If she didn’t give Diana Leven the hearing she was requesting, it would look like Alex was hiding. Better to let them voice their positions and be a big girl. Alex pushed a button on her phone. “Eleanor,” she said, “schedule it.”

She speared her fingers through her hair and then smoothed it down again. What she needed was a cigarette. She rummaged in her desk drawers but turned up only an empty pack of Merits. “Shoot,” she muttered, and then remembered her emergency pack, hidden in the trunk of her car. Grabbing her keys, Alex stood up and left chambers, hurrying down the back staircase to the parking lot.

She threw open the fire door and heard the sickening crunch as it hit flesh. “Oh my gosh,” she cried, reaching for the man who’d doubled over in pain. “Are you all right?”

Patrick Ducharme straightened, wincing. “Your Honor,” he said. “I’ve got to stop running into you. Literally.”

She frowned. “You shouldn’t have been standing next to a fire door.”

“You shouldn’t have been flinging it open. So where is it today?” Patrick asked.

“Where’s what?”

“The fire?” He nodded at another cop, walking to a cruiser parked in the lot.

Alex took a step backward and folded her arms. “I believe we already had a conversation about, well, conversation.”

“First of all, we’re not talking about the case, unless there’s some metaphorical thing going on that I don’t know about. Second of all, your position on this case seems to be in doubt, at least if you believe the editorial in the Sterling News today.”

“There’s an editorial about me today?” Alex said, stunned. “What does it say?”

“Well, I’d tell you, but that would be talking about the case, wouldn’t it?” He grinned and started to walk off.

“Hang on,” Alex said, calling after the detective. When he turned, she glanced around to make sure that they were alone in the parking lot. “Can I ask you something? Off the record?”

He nodded slowly.

“Did Josie seem…I don’t know…all right to you, when you talked to her the other day?”

The detective leaned against the brick wall of the court building. “You certainly know her better than I do.”

“Well…sure,” Alex said. “I just thought she might say something to you-as a stranger-that she wasn’t willing to say to me.” She looked down at the ground between them. “Sometimes it’s easier that way.”

She could feel Patrick’s eyes on her, but she couldn’t quite muster the courage to meet them. “Can I tell you something? Off the record?”

Alex nodded.

“Before I took this job, I used to work in Maine. And I had a case that wasn’t just a case, if you know what I mean.”

Alex did. She found herself listening in his voice for a note she hadn’t heard before-a low one that resonated with anguish, like a tuning fork that never stopped its vibration. “There was a woman there who meant everything to me, and she had a little boy who meant everything to her. And when he was hurt, in a way a kid never should be, I moved heaven and earth to work that case, because I thought no one could possibly do a better job than I could. No one could possibly care more about the outcome.” He looked directly at Alex. “I was so sure I could separate how I felt about what had happened from how I had to do my job.”

Alex swallowed, dry as dust. “And did you?”

“No. Because when you love someone, no matter what you tell yourself, it stops being a job.”

“What does it become?”

Patrick thought for a moment. “Revenge.”

One morning, when Lewis had told Lacy he was headed to visit Peter at the jail, she got in her car and followed him. In the days since Peter had confessed that his father didn’t come to see him, through the arraignment and afterward, Lacy had kept this secret hidden. She spoke less and less to Lewis, because she feared that once she opened her mouth, it would escape like a hurricane.

Lacy was careful to keep one car between hers and Lewis’s. It made her think of a lifetime ago, when they had been dating, and she would follow Lewis to his apartment or he would follow her. They’d play games with each other, waving the rear windshield wiper like a dog wags its tail, flashing headlights in Morse code.

He drove north, as if he was going to the jail, and for a moment Lacy had a crisis of doubt: would Peter have lied to her, for some reason? She didn’t think so. But then again, she hadn’t thought Lewis would, either.

It started to rain just as they reached the green in Lyme Center. Lewis signaled and turned into a small parking lot with a bank, an artist’s studio, a flower shop. She couldn’t pull in behind him-he’d recognize her car right away-so instead she drove into the lot of the hardware store next door and parked behind the building.

Maybe he needs the ATM, Lacy thought, but she got out of her car and hid behind the oil tanks to watch Lewis enter a floral shop, and leave five minutes later with a bouquet of pink roses.

All the breath left her body. Was he having an affair? She had never considered the possibility that things could get even worse, that their small family unit could fracture further.

Lacy stumbled into her car and managed to follow Lewis. It was true, she had been obsessed with Peter’s trial. And maybe she had been guilty of not listening to Lewis when he needed to talk, because nothing he had to say about economics seminars or publications or current events really seemed to matter anymore, not when her son was sitting in jail. But Lewis? She’d always imagined herself as the free spirit in their union; she’d seen him as the anchor. Security was a mirage; being tied down hardly counted when the other end of the rope had unraveled.

She wiped her eyes on her sleeve. Lewis would tell her, of course, that it was only sex, not love. That it didn’t mean anything. He would say that there were all sorts of ways that people dealt with grief, with a hole in the heart.

Lewis put on his blinker again and turned right-this time, into a cemetery.

A slow burn started inside Lacy’s chest. Well, this was just sick. Was this where he met her?

Lewis got out of the car, carrying his roses but no umbrella. The rain was coming down harder now, but Lacy was intent on seeing this through to the end. She stayed just far enough behind, following him to a newer section of the cemetery, the one with the freshest graves. There weren’t even headstones yet; the plots looked like a patchwork: brown earth against the green of the clipped lawn.

At the first grave, Lewis knelt and placed a rose on the soil. Then he moved to another one, doing the same. And another, and another, until his hair was dripping into his face; until his shirt was soaked through; until he’d left behind ten flowers.

Lacy came up behind him as he was placing the last rose. “I know you’re there,” he said, although he didn’t turn around.

She could barely speak: the understanding that Lewis was not, in fact, cheating on her had been tempered by the knowledge of what he was actually spending his time doing these days. She couldn’t tell if she was crying anymore, or if the sky was doing it for her. “How dare you come here,” she accused, “and not visit your own son?”

He lifted his face to hers. “Do you know what chaos theory is?”

“I don’t give a fuck about chaos theory, Lewis. I care about Peter. Which is more than I can say for-”

“There’s this belief,” he interrupted, “that you can explain only the last moment in time, linearly…but that everything leading up to it might have come from any series of events. So, you know, a kid skips a stone at the beach, and somewhere across the planet, a tsunami happens.” Lewis stood up, his hands in his pockets. “I took him hunting, Lacy. I told him to stick with the sport, even if he didn’t like it. I said a thousand things. What if one of them was what made Peter do this?”