“That deal down south,” Mikey said. “Some shit happened. Ain’t gotten to the bottom of it yet.”

“Maybe you should back off it.”

“It’s not that easy. I need that connect, the money it’s gonna bring in, to pay those motherfuckers working my case. They got another delay, but first of the year, man, they can’t put that shit off anymore.”

“What happened?”

“Don’t know. I sent someone down there, prime the pump, get things moving, but he never made it. People he was supposed to meet called, said ‘What the fuck?’ I didn’t know what to tell them.”

“What was he carrying?”

“We’ll talk about that shit someplace else. But I may need you to go down there soon.”

“Why?”

“Find out what the fuck happened. And who’s responsible. And settle that shit before it gets out of hand.”

Morgan thought about Kinzler, what he’d said.

“I got some things going on,” he said, “I need to take care of. Up here.”

“Ain’t no shit that can’t wait. I’m waiting to hear back on something. When I do, might be I’m gonna holler at you. And you need to be ready to go.”

Morgan looked out the window, felt them watching him. The Suburban rolled past a block-long housing project.

“What?” Mikey said. “You actually need to think on this? Whatever it is, I’ll make it worth your while. You know me.”

“Yeah,” Morgan said. “I know you.”

“Besides, being gone for a while might be a good thing, case someone’s thinking payback for that work you done, you feel me?”

“I’ll handle it if they do.”

“I know you will. Just sayin’.”

“Up at the corner’s fine.”

“Dante,” Mikey said, “pull up over there by the playground.”

The Suburban rolled to a stop.

“Well?” Mikey said.

Morgan reached across for the door latch, popped it.

“Call me,” he said and got out.

He walked home down Washington Street, past boarded-up tenements, vacant lots between them like missing teeth. At the corner of West Kinney, he stopped in front of an empty brownstone, windows bricked up, the facade darkened with smoke damage. A sign in the yard promised new condominiums to come, gave a phone number.

He’d lived there for six years, from the time his grandmother died until he’d turned fifteen and taken to the streets. A group home, him and ten other boys. Back in 1967, on the second day of the riots, he’d snuck up to the roof, watched smoke and flames bloom from the corner of Springfield and Bergen. Sirens everywhere, and the crack of gunfire blocks away. Gray ash had fallen from the sky like snow, covering the city. A lifetime ago.

He walked on.

The hill. It was always the hill that killed her.

Sara ran hard, her legs like lead, eyes on the road ahead, the top of the hill. She was waiting for the pain to stop, for the bliss of oxygenated blood to take over, but it hadn’t. Just more pain and more hill, the sound of her breathing and the noise of her sneakers on the blacktop.

Counting the paces now, distracting herself from the pain, and then she was up, at the top, the road long and straight in front of her. She resisted the temptation to slow. Engine noise behind her. She moved farther up on the shoulder, kicking up pine needles as she ran. An empty flatbed truck went past, Howie Twelvetrees from the municipal garage at the wheel. He blew the horn, and she waved to him without breaking stride.

Ahead was the creek, the wooden bridge, her turnaround point. She crossed it, sneakers thumping on the wood, then circled to the other side of the road, started back. One mile up, one mile back.

Downhill she had to watch her speed or risk taking a header onto the pavement. When she reached the bottom, she slowed, breathing hard but knowing the worst was over.

She thought about her interview with Elwood and Boone that morning. It had been shorter than she’d expected, less than a half hour. No, she hadn’t heard the shots. Yes, Billy had told her what had happened. No, she had no reason to believe it had gone any other way.

The questions touched only briefly on their relationship, and Boone had seemed almost embarrassed about it. Still, the sheriff had been right. In Hopedale everyone knew your business.

She slowed when the house came in sight, breathing deeper, filling her lungs. She saw the front door open and Danny come out on the steps to meet her, JoBeth behind him. Sara felt the smile come to her face unbidden. She lifted her arm in a weary wave.

A half hour later she was showered, dressed in jeans and sweatshirt, Danny on her lap. After JoBeth had left, they’d filled the bird feeders in the backyard, fed and watered the rabbits.

There were four of them, kept in a hutch she’d made from scrap lumber and chicken wire. He’d named them after cartoon characters-Bugs, Wile E., Daffy, Yosemite. It pleased and worried her. He’d grown close to them, and she knew someday they’d go out to feed them and there would be only three, or fewer if a dog got into the hutch. It would be his first experience with death, something she wanted to postpone as long as possible.

Now they were reading a book of Aesop’s fables, one they’d read a half-dozen times before. He knew it by heart. She was always surprised how fast he learned, how he forgot nothing.

She felt warm, relaxed, had tried to put last night’s awkwardness with Billy out of her mind. She felt centered here, in her house, Danny’s reassuring weight on her lap. This was where she belonged. This was where she was strong.

She saw the fresh mark on his forearm then, hoped it was juice, Magic Marker maybe. She brushed at it. It was another bruise.

“How’d you get this?”

“I don’t know. I bumped into something. Can I watch TV now?”

“Only for a little while, while I’m making dinner. It goes off when we sit down at the table. You know the rules.”

“Okay,” he said and tumbled off her lap, got the remote from the coffee table. He flicked it on, and the TV glowed into life. He stretched out on the carpet, legs kicked up behind him.

She got up, set the book on the table.

“Halloween’s coming soon,” he said.

“I know.” They’d had this discussion before.

“I’m not sure what I want to be yet.”

She looked at him. He didn’t turn.

“Danny, we talked about this, remember? I know you want to go trick-or-treating, but I don’t think it’s such a good idea.”

“Why not?”

“Because of how tired you get. Because you’re sick, and being outside that long isn’t good. All those reasons and more.”

“All the other kids are going.”

“Well, you’re not all the other kids.”

He was silent then, staring rapt at the cartoon blaring from the television. As she entered the kitchen he said, “Mom?”

“Yeah, kiddo?”

“How did I get sick?”

She stopped in the doorway, looked back at him. He hadn’t looked away from the TV.

“I don’t know, Danny. No one knows. It just happens.”

“I’m tired of it.”

“I know.” She came back into the living room, sat cross-legged beside him, touched his thinning hair. He didn’t respond. She leaned close, kissed the top of his head. “We’ll get you well,” she said. “I promise.”

“Do you?”

“Yeah, baby, I do.”

She got up then, turned away, not wanting him to see her cry.

In the kitchen she got a pan down from the cabinet, hamburger meat from the refrigerator. The sound of cartoons filled the kitchen as she busied herself, set the pan on the stove, got the heat on. Focusing on what she was doing, shutting everything else out of her mind. The patties sizzled as they met the pan.

“Mom?” he called from the living room.

“Yeah, hon?”

“I’m not a baby, you know. Not anymore.”

She laughed, used the back of her hand to wipe her eyes.