What were his alternatives? Solicit help from the people who were on his side? Who were they? Kate? Bill Dolittle? Fritz Skander? Mrs. Sherman, Rosalind Langdon, and Alice Beech? Gene Strauss, Larry Gaudette, even Frank LeBrun? But what did he know about Strauss except that they had both rooted for the Yankees during the World Series and had watched two games together on Strauss’s mammoth TV? As for Dolittle, his loyalty depended on whether he got the apartment in Stark Hall. And what did Hawthorne know about Skander, the eternal backer of conservative measures who disliked rocking the boat? Though he was tactless and insensitive, Skander had worked with these people a long time. If not his friends, they were at least friendly. Skander hadn’t minded that they borrowed cars and lawn mowers and chain saws and took food from the kitchen.

Briefly Hawthorne considered hiring a private detective but the idea struck him as ridiculous. He imagined a Sherlock Holmes type creeping around Bishop’s Hill with a magnifying glass. Besides, good detectives were expensive and who would pay? Would the money come out of his pocket or would he ask Hamilton Burke? And what did he know about Burke? What exactly had he said to Evings the day before Evings died? Had he really told him that he could take a leave?

It seemed that the only person available to investigate these matters was himself, but that seemed as foolish as hiring a private detective. His job as headmaster took at least sixty hours a week, so when would he find the time? And what did he know about investigation? He was an academic and a clinical psychologist. All his investigations had occurred in the decorous environment of the conference room and the therapist’s office. Could he really snoop? Moreover, there was the likelihood of violence. Obviously the destruction of Evings’s office had been violent.

Should he leave Bishop’s Hill? Or do nothing, work hard, and hope that the people who disliked him would be won over? These choices were equally impossible because each was a failure, a surrender. Then why was he hesitating? Was he afraid? The mere possibility shocked him. And without the least hesitation, his mind moved to Wyndham School and the fire. When he had found the key to the window grate and had run back toward his apartment, to what degree had fear dragged at his footsteps? Flames were sweeping across the ceiling and up ahead the fire was worse. Later he told himself that, if he had left Claire just one minute earlier, Meg and Lily would have lived. But though that might be true, it didn’t address the question of his fear. Had he run as fast as he could? Wasn’t he using those minutes with Claire as an excuse? He had been afraid. He had not run his fastest. There were two crimes for which he deserved punishment, not one. And again Hawthorne nearly swerved off the road as he took his hands from the wheel and pressed them to his face.

When he arrived in Plymouth ten minutes later, he felt dazed, as if he had just awoken after a binge. The cars on the streets, the people on the sidewalks—he hardly saw them. His mind was full of the possibility of his fear. Although it was lunchtime, Hawthorne no longer felt hungry. He stopped at the drugstore to buy shampoo, deodorant, and aspirin, then realized he could easily have bought them at the supermarket where he would be going in any case. He walked aimlessly up Main Street despite the cold and intermittent sleet, looking into shops and staring into people’s faces. He bought a New York Times, then went into a coffee shop and read it for an hour, letting his coffee get cold. When he was done, he could hardly remember anything—difficulties in Israel and Iraq, drug problems in Mexico. Below the level of consciousness, his mind was furiously engaged in argument with itself. He left the coffee shop, retrieved his car, and drove to the supermarket behind a great orange truck that was scattering salt on the pavement ahead.

Although Hawthorne took his meals in the dining hall, he liked to keep his small kitchen stocked with coffee, soft drinks, and an occasional six-pack of Beck’s. And he usually kept crackers and cheese, nothing too elaborate. His Sunday teas for the students were catered by the dining hall, and the only items he might add were a box or two of chocolates, Jordan almonds, or something mildly exotic like a few tins of smoked oysters.

He was pushing his cart down one aisle after another with his mind hardly focused on his surroundings when he saw Mrs. Hayes standing in the checkout line. She wore a knee-length brown coat that swelled out over her full figure and a matching rain hat made of canvas. A man’s black umbrella hung over her left forearm. Hawthorne knew that she lived in Plymouth but he couldn’t remember where. He hadn’t spoken to her since just after her resignation, and in truth she had nearly slipped from his memory.

Hawthorne watched her pay for her groceries then push her cart loaded with bags through the automatic door. She moved slowly, as if conscious of her fragility, and once outside she put up her black umbrella to protect herself from the sleet. Somewhat clumsily she maneuvered her cart while holding the umbrella. Abandoning his own cart, Hawthorne moved to the front of the store so he could observe Mrs. Hayes cross the parking lot to a green Ford Escort dotted with circles of rust. Hawthorne forgot about his shopping. He left the supermarket and hurried to his car, staying out of Mrs. Hayes’s line of vision. Once in his car, he waited for her to finish loading her groceries through the rusty hatch of the Escort.

Mrs. Hayes drove out of the parking lot and turned left. Hawthorne followed. She drove slowly through the center of town and past the college, with its red brick buildings. She turned right down a residential street, then after three blocks she turned left. The streets were lined with small white Victorian houses. There was nobody else in sight. Hawthorne’s windshield wipers made a steady whap-whap. The day was dim and he began to switch on his lights, then he decided against it.

When Mrs. Hayes turned right into a driveway, Hawthorne pulled to the curb. He knew she lived alone. Her house was small with a gable over the front porch and green shutters. He watched her carry her groceries up the steps and through the front door, turning on the porch light and making several trips. Sleet and wet snow accumulated on his windshield. After Mrs. Hayes closed the door, Hawthorne waited five more minutes to give her a chance to start putting away the groceries. The street was deserted. Not even any dogs were out.

Hawthorne left his car and hurried across the street and up Mrs. Hayes’s front steps. For some reason he decided to knock rather than ring the doorbell. It seemed less intrusive. The storm door had two panels of glass at the top and bottom and the front door itself had a large glass pane. Through it, Hawthorne could see down a short hall to the kitchen, where a light burned.

Mrs. Hayes came out of the kitchen into the hall. She held a dishcloth and was wiping her hands. When she saw who was at the door, she stopped and her face took on a worried look. She stared at Hawthorne from the hallway without moving. Her tight gray curls covered her head like a bonnet. Hawthorne made himself smile and felt intensely foolish. After at least ten seconds, Mrs. Hayes moved forward, still wiping her hands with the dishcloth. She looked at Hawthorne, and with her concern there was also a suggestion of anger. She opened the front door a few inches, leaving the storm door closed.

“What do you want?” she asked.

Hawthorne had nearly forgotten her voice, which was high and elderly. A creaky voice, he had once called it. “I need to talk to you.”

“We have nothing to talk about.”

“I think we do. Did you hear that Clifford Evings was dead?”

Mrs. Hayes’s expression softened. “Yes, the poor man.”