She did not need to elaborate. “No,” I said.

“Then…”

“At the office.”

She nodded and then watched silently as I rummaged in the closet. I’d forgotten that I had no clean suit, so I pulled on khakis and a rumpled cotton button-down that I usually wore around the house. I could feel her eyes on me but didn’t know what to say, so I dressed in a silence made more awkward by our ten years of marriage.

“Work,” she finally said. “I don’t want to go on like this.” I heard the forced calm in her voice, so I matched it with my own. I looked at her as I spoke; it was required.

“Do you want a divorce?” I asked.

She came off the counter, startled. Her voice rose. “Good God. No! Why on earth would you think a thing like that?”

I tried to hide my disappointment, realizing only then how desperately I wanted to be rid of this marriage.

“Then what…?”

Barbara came to me and put her hands on my chest. She tried to smile, but it was pitiful to watch. Her breath explored my face, and I wanted to turn away. I’d been so sure. She took my hands and placed them around her waist, leaned into me.

“I want it to be like it was, Work. I want to fix things.” She squeezed me, trying to appear playful, and failing. “I want to make you happy. I want us to be happy.”

“Do you think that’s possible?” I asked.

“Of course it is.”

“We’re not the same people we were, Barbara. We’ve changed.” I removed my arms from around her waist and stepped back. Her voice, when she spoke, had an all too familiar edge. It was sharp and quick.

“People don’t change, Work, only circumstances.”

“Now, you see, that’s where we’re different.” I pulled on my coat. “I have to go,” I said. “I’ve got court this morning.”

She followed me through the house. “Don’t walk away from me, Work,” she shouted, and I saw my father’s face. I snatched my keys from the kitchen counter, ignoring the coffee, which suddenly smelled of bile. At the door, her hands found my arm and she pulled me to a stop. “Please. Wait just a minute.” I relented and leaned against the wall. “There’s still hope for this marriage, Work.”

“Why do you say that, Barbara?”

“Because there has to be.”

“That’s no answer.”

“Marriages have been made of less.” She put her hand to my face. “We can make this work.”

“Do you still love me, Barbara?”

“Yes,” she said immediately. “I still love you.” But I saw the lie in her eyes, and she knew it.

“We’ll talk later,” I said.

“I’ll make dinner tonight,” she said, suddenly smiling. “You’ll see. Everything will be fine.” Then she kissed my cheek and sent me off to work, like she had in the early days of our marriage. The smile was the same, as was the feel of her lips on my face, just like a thousand other times. I didn’t know what that meant, but it couldn’t be good.

I went out for breakfast and coffee. I had a bacon, egg, and cheese sandwich, which would have tasted great had I not found a copy of Sunday’s paper. The story of Ezra’s death and the ongoing investigation was still on page one, but there was not much else to say. For some reason, they showed a picture of his house. My house now. I scanned the article and was relieved to find my name absent. Another first.

I paid for the meal and walked outside. The day was crisp, with pewter skies and gusting winds. I shoved my hands into my pockets and watched the traffic pass. Somehow I was not surprised to see Detective Mills’s car turn into the parking lot. It was one of those things that just felt right, like it had been preordained. I leaned into her window when she rolled it down.

“Are you following me?” I asked her. She didn’t smile.

“Coincidence,” she said.

“Is it?”

She gestured at the restaurant behind me. “I eat here twice a week,” she said. “Wednesdays and Fridays.”

I studied her: She had on a tight brown sweater and jeans. Her weapon was on the seat next to her. I couldn’t smell her perfume. “Today is Monday,” I told her.

“It’s like I said. Coincidence.”

“Really?”

“No,” she said. “I stopped by your house. Your wife said she thought you might have come here.”

I felt a foreboding chill, and I didn’t know if it was because Detective Mills had been looking for me or because she and my wife had been breathing the same air.

“What do you want?”

“Douglas and I still want to get together with you about your father’s files. Have you had a chance to go through them?”

“I’m working on it.” A lie.

“Will you be in the office today?” Mills asked.

“I have court this morning. Then I’m going to the jail for an hour to see some clients. I’ll be in the office by noon.”

Mills nodded. “We’ll be in touch.” Then she drove away, and I stood watching after her. Eventually, I got into the truck and drove to the office. It was early still, and my secretary had not yet arrived, for which I was thankful. I could not bear her mournful eyes and the disappointment that seemed to shine from them whenever she looked at me. I ignored the stairs to the big office and settled into the chair in my own small office at the back corner of the building. The voice-mail light blinked at me until, with a small sigh, I pushed the button. It took ten minutes to get through all the messages, most of which were from various reporters. They all assured the utmost discretion… if I could just spare a moment to make a few comments about my deceased father. One, however, stood out. The call had come in that morning, about an hour before.

The reporter’s name was Tara Reynolds; I knew her well. She worked for the Charlotte Observer, had the criminal beat for North Mecklenburg and the counties that bordered Charlotte to the north… Cabarrus, Iredell, and Rowan. Our paths crossed from time to time. She never misquoted me or abused the initial trust I’d given her. Murder cases were often tried in the press, and I was not above using her when circumstances called for it. She operated the same way; and yet there was an invisible line that neither of us ever crossed. Call it mutual respect. Maybe even liking.

Tara was in her midfifties, heavyset, with brilliant green eyes and a smoker’s voice. She was beyond jaded, expected the worst of everyone, and believed that her job was the most important one in the world. She may have been right. She answered on the second ring.

“I want you to know that I never do this.”

That was the first thing she said to me.

“What?” I asked.

“Just listen. I’m going to tell you some things and then we’ll never mention this again.”

She had my attention, yet she seemed suddenly hesitant. “What is it, Tara?”

“Just a sec…” I could tell that her hand covered the mouthpiece. Muffled voices filtered through and then there was silence. “Sorry about that,” she said. “I’m going to make this quick. You know that I’ve got sources?”

“I know that.” Tara usually knew more about the murder cases in this county than everybody but the cops and the DA’s office. I never learned how she did it, but she did.

“The word from inside Salisbury PD is that your name’s coming up… a lot.”

“What?”

“There’s a lot of talk, Work. They’re looking at you pretty hard for the murder.” Her voice was low and urgent, as if she thought I’d not believe her.

“Somehow I’m not surprised.”

“Just listen. There are a few things you might not know. First, they’ve identified the ammunition that killed your father. The bullets were Black Talons-fairly rare, illegal for awhile now. In and of itself, no big deal, but they checked the local gun-store records. Your father bought three boxes of Black Talons just before they were taken off the market.”

“So…”

“So, it ups the odds that his gun was used. They think you had access to that gun.” A pause. “Has it turned up yet?”

She was testing me, probing for information. “I don’t know.”