, pinched the bridge of his nose, set his thumbs hard into his tear ducts. “I see how loyal Caleb is to his own brother, Mason, and I think that would have made Richard very proud. While I believe that the jury made the right decision, I…I am not happy about this. Nothing makes this a happy occasion. I understand completely why Caleb and his mother stood by Mason. Just as I had to stand up for Richard and for Jenny, who could not speak for themselves…”

He drew another breath.

“This family is my family. That’s all I have to say.”

More shouts followed, but he didn’t respond to them.

HE hardly remembered the drive home. He left another pack of reporters at the gates of the exclusive community where he lived. He pulled into his garage, turned the car off, hit the automatic garage-door control, and waited until the automatic light overhead clicked off.

He sat in the darkness and remembered.

RICHARD, the youngest of the boys, was crying. When Graydon Fletcher came into the bedroom, he was pleased to see that Nelson was trying to comfort the four-year-old.

“He had a bad dream, Daddy,” Nelson said.

“You’re a good boy to take care of him. I’ll sit with him now. You go on back to bed.”

“Mommy!” Richard cried. Nelson wished he could help him.

“Mommy’s asleep right now, Richard.”

“Not her! I want my real mommy.”

“She’s in heaven, Richard. You know that. But we love you and we’ll take care of you and keep you safe.”

The sobbing went on for a while, then subsided.

“Can you sleep now?”

Richard shook his head.

“Would you like to play with one of your puzzles for a little while? Would that help you feel sleepy again?”

The boy nodded.

“That’s a good boy. Put your slippers and robe on. Come on, let’s play the math game.”

“Yes, please!” Richard eagerly searched for his slippers and, with a little help, donned his robe. He glanced at Nelson. “Can Nelson play, too?”

“Oh, I suppose he can miss a little sleep tonight. Sure.”

While Nelson put on his own robe and slippers, Richard looked up at his adoptive father and raised his arms. The man lifted him and carried him easily. Nelson knew that Richard wouldn’t have wanted to be carried if he hadn’t still felt frightened.

“Ready?”

“Yes!”

“Such a bright little boy.” Their father smiled as he looked back at the sleeping figures in the other beds, then reached down and ruffled Nelson’s hair. “All my boys are bright little boys.”