Cody Burns broke through the line and pelted across the kitchen floor for his mother, who scooped him up onto her lap. He turned his face into her shoulder and clutched at her with the arm that wasn’t holding Squeaky the Squirrel.

“Hey, little boy. What’s the matter? Are you a sleepy baby?” Karen looked up at them. “I think we may be running into nap time. Can we continue this another time?” She sniffed. “Whoo. We need a diaper change before beddy-bye. Lilly, where’s the bathroom?”

Clare put the lumpy mug down. She couldn’t tell Karen what she, in confidence, had been told by Russ. Nor could she let Debba know she had some private police information about the artist’s past. “Debba,” she said, after Karen had slung her baby bag over her shoulder and followed Lilly down the hall. “I’d love it if we could take some time, just the two of us, to talk about how this is affecting you. I can see you have a terrific support person in your mother, but sometimes it helps to let your feelings out with another person.”

Debba pushed her cloud of hair back with both hands. “Funny you should mention that. I’ve just been thinking, lately, how stressed I’m feeling. And I think part of it is, I’m trying to be real strong and upbeat for my mom. She has enough to deal with without worrying about me. I have to tell you though, I’m not particularly religious.”

Clare laughed. “If the only people I talked with were particularly religious ones, I’d have a lot of free time on my hands.” She stood up and dug into her skirt pocket. “Here’s one of my cards, to trade for yours. It’s got all my numbers on it, although you’ll take your chances if you try to reach me by cell phone.” She made a face. “I got one last winter after I was in an accident, but I didn’t realize that all these mountains mean I can only get a signal if I’m headed down the Northway toward Saratoga.”

Karen toted Cody back into the kitchen. “Oh, cell phones are useless around here. You should do what Geoff and I did, get a satellite phone. It’s a little more expensive, but it’s worthwhile. So reliable.”

Clare caught Debba’s eye. They both bit back grins.

“Clare, will you hold Cody while I get my stuff together?” Karen thrust the baby into Clare’s arms. Cody drew back, eyeballed her, recognized a face he knew, and promptly butted his head against her shoulder. Karen and Debba had put their heads together over their calendars and were trying out different dates and times for their next meeting. Cody stuck his thumb into his mouth and began to rhythmically squeak the squirrel.

The weight of him always surprised Clare, the solidity and size of him. Somehow, she always expected the fragile, kitten-sized bundle she had first seen, the awe-inspiring, panicky thought she had first had: This baby’s life is in my hands. She wondered if this was what motherhood felt like. She wondered if she would ever know.

There was a tug on her skirt. She looked down to see a tiny girl, with kinky blond hair identical to Debba’s, staring at her. “Hi,” the girl said. “What’s your name? My name is Whitley. I have a rat. Do you want to see?”

“Whits, Reverend Fergusson doesn’t want to see your rat,” Lilly said from the playroom door. “Be polite and say hello.”

“I did,” Whitley said. “What’s that thing around your neck? It’s not a turtleneck shirt. I have turtleneck shirts and they’re soft and squishy. Sometimes they have flowers on them.”

“You’re right,” Clare said. “This is called a clerical collar. I wear it so people can see that I’m a priest. Kind of like a police officer wearing a badge. If I weren’t holding Cody, I could show you where it fastens and unfastens in the back. It’s not even really attached to my shirt.”

“Neat,” Whitley said. “Put the baby down and show me.”

“Whitley!” her mother said, reaching for her.

“You have quite a conversationalist there,” Clare said.

“Yeah, it’s a shame she’s so shy and retiring.” Debba’s face softened. “And here’s my boy.”

The child who followed Lilly into the kitchen was clearly Whitley’s brother. They had the same fair skin and finely etched features. But where the little girl’s brown eyes were direct and penetrating, her brother’s wandered, sliding away from faces, seeming to track dust motes in the air. He walked hesitantly, moving his arms back and forth like a child trying to feel its way through a dark and featureless landscape. Debba knelt down and circled her arms around the boy, holding him loosely, anchoring him in space. “Sky, this is Reverend Fergusson. Can you say ‘hello’?”

He was a beautiful boy. He fastened his eyes on the table, not like a kid disobeying his mom, or like a shy child. It was as if, Clare thought, he didn’t even see her.

“When we meet somebody new, we say ‘hello,’ ” Debba went on. “Can you say ‘hello’?”

His gaze was still on the table. “H’lo,” he said, still ignoring Clare. He tapped the fingers of one hand in the palm of the other and circled them around.

“Sure, you can draw. Get up on your chair.”

Skylar headed for where Clare had been sitting, and she jumped out of his way. He climbed into the seat while his mother laid a stack of blank papers and a pencil in front of him.

With fierce concentration he bent over the paper. “Whatcha drawing, Scoot?” his mother asked, although it was obvious. Under Skylar’s pencil a bus was emerging, startlingly accurate and in perfect perspective.

“Grammy’s bus,” he said. “The tires, the windows, the door, the lights…”

“Mmmm. I like your busses.” Debba stroked his hair while the boy finished one picture, thrust the sheet away, and started another. The second bus was identical to the first. Clare watched Debba’s hand, rising and falling, like a benediction said over and over. What was it like to love that fiercely? How much would you be willing to pay to make your child healthy, wealthy, happy, wise? What would you do to protect your child? As she watched Debba reach over and slide a box of crayons toward Skylar, tempting him with color, she knew the answer: anything.

Friday, April 9, 1937

Dead and gone. Niels Madsen contemplated the phrase as he turned the pages of the Ketchem file. It implied first the one, then the other. Turning that natural order around was going to be difficult. He squared the papers within the green baize folder and pressed the yellow button on his intercom.

“Miss McDonald, will you send in Mrs. Ketchem now?”

A moment later, he heard the tack-tack-tack of heels on wood, and his office door opened. He stood up, came around his desk, and crossed to greet her.

“Mrs. Ketchem.” He shook her hand, gesturing to one of two leather chairs positioned in front of his desk. “Make yourself comfortable.” He studied her from beneath half-closed eyes as she sat down and smoothed her dress over her knees. His awareness of fashion didn’t extend much beyond an approving nod at his wife’s purchases and an occasional groan of pain when he got her bills, but even he could tell Jane Ketchem’s brown wool dress was several years out-of-date. Her shoes, polished to a shine and neat below her crossed ankles, were worn at the heels.

“Can I have Miss McDonald get you some coffee?” he asked, seating himself behind his desk.

She shook her head. “No, thank you.” Beneath her hat, he could see the gray threading through her glossy brown hair. They had met a few times over the years-he had drawn up the papers when she and Jonathon bought their farm and had advised them when the Conklingville Dam project was buying them out. Jane had had a fresh farm-girl sort of beauty in her younger days, the kind that should have aged into plump cheeks and soft jowls by now. But the events of her life had laid waste to that softness, and the forty-one-year-old woman looking calmly at him from across his desk was drawn, sharp. Someone he didn’t recognize.