Someday he wouldn't. She understood that. Someday, he would tire of her, simply walk away, and she would die down here. In the dark, alone.

There were not enough lights in the house. Three, four, maybe it was five in the morning, Catherine rounded up all the candles. Flashlights were good. The light in the oven. The night-light for the water dispenser in the refrigerator door. The undercabinet lights. The inside-the-cabinet lights. The fires in the two gas fireplaces. She went from room to room, turning them on. She needed light, she had to have light.

She'd dreamed of Jimmy. Smiling Jimmy, happy Jimmy.

What's a guy gotta do to get a little spritz? Angry Jimmy, drinking Jimmy, cold Jimmy. You're sure she won't get anything? I don't want her touching one red cent.

She'd dreamed of Jimmy so much, she'd bolted out of bed at six a.m. and run to the bathroom to throw up.

Boo, a voice whispered in the back of her mind. Boo. Oh please God, let Jimmy be finally dead. Now it was nearly nine. Visiting hours at the hospital. Catherine had already called four times. Nathan was awake. She could see him.

Fuck that. She didn't trust the hospital. It didn't offer enough security. She was bringing her son home.

Catherine had her coat, had her keys. One last check of the house. That's right, the candles. She passed through the rooms, blowing out the burning wicks one by one. She was just coming downstairs again when she remembered the Taser. She'd had one in the safe. She returned upstairs to the master bedroom, preparing to arm herself for a war against an enemy that had no name.

Who would write Boo! on her rearview mirror? Who would do such a thing?

She didn't like to think about it too much. There were answers out there, and most of them terrified her.

The safe was wide open, the way the police had left it. She gazed inside. The Taser was gone. Rat bastards. They'd probably inventoried it for evidence. Like the Taser was really going to protect her from Jimmy's gun.

She returned downstairs, the anger reinvigorating her and driving her toward the front door. To the hospital, to Nathan. She'd just put her hand on the knob when, from the other side, someone knocked. Catherine recoiled, hand to her chest as if struck. The knocking came again.

Very slowly, she put her eye to the peephole. Three people stood there. The police.

No, she thought wildly. Not now. Nathan was all alone. Didn't they know that at any time, a man driving a blue Chevy could turn down the street?

Knocking again. Slowly, Catherine opened the door. "Catherine Gagnon?" the man standing in front asked. His nose was squashed, as if he'd been hit in the face one too many times. It appeared incongruous with his nice gray suit.

"Who are you?"

"Rick Copley, ADA for Suffolk County. I'm here with Detective D.D. Warren, BPD"-he gestured to a beautiful blonde with cheap taste in clothes-"and Investigator Rob Casella, DA's office." He gestured to a particularly grim-faced man who was wearing a dark suit fit only for funerals.

"We have a few questions we need answered. May we come in?"

"I'm on my way to see my son," she said.

"Then we'll do our best not to take too much of your time." The ADA was already pushing into her home. After another moment, she gave way. It probably was best to do this now. Before Nathan-or Prudence-returned.

The cheap blonde was looking around the downstairs foyer as if she wasn't impressed. The investigator, on the other hand, was already taking notes.

"I think we'd be more comfortable having a seat." The ADA invited them all to enter the parlor to the left-hand side of the foyer. Catherine finally let go of her purse, shrugged out of her coat. She was watching the ADA most carefully; he was the one in charge.

She wondered what he thought of grieving widows. Then she caught his glance again. His expression was hard, calculating, a predator sizing up prey. So that's the way it was then. For as long as she could remember, Catherine had brought out only the extreme in the male of the species. Men who lusted after women lusted after her more. And men who hated women… She would do better, she decided, focusing her energies on the man dressed for the funeral.

"I'm glad you stopped by," she said firmly, shoulders back, sailing into the room.

"I contacted the medical examiner's office yesterday. I confess I was quite startled to learn that I still can't claim my husband's body."

"In these kinds of situations, it takes time."

"Do you have children, Mr. Copley?"

He simply stared at her.

She said quietly, "This is a very difficult time for my son. I would like to finish planning the funeral, so we can both get this behind us. The sooner my son gets closure, the sooner he can begin to heal."

Copley and his crew said nothing. Catherine took a seat across from them all in an antique wooden chair. She crossed one leg over the other, clasping her hands around her knee. She'd chosen her clothes with care this morning: a tea-length black skirt with a heather-gray cashmere turtleneck, belted at the waist. Pearl studs in her ears, her wedding band on her finger, her long black hair knotted at her neck. She was every inch the dignified, grieving widow, and she knew it.

If these people were really going to gang up on the dead man's wife, it would be up to them to start.

"We have some questions about Thursday night," the ADA said finally, clearing his throat and breaking the silence.

"Could you review some things for us one more time?"

She merely regarded them expectantly.

"Uhhhh, all right." Investigator Casella had his notebook out and was flipping through the pages. Catherine didn't watch him anymore; she studied the blonde. The DA's office investigated police shootings, not the BPD, so why was the blonde here?

"In regard to the videotapes from the security system… we seem to be missing the one from the master bedroom."

"There's no tape."

"There's no tape? It's our understanding from the security company that a camera is installed in your master bedroom."

She regarded Investigator Casella evenly.

"It wasn't on."

"It wasn't on?"

"Convenient," the blonde murmured.

Catherine ignored her.

"That camera is meant for when we are out. Jimmy had set it up to shut off automatically from midnight to eight a.m."

"That's interesting," Investigator Casella said.

"Because according to your earlier testimony, Jimmy came home at ten p.m." so the camera should've still been on."

"True, but it turns out the control panel can't tell time."

"Pardon?" "Check it," Catherine said.

"You'll see that the control panel is currently running two hours ahead, so what it thinks is midnight is really ten p.m." She shrugged.

"Jimmy's not very good with electronics. All that 'spring forward, fall back'; I guess he must have messed up the time."

"The security company never mentioned this."

"I don't think he ever told them."

The two men and the blonde exchanged glances.

"You said you and your husband had gotten into an argument," Investigator Casella said finally.

"What was it regarding?"

Catherine eyed him coolly. They had covered this before, Friday morning when the blood in her bedroom had still been fresh. She resented the fact that they were making her say it again.

"Jimmy could be jealous, particularly when he'd been drinking. Thursday night, he started in on me about Nathan's doctor. I wanted to take Nathan in to see Dr. Rocco, as Nathan wasn't feeling well. Jimmy thought that was just a ruse so I could see my old lover."

"You were seeing Dr. Tony Rocco?" The ADA again, striving to sound surprised by the news when they all knew he was faking it. The police had their theatrics, she had hers. Which made this whole conversation-what, a Greek tragedy, or a hopeless Shakespearean farce?