“I wanted to sell more than a dozen copies.”

“And?”

“Sold two dozen, at least.”

Goodkind laughed.

“I read your recent article, too,” Lash went on. “In the American Journal of Neurobiology. ‘Cognitive Reappraisal and Agenerative Suicide.’ Nicely argued.”

“One thing about my position here at the center is I can specialize in the research of my choice.”

“I was also interested in some of your other recent papers. ‘Reuptake Inhibitors and Elder Suicide,’ for example.”

“Really?” Goodkind sounded surprised. “I had no idea you were keeping such close tabs.”

“I infer from the articles that, in addition to the lab research, you’ve interviewed quite a number of suicide attempters?”

“Well, I haven’t had a chance to talk with too many suicide completers.” Goodkind chuckled at his little joke.

“Including survivors of double suicides?”

“Of course.”

“Then there’s something I’m looking into that might interest you. In fact, I could use your advice. These friends of a patient of mine, a couple. Committed double suicide recently.”

“Successfully?”

“There are some unusual aspects to the pathology.”

“Such as?”

Lash pretended to hesitate. “Well, what if we turned it around, and you speculated — based on your research, of course — what the motivating factors might have been. Perform a psychological autopsy on the couple. I’ll fill in the blanks.”

There was a brief silence. “Sure, why not. What were their ages?”

“Early thirties.”

“Employment history?”

“Stable.”

“Psychiatric history? Mood disorders?”

“None known.”

“Suicidal ideation?”

“No.”

“History of prior attempts?”

“None.”

“Substance abuse?”

“The autopsy bloods were clean.”

Another pause. “Is this a joke?”

“No. Go on, please.”

“The couple’s relationship?”

“Warm and loving, by all accounts.”

“Major losses of any kind?”

“No.”

“Family history?”

“Negative for depression, schizophrenia, any mental illness, in fact.”

“Any other life stressors? Significant changes?”

“No.”

“Any health issues?”

“Both received glowing physicals within the last six months.”

“Anything I should know? Anything at all?”

Lash paused. “They’d recently had a child.”

“And?”

“Normal and healthy in every way.”

There was a long silence. Then, Lash heard laughter over the line. “This is a joke, right? Because these aren’t double suicides you’re describing. This is Captain America and Wonder Woman.”

“Is that your considered opinion?”

Goodkind’s laugh slowly died. “Yes.”

“Roger, you’ve got a unique perspective on suicide. You’re a biochemist. You not only talk to suicide attempters, you study their motivation on a molecular level.” Lash shifted in his seat. “Is there any commonality among people that might predispose them — no matter how happy they appear — to suicide?”

“You mean, like a suicide gene? I wish it were that easy. There’s research that’s shown some genes may—may—code for depressive tendencies. Just as there are genes that code for heavy eating, sexual preferences, eye or hair color. But predicting suicide? If you’re a betting man, stay away from that one. You’ve got two deeply depressed people. Why does one commit suicide and another doesn’t? In the end there’s no way to predict. Why did Miami Beach police report a rash of suicides last month, while Minneapolis had a historic dip? Why did Poland have a dramatically high rate of suicide in the year 2000? Sorry, pal. When you get right down to it, it’s just a roll of the dice.”

Lash ingested this. “A roll of the dice.”

“Take it from an expert, Chris. And you can quote me on that.”

After the dry high-altitude air of Flagstaff, New York City felt damp and miserable. Lash wore a heavy raincoat as he approached the reception desk in Eden’s lobby for the second time in five days.

“Christopher Lash to see Edwin Mauchly,” he told a tall, thin man behind the counter.

The man tapped a few keys. “Do you have an appointment, sir?” he asked with a smile.

“I left him a message. He’ll be expecting me.”

“One moment, please.”

As he waited, Lash turned to gaze around him. There was something different about the lobby today, but he wasn’t quite sure what it was. Then he realized there was no line of prospective applicants this morning. The twin escalators leading to Application Processing were empty. Instead, a smaller flow of traffic was headed for the security checkpoint. They were all couples, many hand in hand. Unlike the anxious, hopeful faces he’d seen his last visit, these people were smiling, laughing, chattering loudly. After showing laminated cards at the checkpoint, the couples moved on to a large set of doors and vanished out of sight.

“Dr. Lash?” the man at the desk said.

Lash turned back. “Yes?”

“Mr. Mauchly is waiting for you.” The man slid a small ivory passcard emblazoned with Eden’s infinity logo across the desk. “Please show this at the elevator station. Have a pleasant day.”

When the elevator doors opened onto the thirty-second floor, Mauchly was waiting. He nodded to Lash, then led the way down the corridor to his office.

Director of Facilitation Services, Lash recalled as he followed Mauchly. Whatever the hell is that? Aloud, he asked: “Why all the happy faces?”

“Sorry?”

“Downstairs, in the lobby. Everybody was grinning as if they’d won the lottery or something.”

“Ah. Today is class reunion.”

“Class reunion?”

“That’s our term for it. Part of our client contract calls for a mandatory six-month revaluation of the couples we’ve brought together. They return for a day of one-on-one sessions, encounter groups, the like. For the most part, quite informal. Our researchers find the back-end data helpful in refining the selection process. And it allows us to watch for any signs of incompatibility, warning signals, between couples.”

“Seen any?”

“None to date.” Mauchly opened the door, ushered Lash inside. If he was curious, it did not show in his dark eyes. “Would you care for any refreshment?”

“No thanks.” Lash slipped his satchel from his arm and took the indicated chair.

Mauchly sat down behind his desk. “We didn’t expect to hear from you so soon.”

“That’s because there’s not much to tell.”

Mauchly raised his eyebrows.

Lash leaned over, unfastened his satchel, and pulled out a document. He straightened its edges, then placed it on the desk.

“What is that, Dr. Lash?” Mauchly asked.

“My report.”

Mauchly made no move to pick it up. “Perhaps you could summarize it for me.”

Lash took a deep breath. “There are no indicators for suicide in either Lewis or Lindsay Thorpe. None at all.”

Mauchly folded one muscular arm over the other, waited.

“I’ve spoken to family, friends, doctors. I’ve examined their credit histories, financial records, employment status. I’ve called in favors from federal and local law enforcement. This was as functional, stable a couple — a family—as you’ll ever find. They could have been poster children for that wall of happy faces down in your lobby.”

“I see.” Mauchly’s lips pursed into what might have been a frown. “Perhaps there were prior indicators that—”

“I looked there, too. I checked school records, interviewed teachers, spoke with former classmates. Nothing. And no psychiatric history, either. In fact, the only hospital visit was by Lewis, who broke a leg skiing in Aspen eight years ago.”

“Then what is your professional opinion?”

“People don’t just commit suicide for no reason. Especially double suicide. There’s something missing here.”

“Are you implying—”

“I’m not implying anything. The police report reads suicide. What I mean is, I don’t have enough information to form an opinion on why they did what they did.”