The case proved to be controversial. The prosecutors went for eighteen counts of murder, but the jury didn’t see it that way. Larue’s lawyer ended up cutting a deal for eighteen counts of manslaughter. Nobody really worried too much about sentencing. Carl Vespa’s only son had died that night. Remember what happened when Gotti’s son was killed in a car accident? The man driving the car, a family man, has never been heard from again. A similar fate, most agreed, would befall Wade Larue, except this time, the general public would probably applaud the outcome.

For a while, Larue was kept isolated in Walden Prison. Grace didn’t follow the story closely, but the parents-parents like Carl Vespa-still called and wrote all the time. They needed to see her every once in a while. As a survivor, she had become a vessel of some sort, carrying the dead. Putting aside the physical recuperation, this emotional pressure-this awesome, impossible responsibility-was a big part of the reason for Grace’s going overseas.

Eventually Larue had been put in general population. Rumor had it he was beaten and abused by his fellow inmates, but for whatever reason, he lived. Carl Vespa had decided to forgo the hit. Maybe it was a sign of mercy. Or maybe it was just the opposite. Grace didn’t know.

Vespa said, “He finally stopped claiming total innocence. Did you hear that? He admits he fired his gun, but that he just freaked out when the lights went out.”

Which made sense. For her part, Grace had seen Wade Larue only once. She had been called to testify, though her testimony had nothing to do with guilt and innocence-she had almost no memory of the stampede, never mind who fired the gun-and everything to do with inflaming the passion of the jury. But Grace didn’t need revenge. To her Wade Larue was stoned out of his mind, a souped-up punk more worthy of pity than hate.

“Do you think he’ll get out?” she asked.

“He has a new lawyer. She’s damn good.”

“And if she gets him released?”

Vespa smiled. “Don’t believe everything you read about me.” Then he added, “Besides, Wade Larue isn’t the only one to blame for that night.”

“What do you mean?”

He opened his mouth and then fell silent. Then: “It’s like I said. I’d rather show you.”

Something about his tone told her to change subjects. “You said you were single,” Grace said.

“Pardon?”

“You told my friend you were single.”

He waved his finger. No ring. “Sharon and I divorced two years ago.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“It hasn’t been right for a long time.” He shrugged, looking off. “How is your family?”

“Okay.”

“I sense some hesitation.”

She may have shrugged.

“On the phone, you said you needed my help.”

“I think so.”

“So what’s wrong?”

“My husband…” She stopped. “I think my husband is in trouble.”

She told him the story. His eyes stayed straight ahead, avoiding her gaze. He nodded every once in a while, but the nods seemed strangely out of context. His expression didn’t change, which was strange. Carl Vespa was usually more animated. After she stopped talking, he didn’t say anything for a long time.

“This photograph,” Vespa said. “Do you have it with you?”

“Yes.” She handed it to him. His hand, she noticed, had a small quake. Vespa stared at the picture for a very long time.

“Can I keep this?” he asked.

“I have copies.”

Vespa’s eyes were still on the images. “Do you mind if I ask you a few personal questions?” he asked.

“I guess not.”

“Do you love your husband?”

“Very much.”

“Does he love you?”

“Yes.”

Carl Vespa had only met Jack once. He had sent a wedding gift when they got married. He sent gifts on Emma’s and Max’s birthday too. Grace wrote him thank-you notes and gave the gifts to charity. She didn’t mind being connected to him, she guessed, but she didn’t want her children… what was the phrase?… tainted by the association.

“You two met in Paris, right?”

“ Southern France, actually. Why?”

“And how did you meet again?”

“What’s the difference?”

He hesitated a second too long. “I guess I’m trying to learn how well you know your husband.”

“We’ve been married ten years.”

“I understand that.” He shifted in his seat. “You were there on vacation when you met?”

“I don’t know if I’d call it a vacation exactly.”

“You were studying. You were painting.”

“Yes.”

“And, well, mostly you were running away.”

She said nothing.

“And Jack?” Vespa continued. “Why was he there?”

“Same reason, I guess.”

“He was running away?”

“Yes.”

“From what?”

“I don’t know.”

“May I state the obvious then?”

She waited.

“Whatever he was running from”-Vespa gestured toward the photograph-“it caught up to him.”

The thought had occurred to Grace too. “That was a long time ago.”

“So was the Boston Massacre. Your running away. Did it make it go away?”

In the rearview mirror she saw Cram glance at her, waiting for an answer. She kept still.

“Nothing stays in the past, Grace. You know that.”

“I love my husband.”

He nodded.

“Will you help me?”

“You know I will.”

The car veered off the Garden State Parkway. Up ahead, Grace saw an enormous bland structure with a cross on it. It looked like an airplane hangar. A neon sign stated that tickets were still available for the “Concerts with the Lord.” A band called Rapture would be playing. Cram pulled the limo into a parking lot big enough to declare statehood.

“What are we doing here?”

“Finding God,” Carl Vespa said. “Or maybe His opposite. Let’s go inside, I want to show you something.”

This was nuts, Charlaine thought.

Her feet moved steadily toward Freddy Sykes’s yard without thought or emotion. It had crossed her mind that she could be raising the danger stakes out of desperation, hungry as she was for any kind of drama in her life. But okay, again, so what? Really, when she thought about it, what was the worst that could happen? Suppose Mike did find out. Would he leave her? Would that be so bad?

Did she want to get caught?

Oh, enough with the amateur self-analysis. It wouldn’t hurt to knock on Freddy’s door, pretend to be neighborly. Two years ago, Mike had put up a four-foot-high stockade fence in the backyard. He had wanted one higher, but the town ordinance wouldn’t allow it unless you owned a swimming pool.

Charlaine opened the gate separating her backyard from Freddy’s. Odd. This was a first. She had never opened the gate before.

As she got closer to Freddy’s back door, she realized how weathered his house was. The paint was peeling. The garden was overgrown. Weeds sprouted up through the cracks in the walk. There were patches of dead grass everywhere. She turned and glanced at her own house. She had never seen it from this angle. It too looked tired.

She was at Freddy’s back door.

Okay, now what?

Knock on it, stupid.

She did. She started with a soft rap. No answer. She pounded louder. Nothing. She pressed her ear against the door. Like that would do any good. Like she’d hear a muffled cry or something.

There was no sound.

The shades were still down, but there were wedges that the shades couldn’t quite cover. She put an eye up to an opening and peered in. The living room had a lime-green couch so worn it looked like it was melting. There was a vinyl recliner of maroon in the corner. The television looked new. The wall had old paintings of clowns. The piano was loaded with old black-and-white photographs. There was one of a wedding. Freddy’s parents, Charlaine figured. There was another of the groom looking painfully handsome in an army uniform. There was one more photograph of the same man holding a baby, a smile spread across his face. Then the man-the soldier, the groom-was gone. The rest of the photographs were of either Freddy alone or with his mother.