“Nothing,” Miles answered.

“Seven hours and you just sat there?”

“Dad.”

“Well?”

And it went on like this as it did every night, the kind of mindless prattle so easily dismissed one night, so treasured on this particular evening, when mindlessness was what she craved. She sat there as an observer, watching them like watching a movie: Lou teasing, the children laughing, manners being reminded, him stealing glimpses of her and offering a smile, and she returning it and feeling traitorous. Then it was dishes, and Miles with a broom he could barely control and Sarah announcing for all she had to go potty. Lou sweeping the child up in his strong arms and warning her to hold it as he rushed her out of the room.

“Mommy,” Miles said, pointing down. “Muddy shoes you leave in twos.” The school was teaching him all sorts of expressions like this.

She looked down, her pulse quickening. Mud and grass clung to the sides of both shoes. I ran out to a meeting with the caterers. Right. And Sherlock Holmes flushing the toilet for Sarah.

At first she didn’t remember having climbed out of the car, but then she recalled opening the hood and closing it, just as David had instructed.

She glanced toward the living room-where Lou would be coming from-wondering if he’d already caught the mud. If she tried to hide it now, would it just compound her problems? They both knew there was no place downtown she would pick up mud and grass like this. The catering was out of a fabulous restaurant called Wild Ginger. Lou had helped her pick it. No city parks between the bank and Wild Ginger. She heard the toilet gurgle.

She cupped her hand beneath the faucet, and splashed her blouse, jumping back, as if an accident. “Dang!” she hollered, brushing herself off. Her silk blouse went translucent and she made sure it stuck to her chest, for she knew if anything would divert Lou’s attention away from her shoes, her wet blouse would. They passed in the doorway.

Lou said, “All by herself.”

Liz said, “I splashed.”

Lou said, “Lucky me.”

She hated him for being so predictable, for him allowing her to take advantage like this.

“I’ll change,” she announced.

“I hope not,” he said, turning her meaning. Lou Boldt loved word games. “Sweetheart?”

She hadn’t realized she’d started crying until her vision blurred. She cleared her right eye with her fingertip. “Hormones again.”

He looked at her oddly, as if he didn’t know her but seemed to buy it just the same, and that hurt worse. “I’ll start the bath.”

“Thanks.”

“For them,” he teased.

“I know.”

“You okay?”

“No,” she said honestly.

“Okay,” he said, backing away and slipping into the kitchen. “Take your time.”

When they finally made it to bed, she realized it was horrible timing to start into this now. He was talking about how tired he was, having been up the night before with Danny Foreman. She had her head buried in a church periodical, a magazine with testimonies of healing, and she searched the pages for guidance, knowing she’d pick up something if she stayed with it. Finally, reading a piece on avoidance, she placed the magazine down.

She gathered her courage. “You feel like talking for a minute?”

He fought off a yawn and said yes. He meant no, but that he’d try.

“I didn’t go to the caterer.” A feeling of weight lifted off her, the childish glee of watching a hot-air balloon rise into a blue sky.

“I know.”

A moment of incredulity. “You know?”

“Birthday shopping, right? I was ready to cover for you, if you needed it. I’m thinking of getting him a sport coat. He keeps asking for a coat like mine. Tweed, maybe. For his recital. Can you imagine? A little button-down shirt and tie? Tell me that wouldn’t be amazing.”

“Amazing,” she said, choking back a knot in her throat, reaching over and gently touching his hair. It wasn’t going to happen. Not tonight. He closed his eyes and smiled, lost in that imagination of his. She scratched his scalp, like rubbing a cat. “I’ll get the light,” she said.

“Um,” he answered, already on his way to sleep.

“IMPRESSIVE,” DANNY FOREMAN CALLED OUT loudly as the paper target crept toward Liz. It hung from a clip attached to a belt drive, allowing the shooter to replace it with a fresh one and then electronically return it to a desired distance. Liz was shooting thirty feet. She wore eye and ear gear and a blue business suit with black pinstripes. The indoor firing range was too loud for them to try to carry on a conversation, but she pulled one ear off her headset and shouted above the percussion of reports.

“Hardly impressive! Nine in the magazine. I only hit the target with three of them.” She pointed out the holes in the black-and-white bottle-shaped target. “You want a go?”

“No, thanks.”

“You sure?”

He assented, pulling hearing protection and goggles off a peg on the wall and accepting the weapon, a slick little nine millimeter. “This doesn’t strike me as you, Liz.”

“Lou gave it to me a couple years ago. I protested, naturally. But I took a course so I’d know what I’m doing.”

They had yet to say hello to each other, Liz bearing the burden of what Lou had told her about Danny’s lingering resentment.

“And now, a renewed interest?” Danny Foreman ran the target out to thirty feet, raised the gun, sighted, and squeezed off a single shot. It struck the target low. He lowered the gun, studied it, raised it a second time and caused Liz to jerk back as he unloaded the magazine with eight incredibly fast consecutive shots. He left a tight pattern, very near the center circle of the target. “Sweet,” he said, placing down the weapon.

His shooting seemed charged with emotion. Tension hung in the air along with the bitter tang of cordite.

“I’m truly sorry,” Liz said.

Foreman tugged the headset off. “What’s that?”

“Never mind.”

They chased down a pair of fiberglass chairs in the waiting area in front of two vending machines and a trash can that smelled of burnt coffee grounds. The sign on the wall read NO SMOKING, but there were well-used ashtrays on each of the three round tables. The vinyl floor had been swabbed down with a lemon-scented disinfectant. Foreman offered to clean her gun for her, and she took him up on it, handing him a gray plastic kit of swabs and oil that Lou had given her along with the gun. Foreman’s big hands wrapped around the metal like talons on prey.

Danny Foreman spoke with a warm, sonorous voice that Liz remembered well, a voice it felt nice to be around.

She said, “We’ve not seen much of each other, have we? I want you to know that Darlene’s passing hit us both very hard. We miss her-miss you both, Danny-very much.”

“I could have called. Should have,” he said. “I got this notion it was better to start fresh-a new life, you know? Transferred over to BCI. Bought a little place over to Madison Park. Didn’t change much of anything, though. I miss her badly, Liz.”

She wasn’t the best at such discussions. Even among her girlfriends, she preferred listening to talking, and when she did speak it was to express her true opinions, most of which were the last thing anyone wanted to hear.

“There’s no set time for grieving. It’s a process. But speaking as a friend, Lou and I would like to see more of you than we do.”

“Darlene and I always enjoyed our time with the two of you.”

“And… here we are.”

His face screwed up tight. “Yeah, but it’s business. We both know that’s why you called me. Let me tell you something: It makes it all the more difficult for me.”

In fact, she had called him to test the thickness of the ice, like tossing rocks and watching them skim across the frozen surface. Called him, to edge her boot down onto that ice and listen for the splintering cracks beneath her added weight. If she misjudged or misstepped, she knew the peril she faced. This meeting with Danny would determine how much she shared with Lou, believing it unfair to revisit that pain unless absolutely forced to. She avoided eye contact, focusing on his long fingers and the meticulous way he handled the weapon.