And Tony responded, “You must be the best cooze in Washington State, Barbara, because I can’t figure out why else my brother would be racked up over you,” and hung up. Barbara hadn’t expected to hear from him after that. Surely only desperation would lead him to call again.

Presumably, desperation had. Tony’s second call—yesterday’s call—had been routed up to the Conference on Forestry and the Environment in Victoria by one of the board members at World Watch, an advocacy group Barbara worked for. First came a warning call from Rachel, her coworker: “Barb, do you really know this guy? He says he’s related to your ex. He says, ‘I know she works for this pinko organization and I need to talk to her now.’ Some family thing. He said it was urgent so I gave him the hotel number, but I wondered—”

“It’s okay,” Barbara said. “That’s fine, Rachel. You did the right thing.”

She waited ten minutes by the phone, standing up Rafe at the Jobs or Oxygen seminar. Then Tony’s call came up from the switchboard. “It’s about Tom,” he said.

Barbara felt a sudden weight at the back of her neck: a headache beginning. She said, “Tony … didn’t we have this conversation once?”

“It’s different this time.”

“What’s changed?”

“Just listen to me, Barbara, will you do that? Save up all the psychological crap until I’m finished?”

Barbara bit her Up but said nothing. Underneath the insult was some urgency: from Tony, a new thing.

“Better,” he said. “Thank you. I’m calling about Tom, and the reason I’m calling is that I think he’s going off the deep end in a serious way and this time I don’t know what to do about it.”

Urgency and this confession. Barbara said, “Is he drinking again?”

“That’s the weird thing. I don’t think he is. He’ll disappear for days at a time—but he comes back clean and he’s not hung over. He’s holed up in this house he bought out on the Post Road. Hardly sees anybody. Reclusive. And it’s cutting into his life. He’s missed time at the lot and the sales manager is seriously pissed at him. Plus, it’s things I don’t know how to explain. Did you ever meet somebody who just didn’t give a fuck? You could say hello, you could tell them your uncle died, and maybe they say something sympathetic, but you can tell they just don’t care?”

“I’ve met people like that,” Barbara said. Like you, you asshole, she thought.

“Tom ever strike you as one of those?”

“No.”

“Well, that’s what he is now. He has no friends, he has no money, he’s on the brink of losing his job—and none of this matters. He’s out in some other dimension.”

Didn’t sound like Tom at all. Tom had always been a second-guesser—obsessed with consequences. Because of the way his parents had died, she guessed, or maybe it came from some deeper chamber of his personality, but Tom had always feared and distrusted the future. “It could still be alcohol.”

“I’m not stupid,” Tony said. “I don’t care how subtle he is about it, I know when my brother is juicing. This is something altogether else. Last time I went to the house, you know what happened? He wouldn’t let me in. He opened the door, flashed me a big smile and said, ‘Go away, Tony.’ ”

“He’s happy, though?”

“Happy isn’t the word. Detached. You want me to say what I think? I think he might be suicidal.”

Barbara swallowed hard. “That’s a big leap.”

“He’s signing off, Barbara. He won’t even talk to me, but that’s the impression I have. He doesn’t care what happens in the world because he already said goodbye to it.”

The phone was a dead weight in her hand. “What does Loreen think about this?”

“It was Loreen who convinced me to call you.”

Then it was serious. Loreen was no genius but she had a feeling for people. Barbara said, “Tony, why? What brought this on?”

“Who knows? Maybe Tom could tell you.”

“You want me to talk to him?”

“I can’t tell anybody what to do anymore. I’m way past that. If you’re worried, you know where to find him.”

Buzz and hum after Tony hung up.

Her marriage was over. She didn’t owe Tom anything. Unfair, to have this dumped in her lap.

She packed her bag and took it to the lobby, found Rafe and explained the situation as kindly as possible. He said he understood. He was probably lying.

Her hand shook when she put the key in the ignition.

She had to pull over a couple of times to check the gas station map of Belltower. By the time she found Tom’s house it was almost ten o’clock, Sunday morning. Peaceful out here along the Post Road, clear skies and summer coming on fast. Barbara stepped out of the car and took a deep lungful of cedar-scented air.

The house looked peaceful, too. Very clean, almost pristine. The roof was moss-free and the siding looked practically scrubbed. Tom had let the lawn go a little bit, however.

She put her car keys in her purse. I didn’t think I’d be this nervous.

But there was no turning away. Up the walk, knock on the door. Primly, tap-tap-tap. Then, when no answer came, harder.

The sound echoed and died in the Sunday morning air. No response but the shushing of the trees.

She had bolstered herself for every eventuality but this. Maybe he went out somewhere. The garage door was down and locked—no way to tell if his car was inside.

No way to tell if he was still alive. Tony’s words came back like a curse: I think he’s suicidal. Maybe she had come too late. But that thought was gruesome and unwarranted, a product of her own fears; she put it firmly out of mind. Probably he had gone out for a while. She decided to wait in the car.

After half an hour trying to find a comfortable place on the upholstery—and getting a little hungry around the edge of her nerves—she caught a glimpse of motion in the nearest window of the house.

Angry at him for ignoring her knock—but maybe he hadn’t heard it—she ran to the window and peered up over the sill.

Into the kitchen. She cupped her hand against the window and saw Tom with his back to her. His shirt was untucked and he was wearing a ragged pair of jeans. He bent down toward something on the floor; she saw it dash away—a cat, perhaps? But that was odd: Tom had never liked pets.

People change, she told herself.

She knocked at the door again, as hard as she could.

Moments later, Tom answered.

His smile faded when he saw her. He said, “My God.”

“I’ve been here a little while,” she said. “I knocked—”

“I must have been downstairs. My God. Come in.”

She entered the house almost apologetically—cowed by his astonishment. I should have phoned. “I didn’t mean to surprise you like this, but—”

He waved his hand. “It’s all right. I’ve been out of the house—I don’t always pick up the phone.”

She allowed this excuse, disturbing as it was. He gestured at the sofa. She sat down.

The room was neutrally furnished, almost impersonal. Barbara recognized a few items from the old Seattle apartment—a rack of jazz LPs, the stereo amplifier Tom had put together during his electronics-hobbyist phase. But the furniture was old-fashioned, styleless, and spotlessly clean; she guessed it came with the house.

“I ought to tell you why I came.”

Tom shook his head. “I can guess. Tony called you, right?” She nodded; he said, “I should have expected it. I’m sorry, Barbara. Not sorry to see you again. Sorry you dragged yourself all the way out here for nothing.”

“Tony’s worried. He has a decent impulse now and then. Loreen’s worried, too, he says.”

“They shouldn’t be.”

She didn’t want to press the subject. She said, “It’s a nice house.”

“I guess I ought to show you around.”

He showed her the kitchen, the bedroom, the spare room, the bath—all immaculate, old-fashioned, and a little bit sterile. She hovered at the stairs but Tom hung back. “That’s just the basement. Nothing of interest.”