Margy pressed her lips together tightly. “The thing is, this was before we all heard about Linda. I’m… it seems a terrible thing to say, but I’m so worried about him. I’m worried that something might have-”

Clare opened her mouth to cut off whatever Margy was going to say, to stop her before she said something neither of them wanted to hear, but she didn’t get the chance. The kitchen door swung in, and with a snow-shedding stomp, Russ was inside.

Margy’s hand clutched hers. “Sweetie,” she said.

Russ froze, the door still open, his tartan scarf half unwound from his neck.

“Reverend Clare called on me to offer her condolences.”

Russ’s glasses steamed opaque in the moist, warm air. He took them off and tucked them into his shirt pocket. Nothing else moved.

Margy sighed. “Shut the door, Russell.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said. His mother’s command seemed to break the spell, and he turned away from them, closing the door and shrugging out of his parka, which he hung from a hook on the back of the door.

He tossed his scarf on top of the washing machine and bent to take off his boots. When he stood, he stared straight at Clare, and she felt his regard as an actual pain down her breastbone. With his sandy brown hair and the sun and smile lines around his eyes, he had always reminded her of summer, but his face now was winter-ravaged, his eyes revealing an inner cold so deep and absolute that he might shatter at a touch.

Margy stood. “I need to take these clean clothes upstairs,” she said, directing her remark toward an invisible person halfway between Russ and Clare. She lifted the plastic laundry basket and whisked out of the room, abandoning both of them without a backward glance.

Clare wanted to flee, through the door, into her car, down into town. She wanted to wrap Russ in her arms and make his naked hurt go away. The first impulse was unworthy. As for the second-she didn’t have the right or the power to ease his pain.

Instead, she stood. Slowly. “I am sorry, more sorry than I can say, for your loss.” She bit her lower lip and thanked God she had spilled her tears with Margy instead of right now. “I know you… you loved her very much.”

“I killed her.” His voice low.

“What?” For a moment, a second only, she flashed on what his mother had been saying. It seems a terrible thing to say, but I’m so worried about him. He couldn’t have… he didn’t…

Too late, she realized he was reading her thoughts off her face. He had always been scary-good at that. Or she had always given away too much around him.

“Jesus, not like that.” He sounded disgusted. At himself? At her? “How could you think-”

“No,” she started, but he cut her off.

“I meant I killed her when I told her about us. When I couldn’t cut you out of my life and focus on my marriage. I killed her when she told me we had to separate and I didn’t fight tooth and nail to stay together. I was supposed to take care of her. I was supposed to be there for her. And I wasn’t.”

“You can’t blame yourself.” It was an inane thing to say, and she knew it.

He gave her a scathing glance. Their relationship-whatever it was, or had been-didn’t allow for comforting tripe.

“All right,” she said, “tell yourself you would have been at home twenty-four hours a day. That you would have stayed by her side no matter what. That nothing bad would ever happen to her because you, Russ Van Alstyne, have the power to stop all evil things.” She ventured a half step toward him. “Does that sound like how Linda wanted to live her life? From everything you’ve ever told me about her, she was a woman who loved traveling and her business and having fun. You couldn’t have wrapped her in a cocoon even if you wanted to.”

His face contorted. “You don’t understand. I made promises to her, and I broke them. She was angry and unhappy and confused these past eight weeks,

and now it turns out that’s all the time she had.” His voice cracked. He turned his head away.

She winced. This was too close to her own gnawing guilt. But this wasn’t about her. It was about him. “Do you remember what you said to me? The night you decided you were going to tell her about… us? You said the two of you had walked so far away from each other you couldn’t find one another with a map. And that coming clean would be a start. To walking toward each other for a change.”

“And wasn’t that a high-minded load of crap? Yeah, yeah, I wanted to come clean. But you know who it was mostly for? Me. So I wouldn’t have to live with the guilt.” He stepped closer to her. “Sure, I wanted to patch up my marriage. But you know, underneath, there was this tiny little idea that maybe I could get permission. That she might say, ‘Okay, honey, whatever makes you happy.’ That somehow, some way, I could have both of you.”

She blanched.

“Yeah, it’s not so pretty when I put it like that, is it?” He stepped closer, crowding her against the table, looming over her in a way designed to make her feel trapped and threatened. “I wanted both of you, wanted to keep my happy wife and happy home, and I wanted you, not just meeting you for lunch at the goddamn diner, I wanted you, Clare, in my bed, underneath me. I wanted everything.” His voice fell to a hoarse whisper. “And now I have nothing.”

The anger and grief and self-loathing rolled off him in waves. She knew he was trying to punish her, trying to make her hate him as much as he hated himself at this moment.

“No,” she said, her voice shaking.

“No?” he said. “No?” He smacked himself on the forehead. “Of course, everything’s changed now, hasn’t it? What was I thinking? I can have you now, right? Now there’s no inconvenient marriage in the way.” His hand closed over her wrist in a brutally tight grasp. “C’mon, the bedroom’s this way.” He yanked her arm, dragging her toward the archway. She stumbled.

“Stop it!” she shrieked. She twisted out of his grasp. “What do you want from me?” She whacked him as hard as she could on his chest. “What do you want from me?” She hit him again, and again, until he batted her fists away and wrapped his arms around her, pinning her tight against him.

“God damn you,” she said, and burst into tears.

“Aw, Clare,” he said, his voice unrecognizable in her ear. “Clare, no. Jesus, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

She was shaking, and he was shaking, and over her own gasps and tears she heard a terrible wrenching noise come out of Russ’s chest. His first sob was like the ricochet report of ice cracking in the spring, and then they were both crumbling, sinking to the floor, knees tangling, ribs heaving, faces wet.

She clawed her hands free and dug them into his back, hanging on as his body spasmed with grief and his pain tore free in wracking, sloppy sobs. The sounds choking from the back of his throat were so deafening that at first she thought she imagined the ringing sound. But it went on and on, clearly audible during the lulls when he gulped air and rocked against her. She blinked away the water in her own eyes in time to see Margy Van Alstyne snatch the phone and retreat with it into the living room.

A little while later, Margy returned. She hung up the phone and came toward them, kneeling beside her son, one arm around Clare and the other stroking the hair away from his forehead. Clare could feel him shake and relax, shake and relax, and she realized he was trying to calm himself down.

“Sweetie,” his mother said after a minute or two, “that was Lyle MacAuley. There’s been some news.” Russ shifted away from Clare, purposefully this time, and she let him go. “Do you want to hear it, or do you need more time?” He sat back on his heels, wiping his face with one flannel-sleeved arm. He nodded to Margy.

“Lyle said one of the boys at the high school came into the principal’s office and asked to speak to you. He claims he saw a strange car in your driveway on Sunday. Lyle wants to know if you want to go there and talk to the witness, or if he should bring the boy in for questioning.”