Larry Kidwell has been in and out of psych institutes ever since. Supposedly, there are moments when Larry is entirely lucid, and it is so painful for him, realizing what he has become, that he rips at his own face—ergo the scars—and cries out in such agony that they immediately sedate him.

“Okay,” Myron said. “Thanks for the warning.”

Myron headed out the door, shook it off. He hit Chang’s Dry Cleaning next door. Maxine Chang was behind the counter. She looked, as always, exhausted and overworked. There were two women about Myron’s age at the counter. They were talking about their kids and colleges. That was all anybody talked about right now. Every April, Livingston became a snow globe of college acceptances. The stakes, if you were to listen to the parents, could not have been higher. These weeks—those thick-or-thin envelopes that arrived in their mailboxes—decided how happy and successful their offspring would be for the rest of their lives.

“Ted is wait-listed at Penn but he made Lehigh,” one said.

“Do you believe Chip Thompson got into Penn?”

“His father.”

“What? Oh wait, he’s an alum, right?”

“He gave them a quarter million dollars.”

“I should have known. Chip had terrible boards.”

“I heard they hired a pro to write his essays.”

“I should have done that for Cole.”

Like that. On and on.

Myron nodded at Maxine. Maxine Chang usually had a big smile for him. Not today. She shouted, “Roger!”

Roger Chang came out of the back. “Hey, Myron.”

“What’s up, Roger?”

“You wanted the shirts boxed this time, right?”

“Right.”

“I’ll be right back.”

“Maxine,” one of the women said, “did Roger hear from schools yet?”

Maxine barely looked up. “He made Rutgers,” she said. “Wait-listed at others.”

“Wow, congratulations.”

“Thank you.” But she didn’t seem thrilled.

“Maxine, won’t he be the first in your family to go to college?” the other woman said. Her tone could only have sounded more patronizing if she’d been petting a dog. “How wonderful for you.”

Maxine wrote up the ticket.

“Where is he wait-listed?”

“Princeton and Duke.”

Hearing his alma mater made Myron think again about Aimee. He flashed back to Larry and his spooky planet talk. Myron wasn’t one for bad omens or any of that, but he didn’t feel like poking the fates in the eye either. He debated trying Aimee’s phone again, but what would be the point? He thought back over last night, replayed it in his head, wondered how he could have done it differently.

Roger—Myron had forgotten that the kid was already a high school senior—came back and handed him the box of shirts. Myron took them, told Roger to put them on his account, headed out the door. He still had time before his flight.

So he drove to Brenda’s grave.

The cemetery still overlooked a schoolyard. That was what he could still not get over. The sun shone hard as it always seemed to when he visited, mocking his gloom. He stood alone. There were no other visitors. A nearby backhoe dug a hole. Myron remained still. He lifted his head and let the sun shine on his face. He could still feel that—the sun on his face. Brenda, of course, could not. Would never again.

A simple thought, but there you go.

Brenda Slaughter had only been twenty-six when she died. Had she survived, she’d have turned thirty-four in two weeks. He wondered where she’d be if Myron had kept his promise. He wondered if she’d be with him.

When she died, Brenda was in the middle of her residency in pediatric medicine. She was six-foot-four, stunning, African-American, a model. She was about to play pro basketball, the face and image that would launch the new women’s league. There had been threats made. So Myron had been hired by the league owner to protect her.

Nice job, All-Star.

He stood and stared down and clenched his fists. He never talked to her when he came here. He didn’t sit and try to meditate or any of that. He didn’t conjure up the good or her laugh or her beauty or her extraordinary presence. Cars whizzed by. The schoolyard was silent. No kids were out playing. Myron did not move.

He did not come here because he still mourned her death. He came because he didn’t.

He barely remembered Brenda’s face anymore. The one kiss they shared . . . when he conjured it up he knew it was more imagination than memory. That was the problem. Brenda Slaughter was slipping away from him. Soon it would be as though she never existed. So Myron didn’t come here for comfort or to pay his respects. He came because he still needed to hurt, needed the wounds to stay fresh. He still wanted to be outraged because moving on—feeling at peace with what happened to her—was too obscene.

Life goes on. That was a good thing, right? The outrage flickers and slowly leaks away. The scars heal. But when you let that happen, your soul goes dead a little too.

So Myron stood there and clenched his fists until they shook. He thought about the sunny day they buried her—and the horrible way he had avenged her. He summoned up the outrage. It came at him like a force. His knees buckled. He tottered, but he stayed upright.

He had messed up with Brenda. He had wanted to protect her. He had pushed too hard—and in doing so he had gotten her killed.

Myron looked down at the grave. The sun was still warm on him, but he felt the shiver travel down his back. He wondered why he chose today of all days to visit, and then he thought about Aimee, about pushing too hard, about wanting to protect, and with one more shiver, he thought—no, he feared—that maybe, somehow, he had let it all happen again.

CHAPTER 11

Claire Biel stood by the kitchen sink and stared at the stranger she called a husband. Erik was eating a sandwich carefully, his tie tucked into his shirt. There was a newspaper perfectly folded into one quarter. He chewed slowly. He wore cuff links. His shirt was starched. He liked starch. He liked everything ironed. In his closet his suits were hung four inches apart from one another. He didn’t measure to achieve this. It just happened. His shoes, always freshly polished, were lined up like something in a military procession.

Who was this man?

Their two youngest daughters, Jane and Lizzie, were both wolfing down PB&J on white bread. They chatted through their sticky mouths. They made noise. Their milk sloshed into small spills. Erik kept reading. Jane asked if they could be excused. Claire said yes. They both darted toward the door.