The Channel cemented Hugh’s reputation as a writer of merit. It was that rare piece of modern fiction that is both praised by the highest stratum of critics and read on subways and beaches. The Channel went to the top of the bestseller lists and stayed there for weeks.

If you could pick one word to describe the world of the Hennessys back then, fertile would have been a good choice. Their family, their wealth, and their esteem were all growing in the Northern soil of Minnesota. Hugh and Elisabeth were celebrated in their adopted city, and Hugh stressed in interviews that they weren’t going anywhere. This was what he’d always wanted, he said: a little land, roots, and the kind of big family he would have liked to have grown up in.

The “family” part was certainly coming together. Elisabeth was close to delivering her fourth child in five years; she and Hugh already had three-year-old twins and a toddler, Liam. Funds weren’t a problem. If Twilight had brought in respectable money, The Channel brought in a lot more, and Hugh was in demand as a lecturer at Twin Cities schools. He and Elisabeth entertained often; J. D. Campion was a frequent guest at their home. As a poet, he’d been enjoying a lesser success, but his volume of poetry, Turning Shadow, had won awards. It was both literate and in places vividly erotic, and for a while, it was the perfect book to peek sexily out of a college sophomore’s backpack at the coffeehouse. Magazine writers made much of the literary friendship: the rootless, restless poet and the happily married scribe of family and heritage complemented each other in the public eye.

Then, shortly after the birth of Colm Hennessy, the parties stopped. So did the interviews. Rather abruptly, the Hennessys closed their doors to public life.

To the world, it seemed as though the Hennessys had simply become deeply committed to raising a family. But if this were the case, the Hennessys were taking things to extremes. Campion, too, was suddenly excised from their lives. For years, he stayed away from Minnesota.

There were whispers of a falling out between Hugh and J. D., rumors that a longtime rivalry for Elisabeth’s affections had finally boiled over, scalding the friendship beyond repair. There was a one-sentence reference, in Healy’s story, to Campion’s short-lived relationship with Elisabeth’s younger sister, Brigitte, but Healy left it to the reader to draw the inference that Brigitte had been a failed substitute for her older sister in Campion’s affections.

Others suggested the pernicious rivalry was professional, as Campion had never attained the heights his friend had. But the speculation remained speculation. Healy had been unable to reach the often-traveling Campion for an interview, and Hennessy had not cooperated with the story. Neither side of the split was told.

If Hugh wanted privacy, he got it. As years passed without a follow-up to The Channel, the world moved on. Even the Twin Cities media largely forgot about him, until the day it was reported that Elisabeth Hennessy’s lifeless body had been found in the waters of Lake Minnetonka. She had left behind five children, the youngest only eleven months old.

For several years before her death, Elisabeth had been notably reclusive. Her husband taught at local colleges, but Elisabeth stayed at home, rarely going out or seeing friends. Perhaps this was simply consistent with having five children under the age of 10. If something darker, like postpartum depression, lay beneath it, there hadn’t been enough evidence for the papers to even speculate. Coverage focused solely on tragedy striking at one of America ’s most respected writers on family ties, love, and loyalty.

Five years later, Hugh Hennessy had published his long-awaited third novel. A Rainbow at Night focused on the union of two passionate young people who had chosen, out of step with their modern world, to marry early and rear children immediately. It chronicled the trials and joys of such a young union, and then the narrator’s struggle to make sense of the unexpected loss of his soulmate. It was well reviewed, and Hugh Hennessy was briefly in the public eye again. Then, once more, he faded from view.

Even the best of the profiles left questions unanswered. Had one of America ’s famous literary friendships been a longtime, unacknowledged love triangle that had poisoned its principals? Had Hugh Hennessy pushed his wife into having too many children, and ignored the warning signs of postpartum depression? These were issues that Healy and his peers couldn’t explicitly raise. There was no one to address them. Hennessy was uncooperative, Campion in parts unknown, Elisabeth dead.

On my way home from the university, it had occurred to me that I was reaching the end of the second day since my eardrum lancing; I was due at Cicero ’s for the follow-up exam he’d requested. I was tempted to skip it. My ear hadn’t hurt at all today, and the last thing I needed was to prolong my involvement with Cicero Ruiz, who I’d last seen while attempting to slip out of his bedroom unnoticed.

But I also recalled how he’d helped me when I’d needed it rather desperately. The least I could do was respect his professional judgment. He probably wouldn’t want to mention the events of my last visit any more than I would. Neither of us would mention it; everything would be fine.

In my last visit to Cicero ’s, I’d been in too much pain with my ear to think about the slow, creaky elevator ride up to his apartment. This evening I noticed it anew: the shrieking cable beyond the ceiling, the flickering light, the slow progress from lighted number to lighted number. I told myself to quit being paranoid. It was slow; that didn’t mean-

Above the roof, I heard a crunching noise, and the car came to an abrupt halt. The number 14 had been lit for a moment, perhaps more than a minute. I wanted to believe that someone on floor 14 had called the elevator, but I knew that wasn’t true. By my estimation, I was in between floors 14 and 15, and I wasn’t going to be getting any farther for a while.

“Perfect,” I said.

When I finally arrived on the 26th floor, I saw Cicero immediately, sitting in the open door of his apartment, talking with a young black woman who stood outside the closed door of the apartment across the hall. She was about 21 or 22, striking in a two-piece outfit of bronze and gold, a sleeveless shirt and wide-legged pants over low-heeled boots. She held her keys in one hand and a take-out bag in the other, seemingly home late from an office job. As I approached, she looked at me, expectant.

Cicero made the introduction. “Sarah, this is Soleil, my neighbor,” he said. “Soleil, this is Sarah.”

“Hey,” I said.

“Good to meet you,” Soleil said. “I better be going,” she told Cicero, and unlocked her door.

Cicero put his hands on the wheels of his chair and backed up through his doorway, but he was slow enough doing it that I heard an odd sound behind me as Soleil went into her apartment. It sounded like claws ticking speedily across linoleum. I turned to see that in fact a big, fireplug-bodied black-and-tan dog had rushed to greet Soleil, and she’d gone down to sit on her heels, where he licked her face in the kind of reunion ecstasy that only dogs can feel. “That’s my bwoy,” she said, giving the last word a Caribbean twist.

Cicero closed his door, shutting out the spectacle.

“That was a dog,” I said.

“Yes, it was.”

“Not just any dog,” I said. “That was a Rottweiler.”

“Indeed it was. Fidelio, by name.” Cicero rolled closer to the center of his living room.