I was steering my students through a discussion on morality and hope in Cormac McCarthy�s novel The Road, getting bogged down in a debate over whether the reader needed to know what had brought about the apocalyptic conditions depicted in the book, when I happened to glance out the window and see, running across the staff parking lot, a young man wearing a vest that appeared to be loaded with sticks of dynamite.

�I just want to know what caused it,� Eldon Delton had said just moments earlier. He was one of the brightest eleventh-grade kids in the entire school, but definitely a literalist. This English class wasn�t his favorite � his passions were science and computers, and in all likelihood he�d one day be the next Bill Gates � because it was all subjective. There weren�t always right and wrong answers. You couldn�t break the story down into zeros and ones. The same book could be fantastic to one person and a pile of crap to another, and that didn�t sit well with Eldon. He liked absolutes.

He continued. �Did life on earth end because of an asteroid? Was there a nuclear bomb? Vampires? Zombies? He never says.�

�Oh God, Elmo, not zombies,� said Olivia Comber, two aisles over, demonstrating what a huge favor Eldon�s parents did him giving him a name that could be twisted into a puppet�s. �If it was zombies they�d still be running around trying to eat people. They wouldn�t just disappear. And not everything has to be The Walking Dead or The Last of Us.�

�I was only saying, as an example,� Eldon said.

I stepped in, waving the tattered paperback of the novel in my hand. The book wasn�t part of the official curriculum. Most everything board-approved was out-of-date or so stripped of anything contentious that you couldn�t engage the kids. If I could get away with the late McCarthy�s The Road, I�d move on to Toni Morrison. I�d gathered up as many weathered copies from used bookshops as I could find. Some of the kids read online editions they�d either bought, or borrowed through the library.

I said, �I get Eldon�s point. When they made this into a movie, they provided an explanation, and we can debate whether that was necessary. But I don�t think McCarthy believed it mattered why it happened. What mattered was that it did. He wanted to explore what happens after, to explore what limits people would go to in order to survive when civilization collapses.�

�Like eating people,� said Andrew, who visibly shuddered. �That part really freaked me out. The cannibals. And that scene with the baby.�

�Maybe you shouldn�t be such a wuss,� Eldon said.

�Hey,� I said sharply, giving him a look. Everyone was supposed to be able to express their feelings in this class without being judged. And Andrew Kanin could be a convenient target.

He was on the small side for a fifteen-year-old. I kept hoping he�d hit a growth spurt that would make him less of a potential target for bullies, or even smart-asses like Eldon. He was sensitive, bright, and several years of homeschooling had left him, at least in my judgment, ill-prepared for social interactions with the other kids, but his math and reading skills were top-notch. Full marks to his mom, who had been his teacher until tough economic times sent her back into the workforce.

�The cannibal stuff is no worse than lots of other things in books and TV,� Eldon said defensively.

�Should McCarthy have left that out?� I asked Andrew.

He considered the question. �No, I�m not saying that. It made me sick to read it, but it�s the thing I most remember, so I guess that means it worked.�

�I think it�s a love story,� said Emma Katzenback, who had, amazingly, decided to look up from her phone for a second. She had it down in her lap where she thought it would somehow escape my notice.

�There�s no love story,� said Eldon, rolling his eyes.

�Not that kind of love story,� she shot back. �It�s a father-son love story.�

�Emma�s on to something,� I said, and it was then that something outside caught my eye.

A man � for a brief moment I thought he was in his mid-teens, but looking at him for a full second persuaded me he was probably as old as twenty � was crossing the parking lot, running between geography teacher Nancy Holcomb�s green Hyundai and the three-year-old Lexus SUV that belonged to our principal, Trent Wakely.

He was decked out in camo pants, unlaced combat boots, and an olive-green vest with multiple pockets. Tucked into them, vertically, were items that looked like thick cigars, but cigars weren�t generally flat red in color. I was certainly no demolitions expert, but I�d seen enough movies and TV shows to know what dynamite looked like.

The man was striding toward the school�s west end, but only one arm was moving back and forth. His right hand was held close to his body, in a fist, as though he had it wrapped around something.

The first thing I thought of was the set of double doors our visitor was probably headed for. They often did not latch properly. Students, and even some staff, were known to prop them open with a brown rubber doorstop or wood shim so they could sneak outside for a smoke and still be able to get back into the building.

None of my students had looked out the window and noticed him. Barely two seconds had gone by since I�d responded to Emma�s comment.

�I hadn�t thought of that,� said Marian Gilchrist, who always took a seat right at the front of the class, not so much because she was particularly studious, but because she wore glasses thicker than hockey rink ice.

I said, as calmly as I could, but unable to keep the edge out of my voice, �I�m going to the office. Eldon, close the shades. Marian, you lock the door behind me, block it with as many desks as you can.�

The kids blinked, glanced at each other. A couple of them were forming questions.

�What�s going��

�Why��

�Now,� I said, and because Emma already had a phone secreted in her hand, I pointed and said firmly, �Emma, nine-one-one.�

She looked at me blankly, as though asking what it was she was supposed to say when her 911 call was answered.

�Armed intruder,� I said. There wasn�t time for specifics. And then I bolted from the room, slamming the door shut behind me, trusting the kids would do as I�d said and start building a barricade. Not a bad plan to keep a gunman out of the room, but would it be enough to save them from an explosion?

The west-end doors were at the far end of the corridor, which in the fifteen-plus years I had worked at Lodge High School here in Milford had never looked longer. The hallway was a mile-long tunnel stretching out in front of me. I needed to get to those doors before that man with the explosives strapped to his body.

I ran flat-out, shouting as I went.

�Lockdown! Lockdown!�

I sped past classroom doors, open and closed, lessons underway. Jerry Hillier, door open, droning on in front of his calculus class. The students in Rhonda Flynn�s chemistry class, visible behind the door window, conducting God knows what kind of experiments. Social studies teacher Preston Hindle, visible for a millisecond through the small pane of glass, no doubt trying his hardest to turn his kids into well-rounded citizens.

I heard doors closing behind me. We�d done the drills. You think it will never happen but know it might. And yet, despite that, no one had fixed that fucking door. Par for the course for our caretaker, Ronny Grant.

Not everyone remembered our emergency procedures. Instead of closing her door, Rhonda stepped out into the hall and called out after me: �Is this for real or just a prac��

Somewhere, someone wiser shouted: �Get inside!�

My route took me past the office. As I flew by I caught a glimpse of our principal, Trent, and shouted, �Lockdown!� one more time.

The double doors, with a steel pillar in the center, were thirty feet away. From this distance, they didn�t appear to line up, which told me the door on the right was not securely latched.

Shit.

Twenty feet away.

And then, suddenly, there he was, in the window of the right door. Pulling it open wide with his left hand, his right hand still clenched around something, and stepping into the school.

I hit the brakes. We were practically face-to-face. It�s possible I startled him as much as he scared me. He clearly wasn�t expecting to encounter anyone, what with classes in session.

I said, �Stop.�

He looked at me and blinked a couple of times. And that was when it hit me.

I know you.

I struggled for a second to come up with a name. �Mark,� I said.

�Hey, Mr. B.,� he said. It was what most of the kids called me. Short for Mr. Boyle.

Mark LeDrew. He�d been in a couple of my classes when he attended Lodge. First time was way back in ninth grade, an English class, then in senior year, an American literature course he never read a single book for. He was a kind of benign fuckup, the kid who never remembered to bring a pen to an exam, who forgot to double-check that his locker was actually locked.

It had to be three or four years since he�d left. I wasn�t even sure he�d earned a diploma, so it was unlikely he�d gone off to UConn or Yale. A tech school, maybe. Or, judging by his garb, he�d been living in the Michigan woods with a survivalist cult intent on overthrowing the government.

Firmly, and calmly, I said, �You have to leave the school, Mark. You can�t come in here.�

He swallowed. His eyes danced.

�I got something to do,� he said.

�No.�

The half-open door had come to rest on his back. He�d tucked his free hand into his pocket, an oddly casual gesture considering the circumstances.

I kept looking at his right fist held close to his body. His thumb was holding something down. I could make out the edge of what appeared to be a red button. My guess was, a wire led from that to the four sticks of dynamite tucked into the front of his vest. Two on his right side, two on his left. And if he let up pressure on that button, they would detonate.

�I�ve got a list,� Mark said.

His head bobbed up and down ever so slightly, like his brain was keeping time to some unseen rhythm.

�A list?�

�I know who I have to get.� He appeared to be thinking, strategizing. �Need to get them in one room together. I can only do this once.�

I understood. You didn�t get a second chance to lift your thumb off that button.

�Who do you have to get, Mark?�

�That wicked Willow, fat Sally, and the fucking lawnmower man most of all.�

I was guessing he meant Herb Willow and maybe Sally Berwick, a guidance counselor. The �lawnmower man� reference made no sense to me, other than being the title to a horror movie or two.

Herb was a longtime staff member. Taught, among other things, physics and computer science, oversaw the school�s chess club, which had been dead for years but came back to life after that Netflix series made chess cool again. I�d seen Herb in the staff room this morning, but tended not to engage. Any conversation with Herb meant listening to his latest list of grievances.

�Mark,� I said calmly, �you can�t come in here. You�re a threat to others, and especially to yourself. It�s against the rules.� Like you had to tell someone that strapping dynamite to your body was not allowed.

Mark slowly shook his head.

�I don�t want to hurt you, Mr. B., or anybody else, but I will if I have to. Maybe you can help. Get everyone together in one room. Then you can leave and evacuate the school. Might get messy.�

�What I�ll do is arrange a meeting,� I said, �but without that.� I nodded at his dynamite vest. �Don�t want anyone getting hurt, especially you, Mark. What you�ve got rigged up there, it�s kind of game over for everyone, yourself included.�

Was I getting through at all? He seemed to be looking right through me.

�We get that shit off you, then we�ll have a sit-down. I promise.�

It was not a promise I likely could keep. If Mark didn�t blow us up, didn�t kill Herb or me or any of the other staff or students, he�d be arrested faster than kids fleeing a classroom when the bell rang.

�But first we need to get the right people here, deactivate that.�

�They ruined my life,� he said. �Mr. Willow, the perv.�

Was that one person, or two? What I did know was, Herb Willow was my least favorite colleague. Grumpy, lazy, irritable. Griping endlessly about thick-as-a-brick students, clueless parents, and an out-of-touch administration. One time he wanted an inquiry into who wasn�t rinsing out the coffee cups. He should have walked away from the profession years ago but hung on, I believed, out of pure meanness. I could recall Trent, in brief moments of unprofessionalism, expressing a desire to be rid of him.

�Mark,� I said gently, �this button you�re holding. You let go of that, and the dynamite goes off, right?�

�You catch on fast.�

�Is there a delay? If you let go, do we have time to get the vest off you, throw it out into the yard?�

�A couple seconds maybe,� he said.

�Can you break the connection? You let go and nothing happens? Is there, like, a wire I can cut or anything?�

�Not really.�

I wondered whether I should just run. Try to make it around the corner, down another hall. Get some shielding from the blast.

�So just talk to me. Tell me why you want to do this.�

�Mr. Willow said I couldn�t find my ass in a dark room.�

�Mr. Willow doesn�t know shit,� I said.

I sensed something going on behind me but was afraid to look over my shoulder for fear Mark would notice. Maybe the cops were here, although I�d heard no sirens, no soft footsteps of a SWAT team coming from some other direction. If there was one, I hoped to God they�d see what we were up against before someone took a shot.

�I got to where I believed him,� Mark said. �I�ve been a fuckup since I left here. So I want to tell him he was right. That he called it. Made it happen. Said I had a head full of porridge. Said he had pieces of wood in his garage smarter than me.�

I felt a rage boiling up inside me for Herb Willow.

�Don�t let one asshole bring you down,� I said, trying not to look at the dynamite but directly into Mark�s eyes.

I thought about Bonnie. I wondered how long it would be before word of what was happening here would spread across town to the school where my wife was a principal. I imagined her running out to her car now. I thought about Rachel and how much I loved her. Wondered whether I would ever see my daughter again.

Love.

�There are people who love you, Mark. You might not think so right now, but I�d bet everything I�ve got on it. Your friends, your parents, your��

That brought a reaction. A small laugh.

�Yeah, like they give a fuck,� he said. � �Specially my dad.�

Then I had a memory about Mark.

�You remember Lydia?� I asked. �Lydia Trimble?�

An oddball, Lodge High�s Carrie. An outcast from a poor family. Withdrawn, dressed in hand-me-downs, a target for adolescent tormentors. A couple of tall boys cornered Lydia one day, dangling her backpack in the air where she couldn�t reach it, telling her to jump for it.

I was set to intervene when Mark LeDrew beat me to it, grabbing one of Lydia�s tormentors by the hair and bashing his head into a locker almost hard enough to knock him out, then turning to the other asshole and telling him to return Lydia�s backpack to her.

Eyes wide with fear, he did so.

But Mark wasn�t done. �Tell her you�re sorry.�

�Sorry,� the guy had mumbled.

And then, a second demand. �Tell her she looks really nice today.�

While his friend was still massaging his head, the kid said, �You look nice today.�

�Now fuck off,� Mark said, and the two assholes took off.

I related the story. Mark nodded, remembering. �I thought you were going to expel me.�

I�d forgotten the part where he realized I�d witnessed the altercation. All I�d done was mouth the word Go and let him get away with it.

�That�s who you are,� I told Mark. �You�re that guy who stood up for Lydia. Not some guy ready to blow up the school and himself. Be that other guy.�

I don�t know that I�d ever seen such sadness in someone�s face. If it weren�t for his dynamite vest, I would have taken him into my arms, hugged him. His eyes, which only a moment earlier seemed vacant, now glistened, as though he were about to cry.

He took his left hand from his pocket and wiped away a tear from his left cheek. There was a second one trickling down his right cheek. I hoped he didn�t reflexively wipe it away with his right hand, taking his thumb off the button in the process.

�Mark.�

He looked away.

�Mark, listen to me. Look at me.�

He did.

�I want you to walk out into the middle of the yard. Away from the building and the cars. And I�m going to call the police and tell them to get their bomb disposal guys here so they can get that thing off you safely. Hear what I�m saying?�

There was something in his eyes. He was really looking at me, for once. His chin started to quiver.

�I don�t think I know how to stop it,� he said.

�That�s why we�re going to call in the experts. You�re gonna let them do their thing. You�re gonna be a hero. You�re going to keep anyone from getting hurt. You just keep your thumb on that button, and when the cavalry get here, they�ll figure it out. But I need you to start moving away from the school now. Are we good?�

A minor nod.

�Great.�

I stepped closer and held the door for him so he didn�t have to push it with his body.

�It�s gonna be okay,� I said.

�I�m sorry,� he said, his voice little more than a whisper. �I didn�t know what else to do.�

He turned around. �That way?� he asked, looking out toward the athletic field and the track that ran around it.

�Yeah. One step at a time. Go right out to the middle.�

Mark took one last glance at me over his shoulder and, as he took another step, said, �Okay.�

And that was when his right foot landed on the long lace that was dangling from his left boot and he stumbled forward.

As he headed into his trip, he threw out both hands in front of him, instinctively, to break his fall.

I said, �Oh sh��

I had half a second to turn away and run before the deafening blast.

It�s a bit like a sixth sense, I suppose. Knowing you�re being watched without actually seeing who�s doing the watching. That was the feeling in the minutes before I woke up on Friday morning. Something was there. Some kind of presence. Taking me in, checking me out.

I opened my eyes. I was right. Only inches from my face was a nose that belonged to my seven-year-old daughter, Rachel. The other half of the bed was empty. Bonnie�d probably already been up an hour, slipped out without waking me. I�d slept in the last three mornings because it had taken me so long to finally nod off, and even when I finally did, I kept waking up after seeing bits and pieces of Mark LeDrew flying through the air.

�Hi, honey,� I said.

�It worked,� Rachel said, eyeing me through her glasses. �I was sending you a message from my brain to your brain to wake up.�

�I�ll be darned,� I said, raising my head from the pillow. �You have a rare gift.�

Her face brightened. �You got me something?�

�Not that kind of gift. A talent.�

She looked only mildly disappointed. �I was also reading your dreams.�

I had to hope she was not as skilled at that as she was at sending me a wake-up call. No seven-year-old should be able to see what was in my head.

�You were dreaming about cheeseburgers,� she said.

�You sure you�re not just reading your own dreams?�

She smiled. �I can read minds, too.�

�Have you read your mom�s this morning?�

Rachel smile cracked. �No.�

I shouldn�t even have asked. It was an underhanded way to try to find out where I stood this morning, and it wasn�t fair to drag Rachel into it.

�But Mom did say you should take the weekend off and not go back to school until Monday, and I concur.�

�Concur?� I said.

Her parents were both educators, so I shouldn�t have been surprised Rachel used, on occasion, a more broad vocabulary.

A glance at the bedside table clock told me it was closing in on eight. �Get ready for school,� I said, and Rachel departed. Bonnie and I had kept her out of her second-grade class Tuesday and Wednesday, worried there might be some kind of fallout from the events of Monday, that maybe some reporters would show up at her school, attempt to ask her questions about what her father had been through. Bonnie, an elementary school principal � not at the one Rachel attended � had taken a couple of days herself, but returned to work yesterday, leaving me on my own.

I�d walked Rachel to school yesterday. I didn�t want to let her out of my sight right now, and even before Monday�s incident we�d been worried about Rachel crossing the street, what with all the truck traffic lately. I think it�s fair to say she was almost as reluctant to let me out of her sight. She�d almost lost her father four days ago, and attempts to shield her from what had happened had been fruitless. That first night, she had slept between Bonnie and me, afraid something might happen to either one of us by morning. Trouble was, I was the one waking up in a cold sweat, startling her and Bonnie, so the next night she went back to her own room.

I�d decided not to wait until Monday to return to Lodge High. I�d tidied up the boat that sat on a trailer in our driveway, searched through some old boxes in the garage and thrown out three bags� worth of stuff, gone through the fridge and pitched anything that was past its expiry date. I needed people to talk to, even if the one thing they were going to want to talk about was the one thing I didn�t want to talk about.

I went into the bathroom and looked at myself in the mirror. I had small bandages on the left side of my neck and forehead. I�d been hit by shattered glass that had blown out of the double doors when Mark LeDrew�s dynamite vest went off. It could have been worse... I mean, for me. It couldn�t have been worse for Mark. It was a wonder I hadn�t ended up dead, or at the very least blind.

When Mark tripped, he was facing away from me, and so was his explosive vest. Investigators determined that only one of the sticks detonated � Mark�s reputation as a fuckup extended to his skills at wiring a bomb. But still, one stick packed a punch, blowing him to bits and sending shock waves out in all directions. I had already started to turn away when the glass panels in the door shattered, sending shards my way.

I showered, keeping the water off the bandages as much as possible, shaved and dressed, and threw on a sport jacket, which amounted to my school uniform. It was not, needless to say, the same one I�d been wearing Monday. That bloodied jacket had been taken by the forensic team, and even if they ever offered to return it, I didn�t want it. It was not going to the dry cleaner�s.

When I got to the kitchen, Bonnie was sitting at the table sipping her coffee and pretending to read the news on her iPad. She would normally have left for work by now, but was clearly waiting to see me before departing. She barely looked up.

�Hey,� I said.

�You�re really going back today.� Not a question. More a statement of disapproval.

I grabbed a cup and went to the coffee maker. �Back on the horse, and all that.�

�You don�t have to be a hero. You�ve proved that.�

I didn�t hear anything praiseworthy in that. More like exasperation. According to Bonnie, this was my failing. A recidivist rescuer. I�m not saying she was wrong. I had a history that predated my encounter with Mark LeDrew.

She continued. �I�m not saying don�t go back. I just thought, it�s Friday. Go back Monday. Then it�s a whole week. You heard what Marta said. It�s like when cops are involved in a traumatic incident. They�d take more time before returning to duty, and they�re trained for this kind of thing. They�d probably go for counseling, too.�

Marta Harper, a detective with the Milford police, was Bonnie�s sister, and one of the first on the scene after LeDrew died. She�d been to the house a couple of times since the event, once in an official capacity, and once as a concerned sister-in-law.

She�d also been able to tell me a little more about what LeDrew�d been up to since leaving Lodge High. He never did get his diploma despite efforts by our principal, Trent, to steer him into courses he�d be able to, if not ace, pass. His first job was at a fast-food franchise and he was fired from that for being belligerent with customers. He got a job with the city�s roads department for six months until he was laid off due to budget cutbacks. After that, he worked for a quarry up around Naugatuck. That would have been where he became familiar with dynamite, and it was believed he�d stolen the four sticks from there at some point � maybe even after he�d left � and studied online videos to figure out how to make his own device.

After he was fired from the quarry for consistent lateness, he had a series of other gigs. Stocking shelves on the midnight shift at a local supermarket, loading and unloading trucks at Home Depot. But Mark didn�t follow directions well, didn�t anticipate what needed to be done next, lacked an ability to focus on whatever task was at hand.

He lived with his parents and when he was between jobs spent most of his time in the basement watching slasher movies like the Saw and Hostel franchises. He�d become depressed, by all accounts, and had taken to writing online posts about how the world had screwed him over, how everybody was desperate for him to fail, that perverts and pedophiles were running amok, and one of these days he was going to find a way to settle some scores. He did not, in any of his diatribes, mention by name anyone he sought revenge against.

I hadn�t set foot in Lodge High since the police � Marta among them � finished questioning me at the school Monday and the paramedics tended to my injuries. Bonnie feared my return would be traumatic, and there was no reason to doubt that. I sure as hell had been traumatized. I spent the balance of Monday in a state of shock. I had a hard time telling the police exactly what had happened. The blast had jumbled my recollection.

Trent was able to fill in some of the details. I hadn�t been wrong when I sensed someone was behind me, watching my interaction with LeDrew. My principal was just inside the school office doors, and while he hadn�t heard all of the conversation, he got the general drift.

Maybe the most surprising thing was, Trent had been prepared to take action. And thank Christ he hadn�t.

School shootings had become so widespread that Trent, contrary to the board�s wishes and without their knowledge, had kept a handgun locked in the bottom drawer of his desk. When many on the far right had suggested arming teachers, Trent, a centrist, had never been one to immediately dismiss the idea. But I�d had no idea he kept a weapon on the premises, or that he had gotten it from his desk and was preparing to use it on Mark LeDrew.

In one of our conversations since the incident � Trent had come by the house to see me on Tuesday � he told me he�d been taking the gun back and forth between home and the school for the better part of two years. He said he�d considered shooting LeDrew, but wasn�t sure he could hit him while missing me. Had he managed a clean shot, LeDrew would only have been a few inches from me when his thumb came off the button, instead of several feet.

We came under a nationwide media spotlight.

CNN, NBC � an entire alphabet of networks � had wanted to interview me, but I�d turned down all requests, referring them to Trent.

This is what he�d told Anderson Cooper over a Zoom link:

�It was a horrible, horrible thing, no question. Our hearts go out to that young man�s family and what they must be going through now. But it could have been much worse. If it were not for the brave actions of teacher Richard Boyle, for his quick thinking, for the calm manner in which he handled the situation, I just... I shudder to think what might have happened. Our school got off lucky that day. God was watching out for us.�

I didn�t know Trent to be a religious man, and doubted the LeDrew family felt the same way about our heavenly father.

I�d done my best to relate to the police what Mark had said to me about Herb Willow, some unkind words about our guidance counselor, Sally Berwick, and the cryptic reference to a character from a science fiction/horror film, which made no sense to any of us. A lawnmower reference didn�t sound all that ominous, although I had a memory of a scene in a Stephen King novel where a policeman got run over by one.

What little Mark had said about Herb sounded credible. I�d heard him bad-mouth kids, to their faces and behind their backs. Were Herb�s insults a self-fulfilling prophecy? Even without Herb�s negativity, Mark LeDrew wasn�t destined to become a rocket scientist. Looking back, it was hard not to think he�d had a learning disability or psychological issue no one bothered to diagnose.

Mark�s grudge against Sally was less clear, but from what I�d heard, she�d followed Herb�s trail of breadcrumbs, steering the kid down a career path that didn�t require a genius-level IQ. But unlike Herb, Sally was well intentioned. She�d have done what she believed was best for Mark.

Bonnie, bringing me back to the present, said, �I could take today off. They�d understand. Mitch could take the lead.� Her vice principal. �We could pull Rachel from school, take the boat up to the lake, find a place to stay, make a long weekend of it.�

This was a generous offer, considering how things were between Bonnie and me. It had been building for a while. She blamed my parents, both long gone, whom I never seemed capable of pleasing despite my best efforts. Said I kept looking for approval from others, going beyond what anyone would reasonably expect.

It was pure dime-store psychology, but I was willing to concede there might be something to it. The evidence was overwhelming. Sending money to my down-on-his-luck cousin without talking it over with Bonnie first. Disappearing on a Saturday afternoon to help an inept, handicapped neighbor repair a busted fence when I was supposed to be taking Rachel to the movies. Inviting a troubled student to drop by the house to talk and being unable to find my wallet after she left. I had to cancel all my cards.

�You can�t get every kitten out of every tree,� Bonnie liked to tell me.

It�s not like Bonnie wasn�t kind and generous and empathetic. She was all those things, just not to a fault. She wouldn�t have been an effective principal without those qualities. But she understood we all have limits, and that we have to tend to our own before overextending ourselves. And she was having a particularly hard time with what I�d done Monday.

�You could have locked your door, called the police, stayed with your kids,� she�d said. �But you ran toward the danger. We could have lost you. You�re not James Bond. You�re not Jason Bourne. You�re not even my sister. You�re a goddamn high school English teacher.�

The best excuse I could come up with? It seemed like a good idea at the time. And at some level, she knew, had she been in the same situation, she might have done the same thing. Run to that door and tried to stop a kid with a bomb from getting into the building. But even acknowledging that, she couldn�t shake the fact that she had nearly lost me. No matter how much my supposedly selfless actions annoyed her, I know she didn�t want that.

Rachel had picked up on the tension between us, and not just in the last few days. She�d overheard the arguments, particularly after I sent three thousand dollars to my cousin Stan when he got fired from his meatpacking job in Duluth. I�d told him it was a onetime thing, and I�d stuck to that, but that hadn�t made Bonnie any happier.

So Bonnie coming up with the idea of taking off today for a long weekend was a nice, conciliatory gesture. But I shook my head.

�If I don�t walk back into that school today, I don�t know whether I�ll be able to do it Monday.�

She looked at me for a moment, then nodded. �Okay, then,� she said.

We usually left for work at the same time. Bonnie would get into her Mitsubishi crossover, usually taking Rachel and dropping her off at her school along the way, and I�d get into my Subaru Forester, which was parked closer to the street because the boat � a sixteen-footer with a fifty-horsepower Merc outboard bolted to the transom � sat on its trailer up close to the garage.

As I was getting into my car, Jack Marshall, our next-door neighbor, was coming out his front door and heading for his van. He�d been to the house after the incident to offer congratulations-slash-condolences-slash-thanks, and his wife, Jill (yes, that�s right, Jack and Jill), sent over a cherry pie, because nothing helps you get past witnessing someone blow up like pastry.

Okay, that�s dickish. People meant well, and didn�t know what to say. I mean, what would I have said to someone in the same situation?

Jack offered a thumbs-up just as a fully-loaded dump truck rumbled down the street and past our houses. Jack gave it a scornful, disapproving shake of the head. There�d been a regular stream of trucks going by lately. The excavation for some new apartment complex a few streets over was underway, and the trucks loaded with fill had been a regular thing of late.

Rachel hopped into Bonnie�s car and I got behind the wheel of mine. Once we were both on the street, pointed in different directions, we usually glanced in our rearview mirrors and waved to each other.

Bonnie did not wave this morning.

I had sent a text to Trent the night before to let him know I was coming back today.

Use the main door, he wrote back. West entrance still being repaired. Even if that hadn�t been the case, I wouldn�t have been entering the school that way. I�d be avoiding that set of doors for as long as possible. Maybe forever.

For more mornings than I could count, I�d pulled into this staff parking lot, but today felt like a first time. This was not the same school I�d entered a thousand times before.

I�d almost died here. I�d watched someone die here.

I pulled into my spot, killed the engine, hit the button to retract my seat belt, and went to reach for the door handle.

And I began to shake.

�Get it together,� I told myself. �You can do this.�

Sitting behind the wheel of my car in the school parking lot, I couldn�t move. I�d thought I was ready, that I could come back, but now I was drowning in doubt.

More than once since Monday I�d considered never coming back. Asking for a transfer to another school. Maybe quitting the profession. Even after setting aside fears that someday another nutcase would stroll in � armed, perhaps, with an assault rifle instead of a bomb, as had happened in so many other schools across the nation � teaching for a living had more than its share of drawbacks.

The pay was mediocre, although teachers in Connecticut were compensated better than in some other states. You took work home almost every night. Marking, preparing lessons. Budgets were always being cut back. One day you found you were out of chalk. Or there was no toilet paper in the bathrooms. Textbooks hadn�t been updated since the Carter administration. Older schools had no air-conditioning. You sweltered in the months before and after summer.

As supportive as most parents were, it was the hypercritical, impossible-to-please ones that wore you down. Everything you said, everything you taught, your private life, it was all under the microscope like never before. You�d run into a parent at the liquor store, doing something as innocent as buying a bottle of Smirnoff, and suddenly you were an educator who might have a drinking problem. Everyone�s phone was a camera, so you never knew when your actions were being captured on video, and when they were, it was often out of context. I�d learned that lesson in a big way a few years ago. And so many issues that today�s kids were going to come face-to-face with � racism, diversity, gender identity, sexism � were now third-rail topics. You touched on them at your peril.

Teachers weren�t the only ones feeling the stress, either. The kids were dealing with way more than previous generations. Experimenting with drugs and alcohol and sex, sure, that had always been the case. But they were under increasing pressure from home to do well, to make something of themselves. Flunk one exam and you were led to believe you�d thrown away your future. They were being bullied and shamed online. They were sucked into a social media vortex that was leading to depression. They were anorexic, or they ate too much. They were shamed for what they did and didn�t do. And they, too, had to wonder whether this was the day someone would want to come into their school and kill them.

Not the sort of shit Beaver and Wally had to deal with when they left home in the morning.

You wanted to help these kids but more often than not couldn�t find the support they most needed. Asking the powers that be for a few extra bucks for a kid with emotional problems or a learning disability could be like asking for a ticket to the moon.

And Christ, don�t get me started on all the disputes over masks and the horrors of virtual learning during the pandemic. I never wanted to go through anything like that again.

But here was the crazy thing. In spite of all this, or maybe even partly because of it, I loved the job.

I loved the kids, I loved the challenges, I loved that you never went home at the end of the day without a story. A high school was a living, breathing organism where you could never predict what was going to happen. A high school was a small city filled with stories of tragedy and heartbreak, success and inspiration. What kept me going was the possibility that, even if it didn�t happen every day � you were lucky if it happened once a month � you might have an actual impact on someone�s life. Help them find the thing they loved. Make them look at something in a way they never had before. Maybe, just maybe, you opened their eyes for a moment.

If I walked away, I wouldn�t have the opportunity to do that. And, frankly, I didn�t know what else I would have done.

I didn�t want to walk away. I didn�t want what happened to me on Monday to defeat me.

I could do this.

My panic attack in the parking lot shouldn�t have surprised me. While I hadn�t had any formal counseling or therapy since the incident � not yet, anyway � Marta had had plenty to tell me when we had a private moment.

�You think you�re okay, but you�re not,� she�d said. �Your view of the world will change. Things you could slough off in the past may seem like a big deal. You may have a degree of paranoia. You�ll worry all the time about Bonnie and Rachel, more about them than yourself. Don�t beat yourself up if you feel overwhelmed, like you can�t handle things like you used to. At least for a while. You�re fragile, even if you don�t want to admit it.�

I suspect she�d told Bonnie all of this, too, although Bonnie�d probably already figured it out. Before deciding to go into teaching, and ultimately moving up to running a school, Bonnie had considered following her older sister into law enforcement. She went so far as to attend a police training academy in Bridgeport before deciding it wasn�t for her. But she learned a few tricks that had served her well, including, once, breaking up a fight between two students, one of whom had a knife. (This hadn�t happened at her elementary school, but at one of her first teaching gigs, in a high school.)

A shot of that kind of courage was what I needed right now. When I had faced Mark LeDrew, I hadn�t had time to think about my actions. Now I had too much time to think.

I took a deep breath and got out of the car. Walked at a steady pace toward the front door. Pulled it open, entered the building.

Holy shit.

There must have been a hundred kids there. Standing in the main hall, applauding and cheering as I entered, a banner strung above them that read we love you mr. b. Among them were various members of the staff, and right up front, Trent, who had a big grin on his face as he brought his hands together.

I stood there dumbfounded, and I�d like to say I was able to hold back the tears, but I couldn�t. I was overwhelmed. The stress of the last four days erupted in the form of wracking sobs.

The crowd pushed forward and surrounded me. Everyone offering hugs, patting me on the back, squeezing me, saying things like �You�re the best� and �We love you� and �You saved us.�

That went on for a couple of minutes. My heart felt like it would burst.

Trent waved a hand in the air and said loudly, �Okay, everybody, if you can give me a moment.�

The crowd quieted. When there were only a few murmurs, Trent said: �Mr. Boyle, on behalf of the staff and students of Lodge High School, we want to say a heartfelt thank-you. Without your courage, without your sense of duty and decency, we might be in a very different place today, a place we don�t even want to imagine. We thank you from the bottom of our hearts, and to show my own personal appreciation, I�m springing for coffee today.�

Laughter. Someone handed him a mug and passed it along to me. I wiped away some tears before taking it in my hand, took a sip, grimaced, and said, �Even worse than usual.�

Another wave of laughter. I handed the mug off to someone and Trent gave me a hug and a handshake. His was the first, but not the last. One kid after another came up to put their arms around me, and plenty of them were crying, too. This whole exercise was a tension release for all of us.

One girl, whose dad managed a Home Depot, put a hundred-dollar gift card into my hand.

�I can�t take that,� I said.

�He said you have to.�

A grade nine boy handed me a pastry box tied up with string. �Cupcakes,� he said.

A tenth-grade student in a wheelchair rolled herself up to me, took my hand in both of hers, and squeezed it. �My parents love you,� she said, her voice breaking.

I leaned over and gave her a hug.

I felt I needed to say something to the assembled crowd. I raised my hands, palms down, signaling everyone to hush.

�Look, um, this is all very kind of you. I think...� I stopped, needing another second to pull myself together. I continued, �I think everyone here, all of you, deserve a lot of credit. The love in this school, it... it doesn�t matter what comes our way... the way we feel about each other, that will always get us through the good times and the bad.�

One kid shouted, �You�re a badass, Mr. B.!�

I smiled, shrugged. �What happened Monday... will be with us a long time. Forever, for me, I guess. What I want to say is, I wish things had gone differently. I wish... I wish I could have helped Mark LeDrew. I feel like I failed him.�

Someone said, �You didn�t fail us.�

�Okay, well,� I said, forcing a smile, �we should all get to class. And I need to find a drinkable cup of coffee.�

As the kids and most of the teachers drifted away, two staff members stayed. The first was Sally Berwick. She�d no doubt been told that Mark LeDrew had her on his mental list. She put her arms around me and began to weep.

�It�s okay,� I said, patting her back. �It�s okay.�

Her body trembled. She hung on for about twenty seconds, stepped back, wiped the tears from her eyes, and, looking slightly embarrassed, whispered, �Sorry.� With that, she went off to class, leaving just one staff member who wanted to say something.

Herb Willow.

Round-shouldered, balding, a pair of wire-rimmed glasses hanging off the end of his nose, he stepped forward and extended a hand. No hugs from Herb, but that was okay. A handshake would suffice.

I took his clammy hand into mine, and he gripped it hard. Locked onto it so that he could pull me in close to him. He put his mouth close to my ear and whispered.

�I know you told the cops it was all my fault, you motherfucker. Don�t think for a minute that I�m going to forget that.�

My second class back was the same group of kids I�d been with when I saw Mark LeDrew crossing the school parking lot. I knew it was unlikely we�d pick up where we left off, talking about The Road.

When I walked in, they were all standing beside their desks and saluting, big grins on their faces. Not all were in attendance, however. Some parents had not sent their kids back yet. I was guessing some never would, that they�d send their kids to different schools, maybe private ones. But you had to wonder whether any school � or mall or church or nightclub or grocery store � was immune when there were so many nutcases out there.

I�d spent so much time telling the police what had happened when I confronted LeDrew that I�d heard very little about what transpired in my classroom after I had run down the hall in a bid to block his entry. I should point out there�d been some whispering that I�d abandoned my kids at the worst possible time, and maybe there was something to that, but in the moment I did what I�d hoped would be in the interests of everyone. We�d never know how things might have played out if I�d stayed put.

Emma Katzenback, the girl with a phone welded to her palm, had done as I�d instructed and immediately called 911. Told the dispatcher a shooter was coming into the school, even though that had been an assumption on her part. An easy one to make, given that I had said �armed intruder.� The dispatcher kept her on the line, asking for more details, but not only did Emma not have any, she could barely hear because the other kids had started shoving desks toward the door to barricade it.

The shades had been drawn by Eldon and another student, and then everyone huddled below the window in case there was a shooter and bullets started coming through the glass.

Then they waited. Waited to hear shots. Waited to hear people screaming in the halls. Waited to hear sirens. Most of them started texting or phoning their parents at work or home. Emma hung up on the 911 dispatcher so that she could call her mother.

Finally, there was the sound of Mark LeDrew�s bomb going off.

Everyone in the class had screamed. They�d been steeling themselves to hear gunfire, a single shot at least. But the explosion came as a surprise. A bomb? A fucking bomb? Was the entire school going to blow up? Should they clear the door and make a run for it? Pull back the shades, break glass, and escape through the windows?

But within a minute or two of the blast, Trent went on the PA system and told everyone to stay where they were. The situation, he said, appeared to have reached a resolution, but the lockdown would continue until they got an �all-clear� from the police.

�That was the worst time,� Eldon said. �Wondering if there was gonna be more bombs, or shooting, or what. The weird thing was, we were all kind of freaking out at first but we were all calm at the same time, you know?�

I nodded.

They had plenty of questions for me, some of them about the most grisly details, but I dodged most of them. �You know the basics,� I said. �It�s not easy for me to talk about. I hope you get that.�

They did.

Eldon said, �They fired Mr. Grant.�

The caretaker.

�He�s not fired,� Emma said. �He�s on some kind of suspension. That�s what my mom said. He kept meaning to fix the latch on that door but never got around to it. I think he should be fired. If we�d have been killed it would have been all his fault.�

I didn�t want to get into it. I made one vain attempt to talk about our current reading project, but the bell was going to ring in two minutes so I don�t know why I bothered. I assigned no homework and wished everyone a good weekend. On Monday, I warned them, we were going to get back to work. Tests and essays, I told them. Lots and lots of them. The most homework in the history of homework. No one looked particularly worried.

I noticed there was one student who hadn�t said a word the entire period. As he was exiting the class, head down, I called to him.

�Andrew,� I said.

Andrew Kanin stopped and turned. �Yes, Mr. B.?� he said.

�Got a second?�

�You want me to close the door?� he asked.

�No, leave it open. You were pretty quiet. You okay?�

�I guess,� he said, taking a few steps toward my desk. �This is my first day back, too.�

I nodded. �There�s quite a few kids still haven�t returned.�

�My parents didn�t want me to come back but neither of them could get off work today and they didn�t want me to stay home alone.�

At fifteen?

�I promised them I�d text them every hour.�

�Okay,� I said. �It�s going to take a while for everything to feel back to normal.�

�When are we going to be reading a different book?�

�You don�t like The Road?�

He thought for a moment. �I�ll finish it, but are there any happy books?�

A wave of guilt washed over me. Maybe, given the current state of things, there were better choices than the apocalypse.

I thought a moment. �How about happy and funny?�

�Sure.�

I didn�t want to overwhelm him with a list. �Go to the library and find Carl Hiaasen.� I spelled the last name for him. �He writes for grown-ups and young adults. See if they have Hoot.�

Andrew said he would.

Herb held himself together until he got back to his classroom. His heart was hammering in his chest, droplets of sweat were beading up on his forehead. Once there, he closed the door, dropped into the chair, and flattened his palms on his desk until he had his breathing under control.

Another panic attack.

God knows, if there was anyone who could have benefited from those counseling sessions it was him. He�d been on an emotional razor�s edge since learning what Mark LeDrew had said. Couldn�t sleep, couldn�t focus, nearly ran a red light the day before. But talking to somebody, spilling his guts to some school board shrink, would amount to an admission of culpability, wouldn�t it?

Better to put up a good front that he had nothing to be concerned about. Tough it out.

But Jesus Christ on a cracker, he could have died Monday. If it hadn�t been for that son of a bitch Richard, Herb might have finished his day in as many pieces as LeDrew did. Hard to get your head around. My God, he thought. What would have become of Margaret?

Okay, sure, maybe he�d been a little rough on the kid back in the day. But hadn�t his intention always been to make the boy shape up? Make him tougher? Mold him into someone better than he was?

Of course. That was why Herb Willow had said those things. That was his story and he was sticking to it. His intention was not to humiliate, but motivate. Everyone had their own teaching style. Some coddled. But not Herb. Not a chance. The way you got these dumbass kids to learn things was to badger them, shame them. You were doing them a favor whether they appreciated it or not. Years later, once they�d made something of themselves, they�d thank you.

But he had to tell Trent that Boyle had been lying. The politically correct, touchy-feely admin types would never understand his methods. And let�s face it. The LeDrew kid really had been dumber than a bag of hammers.

But it did give Herb pause. How many other current and former students had he spoken to this way? He�d have to modify his approach. If he had to baby them, mollycoddle them, to keep the powers that be happy, well, fine, that�s what he would do. Principles be damned.

If Boyle�d had any sense of decency, he would have kept quiet about what LeDrew had said. What was the point? There was nothing any teacher might have done that would justify LeDrew�s intentions. Why even bring it up?

What a way to treat a colleague.

The day was over and I was heading for the parking lot when I ran into Trent in the hall.

�You got five?� he asked.

I followed him to his office. He had his suit jacket off and his sleeves rolled up, not a look he adopted very often but a sign that it had been as long a day for him as it had been for me.

�New watch?� I asked.

It had a blue face with white numbers and a brown leather band. I caught a glimpse of the name timex on the face. He glanced at it, rolled his eyes, and said, �Yeah, the battery on the last one died.�

Classic Trent. It was easier to buy a cheap new watch than take a dead one someplace to have a battery replaced. As long as I�d known him, I�d rarely seen him fix anything. He wasn�t mechanically minded and, more than that, he couldn�t be bothered. Toaster broken? Don�t try to determine what�s wrong with it. Pitch it and get a new one. Your stick vacuum won�t suck because it�s clogged? Replace it. It drove his wife, Melanie, crazy. �At least he hasn�t replaced me yet,� she�d said on more than one occasion.

He�d already told me about the available counseling services, so I didn�t know what this meeting was about. He asked Belinda to hold his calls for the next few minutes, then waved me to come around to his side of the desk. I stood at his shoulder as he dropped into this chair and opened a browser on his computer screen.

�Guessing you haven�t seen this,� he said.

�Seen what?�

�Noon news.�

He was on one of the local TV news sites. Trent clicked on an item.

�What is it?� I asked.

�Oh hell,� he said. Before he could show me the news item, we had to wait for one ad to finish, and another to start. As soon as he was allowed to skip the rest of the ad, he did so.

I saw a familiar face. It was one of the news reporters who�d been here Monday. She was standing on the street in front of a house I did not recognize.

�Whose house is��

Trent raised a hand to quiet me.

The reporter said, �Angus and Fiona LeDrew buried their son yesterday, but their ordeal is far from over. Their boy, Mark, died tragically on Monday at Lodge High School, and his parents want to know why.�

�Boy?� I said.

�While they acknowledge Mark came to the school with an explosive device, which subsequently detonated, no one else was harmed. They believe Mark could have survived if greater care had been taken in dealing with the situation.�

Then Mark�s parents were on-screen, sitting in their living room, the mother dabbing at tears on her cheek, the husband�s head bowed as he spoke.

�We want to know what that teacher who talked to Mark said exactly, whether he told him the best thing to do was take his own life, to go ahead and blow himself up outside the school to save others. Why weren�t the police called? Why wasn�t there a bomb specialist there? Why aren�t teachers trained to deal with these kinds of situations?�

Back out front of the house, the reporter summed up: �The LeDrews have launched a multimillion-dollar suit against the teacher, Richard Boyle, the school�s administration, and the quarry where their son once worked, where it is believed he acquired the dynamite. This is Lorraine Wilders reporting.�

Trent stopped the video and swiveled around in his chair to look at me. A bird could have flown into my mouth.

�I know,� Trent said. �It�s nuts.�

�I got him to change his mind. He tripped on his goddamn bootlaces and let go of the button. They didn�t cover this shit when I went to teachers college.�

�That�s what you�ll tell them. The lawyers. Everyone. I�ve got a call into the board now. Maybe you sit down for an interview or something, for TV. Make people understand you deserve to have a school named after you, not get sued.�

I was numb.

Trent said, �They�ll try to make something out of the fact that no one else really saw or heard what happened. There�s a couple of cameras, one just above the door that looks out onto the schoolyard, and another at the other end of the hall that looks down toward the west entrance, but none of the surveillance footage really shows that very well, and they don�t pick up sound. They can�t prove their allegations.�

�You were around the corner. You were ready to take a shot. You must have heard something.�

Trent shrugged. �Not much, but it�s irrelevant. Trust me, this suit isn�t going anywhere. You�ve probably got a case of your own you could file against the LeDrews. You�ve got to live with that trauma for God knows how many years.�

�Why would they do this?�

�Well, money, first of all. And look, they�re probably blaming themselves. Not knowing how distressed he was. Not knowing he was making a bomb. They need to find someone else to lay this off on. Putting the blame on you, the school, the quarry, it takes some of the pressure off them.� He paused. �I know a little about him, the father. He wasn�t much of a presence in Mark�s life. Distant, uninvolved. Maybe this is his way of coping with the guilt over that. Going after everyone else.�

I had no more words. I turned and walked out of Trent�s office and left the building.

�What do you mean, Billy? What did I do?�

We were still standing at the end of the driveway. He glanced at the bandages still on my neck and forehead. �Lucky you didn�t get your head blown clean off, huh?�

�Billy, what can I help you with?�

He took a few steps over to my car, propped himself up on the back end, and crossed his arms. �You�re saying you really don�t remember?�

�Sorry, I�m at a loss here. Did you have classes with me? Because, honestly, I don�t remember. I�m sorry. I see a lot of students over the years.�

And that was the truth. I was as sure as I could be I�d never had Billy Finster in my homeroom or any of my English classes.

�Gym class,� he said.

I shook my head, not understanding.

�I didn�t teach gym. Never have.�

�Oh yeah?� he said. �Then why�s your picture in my yearbook, doing just that?�

�What picture? What are you talking about?�

�There�s a picture of you and the wrestling team.�

I thought back. There was something in what he said that triggered a memory. A teacher had been on leave a while back when his wife became seriously ill. What the hell was his name?

Reynolds.

Right. Anson Reynolds. Taught physical education at Lodge. Was off for the better part of a month. Someone was hired part-time to cover his classes, but his extracurriculars were divvied out among existing staff. I�d been asked to be among those to oversee the wrestling team. I didn�t know a damn thing about wrestling, but I gave it my best shot. And I didn�t have to be an expert to oversee the team�s practices.

�I remember,� I said. �I didn�t teach phys ed, but yeah, I took on some part-time coaching of the wrestling team, after school, when another teacher was away.�

�Yeah, right, bingo,� he said, making a gun out of his fingers and firing a shot my way.

More memories started flooding back. I supervised a few matches when other schools came to Lodge for events. And when our team traveled to other schools, I would go along on the bus to keep everybody in line.

He was reading my face. �Coming back to you now, isn�t it?�

�What is it you think you remember, Billy?�

�I was on the team,� he said. �When we went to another school, you liked to sit right in the back of the bus, like you were supervising, where you could watch everybody, but you really liked it back there because no one could see what you were up to. And you liked me to sit back there with you. When we were coming back from a match, when it was dark, that was when you�d really get going. All grabby hands and shit.�

�Listen to me, and listen real close,� I said, trying to keep my voice under control. �I have no idea what you�re talking about, and whatever it is you�re implying, it did not happen.�

�So I remember it all wrong,� he said, smiling.

�Yes, Billy, you do,� I said. I was rattled, but I held my anger in check. If Billy had been abused when he was at Lodge, I felt an obligation to get more information.

�Look, I�m not saying it didn�t happen to you. I�m saying it wasn�t me. But if it did happen, it was wrong. Very wrong. You�ve every right, even after all this time, to have whoever it was held accountable. If you want, I�ll look into whatever services are available for someone in your position. Legal, counseling, whatever. I�ll speak to my principal. I could set up a meeting between the two of you.�

He nodded slowly, but he had this sly grin on his face that wouldn�t go away.

If what he was alleging happened, it was most likely Anson Reynolds who did it. Maybe this was something Anson had done before or after his leave. Or maybe it was someone else who�d filled in for him. I hadn�t been the only one.

One thing I knew for certain was that Anson, if he was the offender, was never going to answer for this. He was dead. He�d died about four years ago.

But again, how did you get something like this wrong? Even if it was dark coming home on the bus at night. I mean, come on. Somebody puts their hand down your pants, you tend to remember who it was.

And on top of that, I always sat at the front of the bus.

�You make it sound like you really care,� he said.

�Believe it or not, Billy, I do. But at the same time, I don�t like being accused of something I haven�t done. I wish you nothing but the best in dealing with this.�

�You�re this big hero now, aren�t you? Saved everybody from the crazy bomber. What would they think if they knew the truth? Bet they�d forget all that hero shit in a minute if they knew you�re a fucking perv. Bet they�d forget real fast.�

�I don�t have any more to say about this, Billy.�

�Lots of people coming forward these days,� he said. �For a long time, they were too embarrassed, but now they�re encouraged to unburden themselves, you know? That it�s nothing to be ashamed about. That it�s not their fault. That�s kind of where I am now. I�m thinking of, you know, unburdening myself.�

�All that�s true. What you�re saying was done to you, it�s wrong. Unbelievably wrong. When people in authority abuse the power they hold over others, take advantage � listen, as far as I�m concerned, there�s no punishment too harsh for them. The damage they do is incalculable. So I�m prepared, right now, to find you help. A counseling service. I�ll call the police, if you want.�

�Yeah,� he said slowly. �The police. They�d be good to talk to, but the thing is, I wanted to come to you before I went to them because I was thinking maybe we could work something out.�

Those last three words hung in the air for a moment. �Work something out,� I said.

�That�s right. That we could come to some kind of arrangement.�

�I see,� I said. �So what it comes down to, Billy, is you�re a blackmailer.�

�Better a blackmailer than a kid diddler,� he said. He dug a ratty tissue out of his pocket and wiped his nose. �Ten grand. Ten thousand dollars. You come up with that and it�s like I come down with a case of amnesia. I�ll forget it ever happened.�

�You�re crazy,� I said.

I was searching for an explanation. Maybe Anson had done it, and when this guy decided the time had come to blackmail him, he�d learned Anson was dead. He�d already spent the money in his head and decided to go after someone else.

�I�m cutting you some slack because I know teachers get paid real shitty. If it was anybody else, I�d ask twice that. I�ll give you, I don�t know, till Tuesday. Because it�s almost the weekend and the banks are closed and shit. So, you come up with the money by Tuesday. We can meet at the food court in the Post Mall. Five o�clock. Cash. I don�t want a check.�

�Billy, you�ve got the wrong guy.�

�Tuesday,� he said.

That grin still on his face, he gave me a thumbs-up, walked a short ways down the sidewalk, got behind the wheel of a white pickup truck cancered with rust, and drove off.

Jesus Christ, I thought. I can�t go through something like this again.

This couldn�t be happening.

I went into the house in a daze, unable to get my head around the situation I found myself in. On Monday I felt myself perched on the edge of the abyss. Now I felt as though I had fallen in. I felt light-headed, almost dizzy. Like stepping into traffic without looking and having a car whip past you at sixty miles per hour, missing you by inches.

I was shell-shocked.

I wandered into the kitchen, still too fazed to consider my options. I went to the fridge for some vodka and soda and made myself a drink. Downed it and made another. I had to settle my nerves before I began to think about how to handle this.

Ten thousand dollars. By Tuesday. Four days from now.

It was ridiculous. Of course I wasn�t going to pay this man off. It was unthinkable.

Right?

I wouldn�t do it. Someone I don�t remember accuses me of something I didn�t do, and I�m supposed to hand over ten thousand dollars to him? Of course not.

And when I refused to comply, what would happen? I call his bluff. Would he really go public? Would he go to Trent? The police? The media? He�d be running an enormous risk if he did. Wouldn�t I then tell the world that he was nothing more than a common blackmailer?

Of course I would.

And people would believe me.

Except...

What proof did I have? I didn�t have our conversation recorded. There were no witnesses. It had just been the two of us. My word against his. Not only the conversation, but what he was alleging had transpired years earlier.

Shit.

None of this was as simple as it looked. When it came to an allegation like this, it didn�t matter whether there was any truth to it. Once it was out there, once it was public, it could finish you. Even if your accuser could eventually be discredited, charged, tried, and convicted of blackmail, there�d still be those who believed there was something there, some kernel of truth. Just because someone�s an extortionist doesn�t mean his story is bogus.

I could think of half a dozen celebrity cases to prove the point. That guy who made all the funny movies. That congressman from Florida. Convicted in people�s minds, even if never in a court of law. And for a teacher, well, the stakes were even higher. The rumors would be enough to end my career. They�d follow me for the rest of my life.

Again, Shit.

This could do more than finish me off. It could destroy Bonnie. It would scar Rachel.

How would Bonnie be able to continue overseeing a school, to hold a position with that level of authority, with her husband accused of molesting a student? I could imagine the attacks on her already.

If you�d cover up for your husband, you�d cover up for your staff.

If you didn�t know, you should have. And if you did, you shouldn�t be in any job where you�re working with kids.

Yeah, she�d be finished.

Rachel would be teased, ridiculed, tormented. We�d have to move her to another school. Or worse. We�d all have to move to another town, start over, find new, different jobs. And what if the accusation prompted an investigation that could remove Rachel from our home?

The potential fallout was immeasurable.

I was giving myself a nervous breakdown, imagining the various possible scenarios.

So then, what if I did pay him?

He�d made it sound like he was looking for a onetime payoff, but what was to stop him from coming back for more? I�d have to find a way to get money I didn�t have. If, at some later date, his extortion became known to the police, the big question would be: Why did you pay him off if you weren�t guilty?

If only he could step in front of a bus between now and Tuesday.

Maybe, just maybe, if I hadn�t dodged a similar bullet three years earlier, I�d have told him to fuck off, taken my chances calling his bluff.

But there was the issue of Lyall Temple.

He was a thirteen-year-old kid in my ninth-grade English class. Small for his age, barely five feet tall, freckled, with reddish brown hair. And he was, whatever this word means these days, gifted. The only one in the class who�d read Moby-Dick, and that included the teacher. He devoured books the way his classmates went through pizza. He took oboe lessons. He collected vintage SF digest magazines like Analog, Galaxy, and Asimov�s Science Fiction. He had at least fifty different models of robots from movies and TV shows. He could multiply three figures by two figures in his head. I once saw him solve a jumbled Rubik�s Cube in under a minute. He was quiet and hard to read emotionally. Not a demonstrative kid.

Lyall was an original, and I had some familiarity with his sense of being an outsider. When I was his age, I didn�t feel that I fit in. Few of my contemporaries shared my obsessive, albeit passing, interests in Ed Wood movies, or the architect Frank Lloyd Wright, or real-life sightings of UFOs.

But my heart really went out to him when his father, coming back from a business trip in Buffalo, was cut off by a tractor-trailer on the New York Thruway and went into a bridge abutment at seventy miles per hour west of Albany. He died instantly. He was forty-nine.

Lyall was off school for more than a week. There was a funeral, of course, which Bonnie and I attended. When he returned, he tried to act as though nothing had happened. He�d never been one to show his feelings. He was quiet before, and he was quiet now.

At the end of one class, he came to me as I sat at my desk and asked what assignments he needed to get caught up on. I told him not to worry about them. But he was insistent. I was going through my lesson planner, looking for a couple of token things he could do that would make him feel better, when he whispered something to me.

�I heard them say his brains were on the windshield.�

I put aside my lesson planner and shifted around to face him. He was a dam ready to burst.

�I�m so sorry, Lyall.�

Still whispering, he said, �It�s in my head.�

�It�ll take time,� I said. �You�re a strong kid. But holding it together is hard. You may have to let it out sometime. You can�t keep everything bottled up. When you get home��

His arms went around my neck and he began to sob. Instinctively, I put my arms around him. Held him. Felt his body shake.

My door happened to be open, and it was at that moment that Evan Hayle, an eleventh-grade student and a true shit if there ever was one, caught sight of my attempt to console Lyall, fired off a couple of quick shots with his phone. Within minutes he had shared it online with the comment How to get an A from Mr. Boyle!

My face was clearly visible in the shot, but Lyall, visible only from behind, could have been anyone. It was the next morning when I learned how widely the picture had been distributed. It had gone viral, at least within the Lodge High School community. And as it spread, it garnered more salacious comments. Mr Boyle LOVES his kids and Boyle�s Butt Boy and Gives new meaning to sucking up to the teacher were some of the milder ones.

It was another student who brought it to my attention the following morning. I was seething with anger, not so much for myself but for Lyall. What a cruel thing to do to someone who�d already been through so much. Trent had me come down to the office, said he was already getting calls from parents wanting to know what the hell was going on.

It got cleared up, eventually. Lyall himself told Trent what had happened. Evan, tracked down as the culprit, said he was only goofing around, that he didn�t know it was Lyall, claimed to not even be aware that Lyall�s father had died. He was suspended for a week. The dust settled, the truth came out.

That didn�t stop people I didn�t even know, for some time, from giving me the side-eye. At the grocery store, the gas station. Not everyone got the follow-up memo. Which was why I was struggling with what to do now. I could stand fast. Let this son of a bitch go public. State my denials, fire back with accusations.

But something always sticks. Especially when there�s a history.

I needed to talk to somebody. Bonnie would normally have been the most obvious, logical one, but this shit couldn�t have come at a worse time.

My personal entanglements, despite the best of intentions, had consistently backfired. That episode with Lyall. That kid who stole my wallet. And most spectacularly, my near-death experience with Mark LeDrew.

Add Billy the Blackmailer to the list.

It wouldn�t matter that it wasn�t my fault. It�d be one more stupid mess I�d gotten myself into, as far as Bonnie was concerned. And what if, somehow, I was to blame? I certainly hadn�t abused this guy in the way he�d alleged, but you see a thousand students in your time and make more than your share of mistakes. Had I wrongly accused him of cheating on a test? Given him a D when he�d earned a B in some class I couldn�t recall?

There was another reason not to tell Bonnie. The professional one. Considering her position, was it fair to involve her? Could this blow back on her if this whole mess ever did become public, and she had to admit she�d known about it from the beginning?

And, really, did I want to have to sit Bonnie down and tell her what someone was alleging I�d done?

There was her sister, Marta. A police detective. Could I tell her? Would she believe my side of the story, or be more concerned about how this would affect Bonnie?

A lawyer, maybe. Or Trent. But I�d be putting him in a tough spot, too.

God, what a clusterfuck.

Was paying my blackmailer the worst option, except for not paying him? And how would I go about it? Bonnie and I had joint accounts. She kept a close eye on where the money went.

A lot of people might think ten thousand dollars doesn�t sound like a lot, at least when it comes to blackmail. If this were a movie, or if I were a politician in the real world, any extortionist worth his salt would ask for a hundred thousand, maybe a million.

But this wasn�t the movies, and I wasn�t running for office. For regular people, ten grand was a fair chunk of change, no question, even for Bonnie and me, and we both had good jobs and a house and two cars in the driveway. But we�d just paid off the mortgage on that house, scraping together most of our savings to make it happen. We�d had to redo the roof five months earlier when a powerful storm swept through Milford and ripped off half the shingles. And then there was that three grand I gave to my cousin Stan without running it past Bonnie first.

We were not, at this point in time, awash in cash. Banks didn�t typically extend loans to blackmail victims.

But I did have one idea.

The boat.

I could sell the boat. I didn�t know what it was worth, exactly, but surely it would bring ten grand. I�d kept it in good shape. The fifty-horsepower outboard was well maintained. I had all the service receipts. I could do some quick research on its value, post ads online. But how quickly could I sell it? I had a deadline that was only four days away.

I heard a car pull into the driveway.

Bonnie.

I�d been so preoccupied I�d forgotten to go for Rachel. I came charging out the front door before Bonnie had her seat belt unbuckled. She had the door half open as I raised a hand and walked past.

�Hey, hold up,� she said.

�Just going for Rach.�

�I�m sorry. I got your text and never got back to you. I had a bitch of a day.�

She looked, as she sometimes liked to say of me when I�d had a rough one, like she�d been ridden hard and put away wet. Her face sagged, her eyes were dark. I opened the door the rest of the way for her. Getting out seemed to take every ounce of strength she had.

�What happened?� I asked.

�Allison.�

It was all she had to say. I knew the backstory.

�Her mother died. Overdose. Marta came to the school. We had to get the girl�s aunt to come down from Hartford.�

�Oh honey, I�m so sorry.� I took her into my arms.

She shook her head slowly. �What some of these kids have to deal with. Fuck.�

�I know,� I said.

She gave me an apologetic look. �I�m sorry. Your text. First day back. How�d it go?�

I couldn�t, for a moment, recall why I�d texted her. It had been about the LeDrews� decision to sue me. If there was any upside to being blackmailed, it had made me forget Mark LeDrew�s parents considered me somehow culpable in the death of their son.

�Great,� I said. �Just great. I just wanted to let you know everything went just fine.�

Bonnie would have found out about the LeDrews� intention to sue me soon enough. One of her colleagues would probably text to offer sympathies, or she�d spot an item about it when she went scrolling through news on her phone. But it turned out to be Rachel who broke the news for Bonnie at the dinner table.

�The Drew people are mean,� she said.

�I�m sorry, what?� Bonnie said, the words coming out garbled as she chewed a bite of pork chop. �What are drew people?�

�The people whose kid tried to blow up Dad�s school,� Rachel said, moving some peas around her plate with her fork.

�The LeDrews, you mean,� Bonnie said. �Why are they mean?�

�Because they want to take Dad�s money.�

Bonnie looked at me. �What�s she talking about?�

�Where�d you hear about this?� I asked Rachel.

�Mrs. Tibaldi saw it on the news.�

Bonnie was still looking at me, awaiting an explanation. �It�s nothing,� I said. �A frivolous lawsuit.�

�That�s why you texted me,� she said, the tumblers falling into place. �Why didn�t you tell me when I got home?�

�Your day wasn�t much better. I figured it could wait. I�ll tell you all about it later.�

I didn�t want to get into it in front of Rachel, who looked more than a little troubled.

�Everything is sad here,� she said, moving a pea around her plate with a fork.

�Sweetheart, what do you mean?� Bonnie asked her.

I should have thought it was obvious.

�Everybody�s mad about everything,� our daughter said. �Everybody�s mad at Dad and trying to blow him up, and you guys are always mad at each other. That�s what I mean. Everybody�s mad.�

�That�s not true,� Bonnie said, a hint of defensiveness in her voice.

Rachel said, �Remember when I fell on my scooter?�

When she was five we got her a Radio Flyer scooter. A skateboard-like platform with a tall handlebar that she could grip onto as she powered herself along the sidewalk, one leg on the base, the other pumping away. She�d no doubt tumbled off it a number of times, but Bonnie and I both knew the incident she was referring to. She was propelling herself on the sidewalk, on our side of the street, when some jackass more intent at looking at his phone than the road wandered across the street and scraped up against the curb only a few feet from Rachel.

It scared her half to death and she let go of the scooter and tumbled onto the hard cement of the sidewalk, scraping her elbow and knee. The jackass kept on going.

�It wasn�t my fault,� Rachel recollected, eyeing her mother, �and you didn�t get mad and you got me chocolate peanut butter ice cream with pretzels.�

Bonnie managed a smile. �I remember.�

�But Daddy almost got blown up and you didn�t get him ice cream or anything.�

Bonnie�s face fell. She eyed me for a second, then looked away guiltily. I instantly felt badly for her. She didn�t deserve that.

Some wineglasses that sat close together on an upper shelf began tinkling as they jiggled against each other. Another truck rumbling past.

�Those goddamn trucks,� Bonnie said, then got up from the table and left the room.

Bonnie and I went into the weekend pretending everything was fine.

She tried to put the death of Allison�s mother out of mind. I made no mention of the lawsuit. And I continued to keep Bonnie in the dark about the blackmailer.

Rachel, however, did not pretend to be anything other than what she was, and that teacher had it right: sullen.

I couldn�t count on Jack buying the boat so I posted the photos, a detailed description, and an asking price of eleven thousand dollars, on Craigslist. I was finishing up the process on the laptop in the kitchen when Bonnie, wrapped up in a bathrobe after her soak, walked in. Before she could see what was on my screen I hit the yellow dot in the upper left corner and minimized the page.

�What�s up?� she asked.

�Just a dumb video.�

My phone, which was sitting on the table next to the computer, dinged. A text. I read it quickly. Bonnie wore a who-is-it expression.

�Trent,� I said. �Inviting us for dinner tomorrow. Burgers and beer.�

While I�d known Trent for several years, we�d socialized little out of school. A few weekday lunches, but we�d never gotten together with our spouses. Bonnie had met Trent a few times through work, what with both of them being principals for the same school board.

�What do you think?� Bonnie asked.

�He�s saying it�s been a long week for all of us and maybe we need to kick back.�

�What�s his wife�s name again?�

�Melanie. I�ve met her a couple of times. She�s kind of a nervous flibbertigibbet.�

�Boy, there�s a word I haven�t heard since God�s bike had training wheels. Might do us some good to go.�

I took a moment. I wasn�t thinking so much that this was a chance to unwind, as it was an opportunity to pull Trent to one side and tell him about my situation. I had to tell somebody, and he might be my best option.

�But only if Rachel can come,� Bonnie added. �I want to keep her close right now.�

I got that. I tapped out a few quick words in reply and waited while the dancing dots did their thing. �He says sure. They�ve got a daughter, couple years older.�

So it was settled. We were invited to come at five.

When Bonnie went back upstairs, I finished posting the ad. Then I went hunting online for anything I could find on Billy Finster.

There wasn�t much, not even when I searched for �William Finster.� Combing through social media and other sites, I managed to turn up a real estate agent out in Arizona who also handled time-shares, a special effects expert in Hollywood, an expert in unplugging toilets north of the border in Ottawa, and a Billy Finster on Twitter with two followers whose mug shot didn�t look anything like my blackmailer. There was no local phone listing for a B or W Finster, but that wasn�t surprising, since most younger people only had cell phones.

When I returned to school Monday, I�d search the office�s stockpile of old yearbooks and see what more I could learn about this guy. I was looking for anything that might give me leverage, something that might give me an idea how to handle this.

Because I definitely needed some points on my side of the board.

After any social engagement, Bonnie and I would typically start our debrief once we were in the car and driving away. Maybe it would be a comment about how neither of us could eat the undercooked fish, or the kid who was a monster, or how the husband always cut off his wife before she could finish a single sentence. Not to give you the impression that we were the nastiest, most backstabbing couple in history � we would just as often talk about how that was the best chocolate mousse we�d ever tasted, or how she was the funniest person we�d met in a long time, or that we really clicked and should have them over to our place as soon as possible.

But we didn�t do any of that because Rachel was in the car. It was Rachel, in fact, who was ready to start talking immediately once we were driving away from seeing Trent and Melanie.

�Can I get some bugs?� she asked.

�Say again?� I said, looking over my shoulder at her in the backseat.

�Bugs,� Rachel said again. �Amanda has all kinds of them. Dead ones and live ones. She�s going to be a lemontologist.�

�An entomologist,� Bonnie said.

�What?�

�You said lemontologist.�

�That would be someone who studies citrus fruits,� I offered.

Rachel carried on. �She used to have this glass thing full of dirt where ants lived but she had to get rid of it because of her dad. Can I get one of those?�

I glanced over at Bonnie, who was biting her bottom lip. I could guess what she was thinking. The last thing she�d want would be to discourage our daughter from pursuing a new interest, especially when she�d seemed at loose ends lately. And the second last thing Bonnie would want is a wide variety of insects, living and/or dead, taking up residence in our house.

�She has dead butterflies,� Rachel continued. �With their wings spread out and they were under glass, held there with pins.�

Bonnie asked, �How does Amanda�s mom like having all those icky bugs in the house?�

Rachel adopted a lecturing tone. �Mom, bugs are not icky. They are part of the envierment. The world would die without bugs. And her mom is fine with it. It�s her dad who hates them. That�s why they�re in the garage. Isn�t that sexist, Mom? Thinking girls are all scared of bugs and boys aren�t?�

The kid was on fire today. I had to admit that I was pleased and was betting Bonnie might be, too. This might be just what Rachel needed. A new focus.

Although, as Bonnie said after Rachel had bolted from the car when we got home, �Why couldn�t Amanda have had a big fucking dollhouse?�

Bonnie went alone to the hospital Saturday night. I would have accompanied her, but Rachel couldn�t be left on her own, and it was, after all, Bonnie�s sister. She promised to text updates on Marta�s condition as they became available.

What I learned, over the next few hours, was that Marta had been doing a one-woman stakeout trying to get a lead on who might have sold fentanyl to the mother of Bonnie�s student who had overdosed. Someone had hit her in the head as she stood by her car and she�d briefly lost consciousness. A couple coming out of Jim�s, the bar Marta had been keeping an eye on, saw her and called 911. Marta was awake by the time the ambulance arrived, and tried without success to talk them out of taking her to the hospital.

Good thing, too.

She was diagnosed with a mild concussion. A doctor conducted several neurological tests and to be on the safe side Marta was kept until they could do a CT scan much later that evening. Bonnie had stayed at the hospital with Ginny, who was, according to Bonnie, a complete wreck, until the results of the scan were available, which was well after midnight. The scan did not show anything alarming, but the ER staff decided it would be best to keep Marta there at least until the morning.

I tried to stay awake until Bonnie got home, waiting up for her in the living room, but when she came through the door shortly before two, I was out cold in the recliner. The sound of her entry woke me. We had a brief chat, and then we both went to bed. If she was still angry about my selling the boat to Jack, she was too tired to show it.

Around nine Sunday morning, Bonnie texted Ginny for news. Marta was to be discharged around eleven, and had asked Ginny to bring her a pair of shoes. The ones she�d been wearing when she was assaulted had been stolen right off her feet.

Bonnie said she would drop by later. When she went, Rachel and I joined her, stopping along the way to buy flowers and pick up some chocolate croissants from Marta�s favorite bakery.

She was sitting on their front porch, feet up, sipping on some lemonade and reading a Scott Turow novel when we pulled into the driveway. Marta didn�t much want to talk about what had happened to her, at least not in front of all of us. Rachel and I spent some time in the kitchen with Ginny so that the sisters could talk privately. And when Rachel mentioned her newfound interest, Ginny offered to take her on a tour of their backyard garden to see what specimens they might be able to find.

That left me alone for a few minutes in the kitchen, affording me time to ponder my current predicament, not that I wasn�t already thinking about it all the time. I got out my phone, considered searching �hit men for hire,� but instead killed time looking at all the unused apps I had and deleting them. Did I really need to know the value of the Swedish krona against the U.S. dollar? Delete. When was the last time I turned on white noise when trying to get to sleep? Delete.

And then I saw Voice Memos.

I�d never used that recording app, wasn�t even really aware it had been on my phone all this time, so there seemed little sense in hanging on to it. But in that moment, it struck me as worth hanging on to. That maybe it might come in handy.

Ginny came rushing in without Rachel, opened a cabinet door below the sink, and was searching through a blue bin of recycled items. She came up with an empty glass jar with a spaghetti sauce label on it, metal lid still screwed on top. With a bottle opener, she made a couple of very small holes in the top, then looked at me and smirked.

�I�m not even going to ask,� I said.

I went out to the front porch and found Bonnie and Marta wrapping up their chat. �If there�s anything you need,� Bonnie said, �you let me know.�

Marta smiled. �I will, I promise. But I�m fine, really.�

We headed home shortly after that. Rachel showed off what she had in the spaghetti jar: a stick-like green insect that was nearly three inches long. Ginny had told her it was a European praying mantis, the state insect of Connecticut. �He can stand on his back legs and he puts his hands together like he�s praying.�

I could think of a few things it could pray for.

If Bonnie was still angry with me about selling the boat, she was hiding it well. Her sister�s situation had put everything else on the back burner. I gave an excellent performance of someone who had things under control, even if below the surface I was pretty much going out of my mind. And any time Bonnie observed that I seemed distracted, not quite there, she attributed it to a holdover from my LeDrew encounter.

And before we knew it, it was Monday.

Midday, when I had a free moment, I popped into the high school office. There was a counter at the entrance where you could usually find a student in crisis � couldn�t get into their locker, lost a phone, thought they were going to throw up � but the teachers scooted around the end of it like they had special visas.

It wasn�t often a staff member came in here looking for Trent. He was only the principal. If you really wanted some student�s academic records, a contact for a parents� group, an on-call dentist who could help a kid who�d fallen and chipped a tooth, you went to Belinda. Her title was �head secretary� but that did her a disservice. A better one would be �head honcho� or �field commander� or maybe just �chief executive officer.� She�d been at the school for the better part of two decades, outlasted five principals, kind of the way the Queen of England had dealt with fifteen prime ministers during her reign before passing on. Belinda, as they like to say, knew where the bodies were buried.

Trent was smart enough to know his place. �I work for Belinda,� he�d told me more than once. �If there�s one person you don�t want to cross, it�s her. She will gut you like a fish.� But he�d made the comment with a wry grin, and no shortage of respect and affection.

We all loved her. She was tough and firm and I�d even heard her use a few f-bombs under her breath when things became chaotic, but beneath that thick hide was a woman who would do anything for you.

When I came around the corner and caught her eye, she said, �Hey, Richard.�

�Belinda.�

�How you doing?�

It was only my second day back since the incident, so many on staff were still inquiring as to my state of mind, wondering whether I was on the verge of some kind of PTSD attack.

�I�ve been worse,� I said.

�Good to hear. Trent�s out.�

�Looking for you. You keep all the old yearbooks around here someplace?�

�Sure,� she said, nodding toward a shelf than ran along one wall. She got up from her desk. �What year do you want?�

�Maybe 2015 through �17?�

She went to the shelf, scanned the spines, pulled out the three books I was looking for and handed them to me. �Anything else I can do for you?�

She didn�t ask what I wanted them for, nor had I expected her to. Belinda had enough on her plate without getting the details on matters that were none of her concern. But that didn�t mean she didn�t know just about everything.

�You have any recollection of a kid named Billy Finster?� I asked.

Belinda�s brain had more memory than a MacBook. She took two seconds to retrieve the data, then said, �Yes. Bit of a jock, not a great student. Always looking for shortcuts, the easy way out. Suspended once for smoking pot in the boys� bathroom. Also some health issues. Missed several weeks one year with mononucleosis, as I recall. We had a wave of it that year. And another year, a sports injury. Shoulder dislocation playing football. Played basketball, was on the wrestling team. Parents were kind of ditzy, not in the picture all that much.�

�What was his shoe size?�

Belinda�s mouth opened, as if she expected she would know the answer to that question, then stopped, looked at me, and said, �Wise guy.�

I smiled.

Even though she hadn�t asked, I felt I needed a reason to be making inquiries about a former student.

�Ran into him the other day, he came up, said hello. I couldn�t quite place him, but I knew the name.� I held up the books. �Was going to look through these, see if I remember him.�

Belinda had gone back to her desk and dismissed me with a wave of her hand. �Enjoy.�

I took the books back to my room and started going through them, starting with 2017. Billy Finster wasn�t in it anywhere, which led me to think that he�d graduated the previous year.

So I went through the 2016 book. I couldn�t find a headshot of him as I looked through the graduating class, but spotted a list of those absent when the profile shots were taken. Finster was on it. But I still went through the book looking at pictures of the school�s various athletic teams, and found him in a couple of those, a blurry face in a cluster of others. I even found a picture taken during one of our wrestling tournaments, at an away game, and there I was, standing in the background.

There was a second shot of the team, the Lodge High crest emblazoned on an overhead banner, so obviously it had been taken on home turf. This must also have been when the regular wrestling coach was still on leave, because he wasn�t there and another Lodge teacher was in his place.

Herb Willow.

I had no memory that he�d also filled in around that time. Getting Herb to coach any sports activity would be like asking a caveman to oversee a computer studies class.

Finally, I went through the 2015 book. That year, Finster had been present when the class photos were taken. He�d changed since then, which was no surprise. The Billy Finster I�d met was fuller in the face, thicker in the neck, and his hair was much shorter than it was back then, when a lot of it was hanging over the left side of his face. A decade could do that to a person, especially after their school athletic career was over. I wished I looked as good today as I had ten years ago, as I did in that shot of the wrestling tournament. A little less weight, and definitely more hair, although even then I didn�t have a lot.

I wasn�t sure if there was a point to this. Maybe I was hoping refreshing my memory of who Finster was when he attended Lodge would provide some further insight into who he was now. I�d struck out there, but that picture of Herb with the wrestling team was something that stuck with me.

Trent appeared in my doorway.

�Belinda says you came by.�

�Yeah, but I wasn�t looking for you.�

He held his spot.

�Something up?� I said.

�Just wondered how it was going, after our talk Saturday.�

�I don�t have any news. Just... figuring out what to do.� I told him, briefly, about Bonnie�s sister and how her injury had overtaken other events.

He shook his head sympathetically. �One thing after another.�

�Yeah.�

�And there might be one more.�

Christ, what now?

�I had a call from a Violet Kanin,� Trent said. �You�ve got Andrew in your class?�

I nodded.

�She, and a few other parents, it seems, are looking to have a meeting,� he said.

�About?�

Trent sighed. �What you�re teaching.�

My mind raced as I tried to guess what this might be about. It didn�t take long. �A literary tour through a post-apocalyptic world�s not Andrew�s idea of a good time.�

�Go figure,� Trent said, and left the room.

Slowly, I bent over and touched my forehead to my desk.

Kill me now.

Not long after Trent left, I had a text from someone named Arthur Crone, with the teachers union, saying he�d had a call from Bonnie and wondered if now was a good time to call. I texted back: Yes.

�I did some checking,� he said moments later. �You don�t have to worry about this lawsuit. It�s flimsy to begin with anyway. But we�ve got your back on this. Won�t cost you a penny.�

�Did you already tell Bonnie?� I asked.

�No, she asked me to look into it and then I went directly to you. You want me to let her know?�

�Leave it with me. And thanks.�

The moment I was done with Arthur, another text. This one was from Jack. He had been to the bank and had the ten thousand in cash for the boat. I replied with a thumbs-up emoji.

When I returned the yearbooks to the office, I asked Belinda if the school had addresses on file for former students.

�Name?� she asked.

�William Finster. Billy. The one I mentioned earlier, that I ran into.�

She tapped away on her computer. �We�ve got one, but it�s old.�

�I�ll take it anyway,� I said, bringing out a pen and a small pad from my pocket.

Belinda gave me an address on Sycamore Drive. I scribbled it down. Uncharacteristically for her, she asked, �What are you looking for him for again?�

�I might engage his services,� I said. �When I ran into him he mentioned something about doing renovation work. Should have got his number from him at the time.�

That was enough to satisfy Belinda. I hoped.

Now that I had an address, what was I going to do with it? It was likely outdated, and even if it was current, what was the plan? Knock on his door and ask him to reconsider? Sneak Trent�s gun out of his desk and shoot Billy through the head?

Yeah, there was an idea.

�Belinda,� I said, �can I bug you for one other thing?� She looked at me expectantly. �Still have an address for Anson Reynolds?�

�There�s a name I haven�t thought of in a while,� she said, turning to her computer and tapping away. �Not too long after he died, his wife sent us a change-of-address in case there were any benefits forms or anything to pass on. She sold their house and moved into an apartment. Here we go. On Golden Hill.� She wrote an address and phone number on a notepad sheet and handed it to me.

�What�s her name again?�

�Grace.�

Before she could ask, I offered a reason. �This Billy and a couple of his buds were wondering what happened to their coach, didn�t know he�d passed, and were thinking of sending his wife a note about, you know, how they had nice memories of him.�

�Isn�t that nice.�

On my way to the Sycamore Drive address Belinda had given, I thought about what Grace Reynolds had revealed to me.

Her husband Anson had been depressed for some time. He�d been good, she said, at not showing it at work, but outside of school he was a man tormented by private demons. She�d urged him to seek help, to talk to someone, anyone, but he said he couldn�t bring himself to do that.

�You�ve no idea what was troubling him?� I asked.

She had shaken her head sadly. �You read stories all the time about people, like these big celebrities who you think have everything, but they�re miserable. There doesn�t have to be a reason.�

Unless there was.

When Grace wasn�t home, he�d started up the car in the garage with the doors closed, and sat behind the wheel until he�d accomplished what he�d set out to do. Before dying, he�d paid off the monthly bills, changed the batteries in all the smoke detectors, and fixed a plugged drain in the kitchen that he�d been meaning to get to. He hadn�t, Grace said, wanted her to have to deal with any of the everyday stuff in the days and weeks after his passing.

She hadn�t wanted the world to know how he�d gone, and the various authorities acceded to her request to say he had passed of �heart failure.� She didn�t even think Trent knew how he had actually died.

I thanked her for her time and the coffee, told her I would think about whether I had the time to come back and search through those boxes in the second bedroom for Anson�s lesson plans, and caught a glimpse of her knocking back that drink as I was showing myself out.

And now I was on Sycamore. The Finster house.

It was a modest bungalow with an attached garage. As I did a slow drive-by, I saw that all the drapes were drawn, the grass needed cutting, and there was a for sale sign on the lawn. There were some flyers sticking out of a jammed mailbox by the front door.

The place did not look lived-in at all.

I went to the end of the street, turned around, drove past the house once more, then pulled over to the shoulder and parked. I got out and walked up to the house one door over from the Finster house and rang the bell.

A harried-looking woman in her twenties, balancing a baby on her hip, appeared after about thirty seconds. �Yes?� she said, opening the screen a foot.

�I was looking for the Finsters,� I said. �Is that their place next door? Up for sale?�

�Yeah, well, it was,� she said, shifting the baby to her other hip. �First Mr. Finster died about three years back, then Mrs. Finster. But they didn�t own the house, they rented. Owner had it on the market awhile, hasn�t rented it out to anyone else.�

�I was looking for Billy,� I said.

�Billy?� she said, and blushed. �Him and me actually went out for a while there, back in the day, but he got married to someone used to be a friend of mine.� The emphasis on �used to be� suggested this friend might have had something to do with her breaking up with Billy.

�You know where they live now?�

�Yeah, sure.�

I didn�t pass out.

Bonnie helped me into the house and got me as far as the kitchen, where I sat. Rachel, thankfully, was in the backyard, and did not see me in distress. Bonnie had her phone out, her finger poised over the screen.

�What are you doing?� I asked.

�Calling an ambulance,� she said matter-of-factly. �You�re having a heart attack.�

�No, no,� I protested. �It�s not a heart attack.� I licked my lips. �I think it�s a panic attack. I�m okay now.�

She set the phone down, went to a cupboard, and brought out a small plastic container of aspirin. She shook one out into her hand and held it in front of me. �Chew this.�

I did as I was told.

Bonnie picked her phone back up and, despite another protest from me, hit 911. Three seconds later she was telling a dispatcher our address and that she was worried her husband might be having a heart attack. �Yes,� she said, �I just gave him one.�

She ended the call.

�I�m not having a heart attack,� I said again.

�I hope you�re right, but we�re not taking any chances.�

I nodded, knowing it was pointless to argue now that the paramedics were on their way.

�You�re going to tell me what�s going on,� Bonnie said, �but not now.�

While we waited for the ambulance to arrive, Rachel came into the house and could tell immediately that something was wrong. I tried to persuade her it was nothing serious.

�I was feeling a little off for a minute,� I told her, �and your mother called an ambulance just to be sure I�m okay.�

Her face looked like it might break. �You can help,� I said. �You can let us know when the ambulance gets here.�

She nodded and ran. A couple of minutes later, she screamed, �They�re here! They�re here!�

She had the front door open before Bonnie could get there and lead them into the kitchen. It was a team of two, a man and a woman.

�I�m fine,� I said before they�d even said hello.

They asked me a slew of questions, checked my blood pressure, conducted an electrocardiograph with some little gadget Rachel watched with a mixture of fear and fascination.

�What�s with the bandages?� the female paramedic asked, noticing the ones on my neck and forehead.

�They�re old.�

�And what about this?� She was indicating the bruise on my temple and my puffy eyelid. �Did you fall when you had your episode?�

I�d forgotten I�d been hit. �No, I didn�t fall.� I needed a second to remember the lie I�d told Bonnie. �I got hit with a basketball. It�s fine.�

When they were finished with their speedy tests, they concluded it was unlikely I�d had a cardiac event. But they advised me to come to the hospital anyway.

�I�m okay,� I insisted. �I�ve been under a lot of stress lately, that�s all.�

Rachel piped up, �Dad nearly got killed when the bomb went off.�

Bonnie added more details. The paramedics nodded. They knew all about the LeDrew incident.

�We can�t force you to come,� the woman said. �Something�s happened to you. Just how serious it is would take further tests.�

I was adamant. And maybe stupid. But I sent them on their way.

Once the house was quiet again, and Rachel, still looking somewhat stricken, went to her room after being persuaded I was not going to drop dead, Bonnie went to the freezer for one of the soft ice packs we keep on hand.

�It may be late for this, but hold it on the side of your head.� She handed me the pack, and a towel to hold it with so it didn�t freeze my hand. I did as I was told while Bonnie made some tea, and then sat across the table from me.

�Let�s hear it,� she said.

And so I told her.

Pretty much all of it. Everything that had happened since Finster first approached me on the street Friday out front of our house. How I�d tried to find out more about him. Found his house. Him turning the tables on me, striking me. (At that point in my story, Bonnie�s face flushed red with rage.) I explained the anguish I�d been going through about what was the best way to handle this. My fears of what an allegation like this could do not only to me, but to Bonnie and Rachel. How, given my history, it was just one more thing.

I�d asked Bonnie at the outset to let me get the story out before asking questions. I knew she�d have plenty.

I was afraid her first one would be whether the abuse allegation was true. So I decided to beat her to it.

�Are you going to ask if I did it?�

She shook her head without hesitation. �No,� she said, and put her hand on mine and squeezed. �Somebody might have, but not you.�

I�d included Anson Reynolds in my story, the newly revealed information that he had taken his own life.

�Thank you,� I said weakly, taking a sip of the tea with my free hand. The right side of my head had gone numb from the ice pack.

�You should have told me right away.�

�I�ve told you why I didn�t.�

�Not good enough.�

I nodded. I took the ice pack away from my head and put it on the table. �How�s it look?� I asked.

Bonnie examined me. �The swelling might have gone down a titch. Your eyelid looks less swollen.� She pressed her lips together angrily. �That son of a bitch.�

�Yeah.�

Bonnie said, �Marta got it right. How what happened might affect you. This whole week you�ve been in shock. You�re not thinking clearly. You�re not making rational decisions. Look, this would throw anyone for a loop, but for someone who�s just gone through what you have? It�s over the top.�

�Maybe it�s not irrational to spare us from a scandal, even if it�s bullshit.�

�There�s no proof. If he comes forward, we level the extortion accusation. And if he makes an anonymous allegation, no one�s going to put any faith in that. Wouldn�t be the first time some student tried to smear a teacher who�d given him a bad mark or suspended him, or just did it out of mischief.�

�What about Lyall Temple?�

Again, she shook her head. �That boy himself said what you did was compassion, pure and simple. That you comforted him in a time of need. His father had died. You can ride this out. They might put you on a paid leave, but you�d get through it. We�d all get through it. I don�t think you have any choice but to ride this out. If you pay him, you�re saying you�re guilty. And if you pay him once, he�ll come back again and again.�

I knew she was right, but it still felt like rolling the dice, doing it her way. I still had a backup plan in the back of my mind, one I didn�t want to share.

�He wants the money tonight.�

�If he shows up, we call the police,� she said emphatically. �And we shouldn�t wait for that to happen. We need to bring Marta into this. She needs to know. That�s how we get ahead of this.�

I was less sure about that. �You might believe I wouldn�t molest some kid, but will she?�

�Yes,� Bonnie said, but I thought it took her about half a second too long to answer. �She will. If she has any doubts, I�ll make sure she comes around.�

�The thing is,� I said, and this was going to be difficult to admit, �I feel humiliated. I allowed myself to be bullied. I let this fucker intimidate me. It�s as if I had only so much courage � or stupidity, depending on how you look at it � in reserve, and used it all up when I faced down Mark LeDrew, and I need time to build it back up.�

In what was the only moment of levity that entire day, Bonnie grinned and said, �It�s kind of like trying to have sex twice in half an hour.�

�Thanks for not adding �at your age.� But yeah, like that. So can you let me think of this till morning, about whether to bring Marta to the rescue?�

Bonnie thought about it. �Okay. And anyway, I need to find out how she�s doing. I hope she wasn�t foolish enough to go back to work today.�

�I�ll bet she did.�

�I�d promised to drop by and then things got away from me.� She glanced at the wall clock. �I�m going to order you guys a pizza. And pick one up on the way to Marta�s.�

That made me nervous.

�Promise me. Not a word about this to her. Not yet, anyway.�

Bonnie considered my request, and nodded. �I promise.�

She picked up her phone, opened an app that would take her to the place we always patronized, and with a couple of taps placed a repeat of a previous order. As she finished, my own cell rang. I took it out of my pocket and looked at the number. I didn�t recognize it.

I said, �This might be it.�

The phone rang a second time. A third.

Bonnie looked at me, said nothing. She didn�t have to. I knew what she wanted me to do. And she was hoping she�d given me the strength to do it.

Fourth ring. Fifth.

I picked up. �Hello?�

�Bring the money to��

I said, �Fuck you. I�m not paying. Do what you�ve gotta do, asshole.�

As I ended the call and put the phone down on the table, Bonnie gave me a smile. She might even have looked proud of me.

�I�m going to go upstairs, check on Rach, and then I�m out of here,� Bonnie said, and slipped out of the kitchen.

I sat there, taking deep breaths to keep myself on an even keel. I muted my phone so that if that asshole called back, I wouldn�t have to listen to the ring. But a minute later, I saw the screen light up with a text.

I turned the phone facedown, tried to pretend I hadn�t even seen the message. Moments later, Bonnie reappeared long enough to grab her purse and keys. �Pizza�s on its way,� she said, kissed my forehead gently, and was gone.

It arrived ten minutes later. I got out two plates and placed a couple of slices on each.

�Rach!�

She came running into the kitchen. If she had been worried earlier about her dad being looked over by a pair of paramedics, she was over it now. There was great healing power in the aroma of cheese and pepperoni.

�Can we eat in front of the TV?� she asked. I had no objection.

Rachel went onto one of the streaming services and picked How to Train Your Dragon, a movie she�d watched at least ten times already. My mind was not on the screen. I couldn�t stop thinking about that last text I�d received.

My blackmailer was half-right. He�d said I was going to be sorry. I was already sorry. Sorry that I�d allowed him to manipulate me. Sorry that I hadn�t stood up to him. Sorry that I had allowed myself to become a victim.

No more.

Bonnie had led me to something of a breakthrough. I wasn�t going to take this shit any longer. I had to find a way to take control of my situation, on my own. Tonight. And if I failed, then I�d have to accede to Bonnie�s wishes and bring Marta into this in the morning.

But in the meantime, I felt I needed someone else � someone other than Bonnie, and not Marta � to hash this over with.

I wanted to talk to Trent, tell him the rest of the story, reveal my blackmailer�s identity. I wanted to know if he was aware Anson had taken his own life and whether he thought there was anything to be read into that. I needed to know he�d have my back if and when this all became public. And I had a hell of a favor to ask.

I slipped out of the family room and phoned Mrs. Tibaldi.

�Hi, Richard,� she said, obviously seeing my caller ID.

�Mrs. Tibaldi, hey, sorry to bother you. I know it�s after hours, but would you be able to take Rachel if I brought her over in a few minutes? Couple of hours or so. Just add it into what we pay you at the end of the month. Bonnie had to go out, and now there�s something I have to do.�

�Bring her over.�

I thanked her and went back into the family room to break the news to Rachel.

�Everything is crazy around here,� she said.

He decided to head out to the garage and see for himself how easy it was to get into the carry-on bag.

Taking the gun with him, he unlocked the side door, put the gun on the worktable, and used his key to open the locker. Took out the carry-on bag, set it on the bench.

Billy found, if not the same video Lucy had watched, one very similar, which illustrated how easy it was to get into a locked bag. Working a pencil between the zipper teeth made a joke out of the small lock that held the two zipper ends together.

�Fuck me,� he said to himself when he realized how simply it could be done.

Maybe Lucy was right. He�d demonstrate what he�d learned when Psycho Bitch and Butthead came to call. Not that this made him any less angry with her. She�d landed them in shit up to their eyeballs, and damned if he didn�t nearly pull that trigger at one point.

Good thing he hadn�t. First of all, what a mess it would have made. And what would he have done with her afterward? What would he say when the hospital called and asked why she hadn�t shown up for her shift? Maybe he could�ve said she�d left him. He thought that was probably a tale he could sell, because even Billy had enough self-awareness to know he wasn�t the Porsche in a lot full of Pintos.

And the thing was, he loved her. Sure, in the moment he could have put a bullet in her head, but he loved her.

So, yeah, maybe Andrea and Gerhard could be persuaded that it might, just might, not be his fault. Or at least raise some level of doubt in their minds. And if that kept them from killing him, fine and dandy. If they wanted to get someone else to do what he�d been doing, find another guy at another airport, fine by him.

Frankly, Billy�d be glad to see the ass end of them. Especially the woman. His nipple still hurt like a motherfucker.

He closed the case back up, again following the tips he�d learned from the video, the zipper ends still linked together with the tiny lock. He was about to return it to the locker when he heard a rapping at the side door.

Had Lucy come back? Had she forgiven him for waving a gun in her face? The real question was, had he forgiven her for getting them into this mess? He didn�t think she�d be back this soon.

The pickup was set for tonight, so he shouldn�t be surprised if Andrea and Gerhard were here, although it was a little early. They usually showed up after nine, sometimes closer to ten. So Billy didn�t bother securing the carry-on bag behind a locked door.

He tucked the gun behind his back, under his belt. Didn�t think his associates would respond well if he opened the door with a gun in his hand. He took a deep breath, wanting to look as relaxed and unruffled as possible.

He opened the door. The bulb in the lamp above it had burned out, but it wasn�t so dark yet that he couldn�t see who it was.

Stuart.

Billy invited him in with a nod of his head.

�You look pissed,� Stuart said. �This a bad time?�

�Had a huge fight with Lucy. She took off.�

�What�s it this time?�

Billy shook his head tiredly. �You were right.�

�Fuck, no.�

�Yeah. It was Lucy. She dipped into the stash.�

�Oh man. What�re you gonna do?�

�Don�t know. Not so sure they�ll understand. Maybe take one last shot at trying to convince them there was a way someone else could have got into the case before it reached me. If Lucy could figure it out watching YouTube, anybody could.�

Heading over to his workbench, he turned his back to Stuart, who noticed for the first time what was tucked under the belt at Billy�s back.

�Uh, what�s with the gun, man?�

�Oh,� Billy said, like he�d forgotten it was there. He reached around for it, placed it sideways in his palm, and held it out for inspection. �Got it just in case. Wanna hold it?�

Stuart�s eyes went wide with wonder. Tentatively, he took it from Billy�s hand.

�Loaded?� he asked.

�Wouldn�t be much good otherwise. Just don�t fucking point it at me.�

Stuart raised the weapon as though getting ready to fire it, squinting over the barrel. �Pew, pew,� he said.

�It�s not Luke Skywalker�s blaster,� Billy said. �Give it to me before you do something stupid.�

Billy put the gun back on the workbench, turned around, leaned his butt up against it, crossed his arms, then placed his hand on his stomach. �So much shit going on, I forgot to eat. Stomach sounds like a cement mixer.�

Stuart said, �I could get some wings. Be back super-fast.�

Billy shrugged. �Sure.� He pulled out his wallet, handed over a couple of twenties. �Sorry for the way I�ve treated you, man.�

Stuart waved him off, slipped out the side door, and closed it behind him. Billy remained propped up against the workbench and gave the Camaro a long, defeated look.

�I really got no fuckin� idea,� he said to himself.

Only a minute or two had passed before there was another rapping at the door. He opened it.

�Billy Finster,� said his latest visitor.

�The hell do you want?�

�This shit is over.�

I drove.

I drove through downtown Milford. I drove across the bridge into Stamford. I drove around aimlessly for maybe half an hour while I rehearsed in my head what I was going to say to my blackmailer.

Something along the lines of this:

Do what you want, Billy. I don�t care. I won�t be blackmailed. You know it�s not true. I�ll just have to roll with whatever happens. If someone really did do this to you, you have my sympathies. I was willing to help you, hold whoever did it to account, but I won�t let you smear me with a lie.

Yeah, something like that.

What I needed from him was an acknowledgment that he was lying, that he knew I�d never assaulted him back when he was a Lodge student, that his only goal was getting some money out of me.

And I would record it all on my phone.

I�d pulled over at one point and done a practice run. Opened up the Voice Memos app and slipped the phone down into the front pocket of my sport jacket. Put on the car radio, said a few words of my own, then checked to see whether the phone had picked it all up.

Perfectly.

If he said the things I needed him to say, and if he went through with his threat, I�d have something to play for the police.

Sure, if I�d been smarter, I�d have brought in the police � or, more specifically, my sister-in-law � from the get-go. But now I was determined to solve this problem on my own. I needed to restore my honor and this was the only way I could think to do it.

The persistent throbbing on the side of my head was a reminder that maybe this confrontation warranted being armed with more than a recording app. I didn�t own a gun and had never wanted to, and now was not the time to find one and learn how to use it. But that didn�t mean I had to go into this empty-handed.

So when I spotted a Dick�s Sporting Goods store, I pulled into the parking lot and went inside. Found my way to the aisle where they kept the baseball bats.

I hadn�t owned a bat since I was a kid, and was taken aback by the selection, and the prices. Some of them were going for up to four hundred dollars. But I found a Rawlings made out of maple that went for about eighty bucks that I believed was up to the job.

Paid for it in cash and tossed it onto the front seat of the car.

It was time.

I parked where I had before, although this time I didn�t let the right side of the car rest on that woman�s lawn. The last thing I needed was her coming out and giving me shit again.

I killed the engine and the lights, and made sure the Subaru�s doors were locked so as to keep anyone from surprising me again with a backseat visit. I sat there in the dark, watching Billy Finster�s house, listening to the engine tick as it cooled. The bat was on the seat next to me.

The street was quiet. The silver Kia I�d seen the woman get into and drive off in was not there. Nor was the rusted-out pickup truck Billy�d been driving when he�d first approached me at my home. But there was what looked to be a GMC mostly windowless van parked up close to the garage. Maybe Billy had two vehicles, and the pickup was tucked away.

It looked as though someone was home. There were lights on in the house, and slivers of light around the edges of the garage door.

�Showtime,� I said to myself.

With my right hand I grabbed the bat, and with my left opened the door. When the car�s interior light came on, I winced. Idiot. Nothing like announcing your arrival.

I got out and quickly closed the door to extinguish the light. I stood there a moment, holding my breath, then did a three-sixty, looking to see whether anyone had noticed my arrival.

So far, so good.

I switched the bat to my left hand and with my right opened the Voice Memos app on my phone, set it to start recording, and dropped it into the front pocket of my sport jacket. I took the bat back into my right hand and gave it a light swing at my side, getting the feel of it.

I am not going to beat this man to death. I only have this to defend myself.

I started walking toward the house and hadn�t gone more than a car length when I heard a vehicle turn onto the street. Slight squeal of tires, the engine roaring.

I looked back and saw headlights coming my way. They hadn�t caught me in their beam, and I certainly didn�t want them to. I quickly stepped off the street and sought cover behind an oak tree broad enough to shield me.

The car, an Audi A4 or A6 in black, went speeding past my hiding spot. The brake lights came on, the car slowed and turned abruptly into the driveway of Billy Finster�s house.

Hello.

The driver killed the headlights and the engine and got out. A woman. About five-five, skinny, scraggly hair down to her shoulders. A stocky guy got out on the passenger side. Together, they walked purposefully to the front door, the woman banging on it with her first hard enough that I could hear from my hiding spot.

They waited maybe ten seconds for someone to answer before she banged on it again. When the second knock produced no response, they headed for the garage. This time the guy did the knocking, hitting the small door at the side with his fist.

No one came, so he turned the handle, found the place unlocked, and went inside, the woman following.

Billy must have been there, because I could hear indistinct conversation that soon turned to shouting. From my location, I couldn�t make out much of what was said, but I did hear this:

�Where is it? Where the fuck is it?�

Banging and crashing followed. I heard what sounded like a metal door being slammed shut. Whatever was going on in there between Billy and his visitors, it wasn�t going well. Who were these people? More blackmail victims? Was Billy into other shenanigans that hadn�t made him any friends?

The man and the woman emerged about five minutes later, closing the door behind them. I couldn�t tell for sure, but it looked like they were wearing gloves as they headed for the house. Although I couldn�t see them going to the back door, I was able to hear them kicking it in.

It wasn�t a big house. One story, with a basement, judging by the low-rise windows at ground level. I could make out hurried shadows moving behind blinds or curtains. They were searching the place. And, from the faint sounds I could hear, tearing it apart. At one point, through what was most likely a bedroom window, I thought I saw a mattress being overturned.

Ten minutes went past.

Finally, the two came out the back door. If they�d found what they were looking for, it wasn�t evident. Neither of them was carrying anything.

They walked quickly and purposefully back to the Audi, like they wanted to run but didn�t want to attract attention. They looked, as best I could tell from my position, grim-faced. The woman got back in behind the wheel. The man got in on the other side and slammed the door angrily.

The Audi kicked up dirt and gravel as it backed quickly out of the driveway. Once on the street, the car sped off in the direction it had come from.

Everything went very quiet.

I didn�t move. The bat hung at my side from my right hand. My phone was still recording. I took it from my pocket, hit the stop button, and deleted the recording.

Things had become a little more complicated.

I�d come here to confront Billy, but someone had beaten me to the punch. The smartest thing would be for me to abort. Take my bat, get in the car, and go home.

And yet.

An overwhelming sense of curiosity had taken hold. No longer was I here to take a stand. I wanted to know what had happened in that garage.

I brought up the bat, holding it crossways in front of me, right hand at the base, the wide end to my left. I cut across grass, wanting to make less noise than I would walking down the gravel driveway. When I got to the door, I rapped on it lightly.

No response.

I tried the handle and, just as those two visitors before me had, found it unlocked.

I opened the door, let it swing wide.

The lights were on.

I went inside.

Bonnie�s car was in the driveway when I got home, so I was betting she had already been to Mrs. Tibaldi�s and picked up Rachel, having seen my text.

I took a couple of deep breaths before I got out of the car and slipped quietly into the house. I did not announce my arrival. It was nearly ten. Maybe Bonnie�d gone to bed. Rachel would surely be asleep by now.

I gently set my keys into the decorative bowl on the table by the front door, slipped off my jacket, and hung it over the bottom post on the stairs.

When I went into the kitchen, I found Bonnie sitting there.

Looking at me.

�Oh hey,� I said. �I thought maybe you�d already gone up.�

�No,� she said flatly.

She had a coffee mug on the table in front of her, her finger looped into the handle. Bonnie didn�t usually drink coffee this late at night. But then I saw the empty wine bottle on the counter by the sink.

�Where were you?� she asked. It wasn�t a casual question. It carried an accusing tone.

�Out,� I said.

�You hadn�t said anything about going out when I left.�

�It was a last-minute thing.�

�It must have been important, if you had to get Mrs. Tibaldi to take Rachel on short notice.�

�Went to see Trent,� I said.

�Why?�

�I needed to talk to him. About... everything. I wanted to hear what he had to say.�

�I thought I�d helped you with all that.�

�You did. You helped a lot.�

�But you still needed to talk to Trent.�

I shrugged. �I guess.�

�So what did he say?�

�He wasn�t home,� I said. �He was at some school meeting.�

�Oh,� she said. �Then why didn�t you come back home if he wasn�t there? Did you go to the school, find him there?�

�No.�

�Then where were you?�

�I drove around. You know, sometimes you just need to wander to think things through. What�s with the wine?�

�What?�

�There was the better part of a bottle there, last time I looked. You killed it off?�

She shrugged. �I felt like a drink.�

�Looks like more than a drink.�

�I was a little stressed when I got home,� Bonnie said.

The truth was, I needed one, too. Badly. I went to the freezer, brought out a bottle of vodka, poured some into a glass, and added some soda.

�Why are you so stressed out?� I asked, then I remembered where she�d been. �Marta. Did something happen with Marta?�

She took a beat too long to answer. �She�s fine.�

�You told her,� I said. �I asked you not to.�

�I didn�t tell her,� she said, bristling.

�Then what�s with this?� I asked, nodding at the empty wine bottle.

�Who wouldn�t be stressed, after everything you told me? Christ, I thought you�d had a heart attack today. Of course I�m stressed. You look stressed.�

She had that right.

The room went quiet. Something was going on here. With both of us. I knew what was going on with me, the tension I was holding in, how I was replaying in my mind what had happened in Billy Finster�s garage. But Bonnie was holding back something, too.

She bit her lower lip and looked away. I knew that look. She was on the verge of tears and was determined to hold them back. She was deciding whether to tell me why she�d been sitting here alone in the kitchen, getting drunk.

She suddenly blurted out, �I almost had an accident on the way home.�

�What?�

�I got your text, had picked up Rachel, and I was turning into the driveway when this asshole tried to pass me. Nearly T-boned me.�

�Jesus. You�re okay?�

�Yeah, I�m sitting here, aren�t I? But it never would have happened if you hadn�t gone out and I didn�t have to get Rachel. We could�ve been killed.�

So if they�d been hurt, it would have all been on me. Okay. I didn�t believe this was what had her so preoccupied. She was channeling, getting angry with me about one thing to cover up something else.

I broke the silence that had lasted the better part of half a minute. �What�s really going on, Bonnie?�

�I could ask you the same,� she said. �Why�d you go out?�

I countered, �Did you even go to Marta�s?�

Bonnie finished off whatever was left in her coffee mug. She set it down with a bang, stood up, and said, �I�m going to bed.�

�Bonnie, please, talk to me.�

�You talk to me,� she said.

I knew what I needed to tell her, but I couldn�t make the words come. I�d opened up to her earlier in the evening, told her everything, but things had changed. One problem had been replaced by another that was potentially far worse.

Exponentially far worse.

She walked straight past me on her way to the stairs. That was how our day ended. I was keeping something big from her, and she was clearly keeping something big from me.

We were in some deep kind of shit here.

I should have called in sick Tuesday.

Sleep had eluded me. I tossed and turned all night, spent much of the time staring at the ceiling. I wasn�t the only one. Bonnie, beside me, was awake, too, but neither of us would acknowledge that we weren�t sound asleep.

We barely spoke at breakfast. Moved around each other in the kitchen like well-choreographed but silent dancers who could execute their moves without tripping over each other. Rachel looked dismayed. For a day or two there, she�d had reason to believe her parents were working through their differences. Attentive to one another. Chatting. But now a frost had settled in again. Mom and Dad not saying any more to each other than they absolutely had to. Rachel had kept her nose to her iPad through breakfast, reading about some disgusting bug or other, disappearing into her new interest.

I was in a brain fog. I couldn�t focus on the lessons I had to teach, and when any of my students asked me anything, I often didn�t register hearing my own name. Like I said, I should have called in sick, but was worried that doing so had the potential, later, to make me look suspicious.

I did have to field a few questions, from students as well as colleagues, about how I�d earned that bruise on my right temple and cheek. I was sticking with the story about getting hit with a basketball, and more than a few looked skeptical, some pressing to know who�d thrown the ball. I sidestepped, said I didn�t want to get anyone into trouble.

Despite that, I tried to act as though nothing unusual had happened to me in the last twenty-four hours. But all day I kept looking out that same window where I had spotted Mark LeDrew, expecting to see a Milford police car pull into the lot. Sooner or later, I feared, something was going to connect me to my visit to Billy Finster�s the night before.

All they had to do was look at the call history on his phone. They�d see he�d called me not long after I�d told Bonnie everything, even texted me when I�d told him I wasn�t going to give in to his demands.

How would I explain that? What reason could I come up with for his You�ll be sorry text?

I hoped he�d used another phone for that, a burner, that maybe he�d gotten rid of. Why hadn�t I looked for it when I was there? Too shocked, that�s why.

During a free hour in my schedule, Trent came to my room.

�You came by the house last night?� he said.

�Yeah,� I said, my back to him as I wiped down my blackboard, erasing a lesson on symbolism.

�Everything okay?� he asked.

�Everything�s fine. I was just... just going to talk to you some more about my circumstances.�

�Well, I�m here now.�

�It�s okay,� I said. �I�ve burdened you enough with all this. I appreciate it, I do. I�m sure things will find a way of working out.�

�So... what are you saying?� He closed the door. �You paid him? It�s over?�

�I didn�t � I think my blackmailer�s had a change of heart.� More like his heart stopped working.

�You heard from him?�

I put down the eraser and raised my palms, signaling I really didn�t want to talk about this anymore. �Trent, really, forget I ever mentioned any of this. Put it out of your head.�

He stood there, studying me. �What aren�t you telling me?�

�Nothing. Just... let it go.�

Trent nodded slowly, mulling over my request. �Okay, then,� he said. �If you change your mind, if you want to talk, you know where to find me.�

�Thank you.� I expected him to withdraw, but he was still standing there. �What?�

�I know you need this like a hole in the head, but��

God, what now?

�Another lawsuit?� I said. �I already got served by the LeDrews, forwarded the paperwork to the union.�

�Not that,� he said. �Remember me telling you about some parents being concerned about the books in your class?�

I needed a second. Andrew Kanin. The Road.

�Yeah,� I said.

�They�d like a meeting. How do you decide what book is worth studying? What are the criteria?�

�Really? There�s not a book out there someone wouldn�t find objectionable. Maybe we should abandon the teaching of ideas, Trent. Just teach them the times table and the state capitals and send them on their merry fucking way.�

�I�m on your side here.�

I sighed. �I�m sorry. I�m at the end of my tether.�

�I get it, but let me tell you the spot I�m in. I can�t dismiss their concerns even if I have problems with them. I have to listen, and we have to make our case. They�d like to meet tonight. The best person� Why do you keep looking out the window?�

�What? Sorry, I was � it�s nothing. Go on.�

�The best person to talk to them, to explain why The Road, or any number of other books, might engage students, get them thinking, get them talking, would be you. But at the same time, you�ve been to hell and back and don�t need this. I can handle it if you want to be excused.�

In my head, I was screaming. But I managed to say, calmly, �No, it�s okay.�

Maybe, with any luck, I�d be arrested sometime today and would have a good excuse for not showing up.

�If you can handle it, great, but you should think about a leave of absence,� Trent said. �A week, a month, whatever you think you need. I know I can get it approved.�

Now Trent looked out the window. He�d spotted what had caught my eye a moment earlier out on the school�s field. Wandering it aimlessly was Ronny Grant, our former caretaker.

�Oh shit,� Trent said. �He won�t stay away.�

He looked woefully at me, as though expecting a question. �I didn�t have any choice. He�d been told about the door, that it wouldn�t latch. I had a list of things he was supposed to do and he hadn�t gotten to any of them. Even without the LeDrew incident, I�d been thinking I was going to have to do something about him. He�s been in to see me three times begging to get his job back. I�ve told him there�s nothing I can do. The board wanted his head on a platter. Now he�s moping about like Charlie Brown, making a nuisance of himself. The second time he came in to see me, he�d been drinking.�

I felt a certain kinship with Ronny in that moment. A twist of fate had left its mark on both of us. He�d fucked up and lost his job. I�d played the hero and drawn the attention of an extortionist. Neither of us could have predicted where our actions, or inactions, would lead.

�Maybe I should have a word with him,� I said. Sometimes I couldn�t stop being me. I just had to help.

By Tuesday afternoon, Marta was reviewing everything she had, so far, on the death of one William �Billy� Finster. He had died of a gunshot wound, at close range, to his upper abdomen. The bullet had gone right though his heart. It would have been quick.

A check of footage from neighbors� surveillance video turned up little. Only a couple of homeowners had tricked their places up with security cameras that captured street traffic, and what video that had been recovered had not proved useful. They did have a partial license plate and the make and model of a car that had been seen near the Finster house, and Marta had been waiting to hear back on that.

No cell phone had been found at the scene. Not on Billy, not in the garage, not in the house. If Billy�d been in the habit of carrying a phone, someone, presumably whoever had shot him, had taken it.

Before packing it in the night before, she had gone to Paulie�s, the chicken wing place. She�d found a receipt tucked into the folds of the box and showed it to the manager. He said it hadn�t been a delivery. The customer had come to the shop, placed the order, and waited outside in his pickup truck until it was ready.

�You get his name?� Marta asked. She already knew, from looking at the receipt, that it had been a cash transaction. No credit card to help with an ID.

The manager shook his head. �Nope. When it was ready I just waved and he came in and got it.�

�He a regular? Seen him before?�

�Once or twice, maybe? I�m not sure.�

When asked for a description, the manager was beyond vague. Height? �Kind of average.� Weight? �Sort of average, I would say.� Hair color? �Kind of average.�

The best Marta could get out of him was that the guy was white, in his twenties, and, after Marta showed him a picture of the deceased she�d taken from his driver�s license, definitely not Billy Finster.

�The truck?�

�An old Ford, I think. Look, I�m deep-frying wings all night. Don�t have time to take notice of anybody.�

Her next stop was the hospital in Bridgeport where Billy Finster�s wife worked. The Finsters� neighbor had come up with that information. No one had seen Lucy since the discovery of her husband�s body, so Marta wasn�t counting on her being at her job, but it was a place to start in trying to find her.

As a courtesy, Marta went directly to the administrator�s office to explain why she was there. She wanted to speak to Lucy Finster�s coworkers. She was taken to a woman named Svetlana, who oversaw the cafeteria operation. Lucy, she said, had not shown up for her shift that morning.

�I called her but her phone went straight to message,� Svetlana said.

�She ever just not show up for work before?� Marta asked.

�Never.�

�How�s she seemed lately? Anything different? Anxious about anything?�

�Not that I have noticed. What�s going on? Does this have anything to do with Billy?�

�What makes you think that?�

�She talks about him all the time. Like, nothing specific, just, if she is acting like she is having a bad day, I will ask, and she just shakes her head and says, �Billy.� Have you talked to him?�

Clearly, Svetlana had not gotten the memo, Marta thought.

�Who are Lucy�s friends here?�

Svetlana shrugged. �She does not have many. You could try Digby. I see her talking to him sometimes.�

�Digby?�

She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. �She might have something going on with him, but I don�t like to start rumors.�

�Where would I find Digby?�

Digby, it turned out, was an orderly, and Marta tracked him down on the third floor, wheeling a patient back to her room from the X-ray department. When he had her settled back into her bed and was coming out of the room, Marta held up her badge and introduced herself.

�I gotta help a guy take a dump,� he said. �This important?�

�Digby�s an unusual name. First or last?�

�First name,� he said. �My parents are from Nova Scotia.�

Marta looked at him blankly, not making the connection.

�It�s a place there,� he said. �That�s where they, like, you know, conceived me, when they were on a vacation. So they named me Digby. My last name�s Wentworth.�

�You seen Lucy Finster today, Digby?�

�Who?�

�Digby, some days I have lots of time for bullshit, but I�m on a tight schedule today.�

�Oh yeah, Lucy,� Digby said. �Didn�t hear you right the first time. Haven�t seen her, no. Not sure she�s on today. You should talk to the Russian chick runs the caf.�

�She a friend?�

Digby pursed his lips. �We talk once in a while, but other than that, not really. She�s got a husband. Billy.�

�When you do talk to her, what do you talk about?�

Digby shrugged. �Like, how are you today? What shows you watching? Shit like that.�

�If you hear from her, I�d like you to give me a call right away,� Marta said, handing him a card.

He gave it the quickest of glances and tucked it into the front pocket of his white pants. �Anything else?� he asked.

Marta shook her head slowly.

She took the elevator back down to the first floor and was twenty feet from the reception desk, on her way to the front doors, when she stopped dead.

That woman asking questions at the desk. Holding a bouquet of flowers.

If it wasn�t the woman from the bar Saturday night who�d knocked her out, it was her twin sister.

And then Marta looked down at her shoes.

Converse sneakers.

Marta placed a reassuring hand on the weapon attached to her belt. She held her ground another moment, waiting to see whether the woman would turn this way, give Marta a better look at her face.

She could hear some of the conversation.

�So she does work here?� the woman said.

�Yes,� said the receptionist, tapping away at her computer. �If you�d like to leave those with me I can make sure she gets them.�

�I�d really prefer to give them to her in person.�

�Why don�t I call down to the cafeteria and see if she�s on today. No sense sending you all the way down there if she hasn�t come in for her shift yet.�

�Thanks, I appreciate��

The woman must have noticed someone was standing off to her left. She glanced that way and saw Marta.

The glint of recognition didn�t take longer than a millisecond.

Marta said, �Nice shoes.�

The woman dropped the flowers and bolted.

�Stop!� Marta shouted. �Police!�

Others in the reception area froze, looked around, watched as the woman was forced to wait half a second for a set of sliding glass doors to retract, only to encounter an elderly man on crutches in her path. She shoved him out of her way and he went down, collapsing on the floor in front of Marta, who was torn between helping him and continuing her pursuit.

It�s a fucking hospital, she thought. Someone will tend to him.

In the moment it took to make that decision, the glass doors had slid shut. They began to retract again as Marta took a step toward them, but goddamn, they were slow. Marta squeezed through before they�d fully reopened, and came tearing out of the building at a gallop.

Would have really helped Marta if those Converse sneakers had been on her own feet.

She lost sight of the woman as she reached the bottom of a set of concrete steps and turned right onto the sidewalk.

�Stop!� Marta shouted again. She didn�t know whether the fleeing woman was armed, but Marta had her gun at the ready. Not that she was likely to be able to use it. She couldn�t shoot a suspect in the back. She couldn�t risk hitting someone else on the street.

The woman was sixty feet ahead of her, arms and legs pumping hard. She was a scrawny thing, Marta thought, and fast. But Marta was no slouch herself. She ran three mornings a week, usually four miles, and believed she could keep up this pace for as long as it took.

But then the game changed.

A black Audi had barreled up the street and was riding along right beside her. Then, with a squeal and a large thump, it jumped the curb, aiming for Marta.

�Shit!� she cried, and moved sharply to the right. She�d been running so quickly she lost her balance and fell, thinking, in the two seconds it took to hit the sidewalk: Not your head. Don�t hit your fucking head.

The car kept going until it reached the woman, screeched to a stop long enough for the woman to leap in, then sped off, burning rubber.

Before Marta slowly got to her feet, she looked at the car, hoping she�d be able to get a glimpse of the plate, but it was already too far away.

She limped her way back to the hospital and went straight for the reception desk.

�What did that woman want?� she asked, struggling to catch her breath.

The woman at the desk said, �She wanted to deliver some flowers.�

�To who?�

�A woman who works in the cafete��

�Who?�

�Lucy Finster.�

Marta was continuing to catch her breath, trying to absorb the significance of what she�d just been told. The woman who�d sold Cherise Fowler fentanyl, who�d knocked Marta out, who had stolen her goddamn shoes, was looking for the wife of the guy who�d been murdered the night before.

Her cell phone rang. Marta got it out, tapped the screen, and managed to say, �Harper.�

�Got a hit back on that plate and car description,� a man at the other end of the line said.

Still shaken from nearly being hit by the car, it took a moment for Marta to figure out what this was about. That plate number one of the officers had come up with after talking to the Finsters� neighbors. �Right,� she said finally. �Hang on a second.�

She snapped her fingers at the receptionist. �Pen. Paper.�

The woman quickly handed her something to write with and a pad.

�Shoot,� Marta said into her phone.

The caller read her the information. Marta looked at what she�d scribbled, and blinked. She said, �That can�t be right.�

�That�s what came back.�

�Check it again. I�ll wait.�

Marta heard the clicking of keys in the background. The man came back on a few seconds later and said, �Yep, that�s it.�

Marta ended the call without so much as a thank-you, stared at the notepad, and said, �Fuck me.�

I�d been struggling to compose some notes for what I would say that evening to the parents concerned about what I was having the kids read, but was having a difficult time pulling my thoughts together.

I�d opened up the laptop on my desk intending to see what others in the trenches fighting book banning and censorship had said, but instead of entering that subject into the search field, I typed in �Billy Finster� and then refined that to �William Finster� and right away my screen was filled with stories from the last twelve hours.

There was a short news item in the New Haven paper.

I would like to say that the story came as a total shock to me, but it did not.

There was also a video clip from one of the local TV news stations. The item was shot earlier today out front of the Finster residence, which was still roped off with police tape. The woman standing with the microphone in her hand didn�t have much information beyond what was in the newspaper, but she did have an interview with a woman I recognized as the one who�d asked me to move my car off her lawn. At the bottom of the screen was her name: Dorothy Envers.

Christ, I had more to worry about than Billy�s texts to me. Would she tell police she�d seen someone watching the Finster house earlier in the day? And did she, or anyone else, see me when I returned several hours later?

I was hopeful I�d left no trace of my presence there. Recently, I�d read something about �touch DNA,� where a sample can be obtained if someone does nothing more than touch a surface. The good news there was, I hadn�t touched a thing except for the handle of the door into the garage, and I�d wiped that down with the sleeve of my jacket when I�d left. And that would mean I was in the clear with fingerprints, too. I�d seen no surveillance cameras, and if there had been any, chances were the police would have been at my door by now.

But there was the issue of footprints.

When I�d run across the yard to the garage, I�d passed through grass damp with evening dew, and I supposed it was possible my shoes could have left an imprint on the garage floor. So this morning I�d taken those shoes � an old pair of Asics I�d been wearing for about four years � and dropped them into a trash bin out back of a fast-food joint out on Boston Post Road.

I knew how that looked.

But I didn�t want anyone knowing I�d been there last night. How would I persuade anyone I wasn�t a suspect if they knew the game he�d been trying to run on me?

Well, he wasn�t going to be running it anymore.

I�d heard nothing from Bonnie all day. No call, no text. But then again, I hadn�t been in touch with her, either. Maybe tonight we could sit down. Clear the air.

I might even find the strength to tell her what I�d done.

As I was heading to my car at the end of the school day, I nearly bumped into Herb Willow as he was coming out of his classroom.

�Excuse me,� I said.

We hadn�t spoken since I�d let him have it the other day. If he was still holding a grudge, it wasn�t evident by the smile on his face when he saw me.

�Richard,� he said amiably. �How are you today?�

�Fine, Herb,� I said, and would have continued on my way but he wasn�t done.

�I hear the townsfolk are gathering their pitchforks and torches for a meeting with you tonight.�

So that hadn�t been an amiable smile. More like a devilish one.

�Once these book-banners are convinced something�s unacceptable, it�s hard to win them over,� Herb said. �They just zero in on the objectionable part and won�t consider it in a larger context.�

�There some kind of point you�re trying to make here?�

�I should think it would be obvious. You don�t see the parallels?�

�Enlighten me.�

�You got parents judging what you give their kids to read based on one small excerpt, and you�ve got the whole goddamn school judging me based on one small thing said by a crazy person who wanted to kill us all.�

I couldn�t see what was to be gained, debating a worm.

�I wonder why I see your hand in this meeting,� I said.

Herb feigned offense. �How could you say that? How unprofessional would it be to cause problems for a colleague?�

I turned and walked away.

I was trying to put it together. You can do a lot of thinking in a millisecond.

Last night, at some point before or after I�d been there, Bonnie had also been to Billy Finster�s place. And whatever had happened, it had left her rattled, so rattled that when she�d gotten home she�d downed better than half a bottle of wine in less time than it takes to open a can of Bud Light.

She�d been on the verge of telling me what had happened. She hadn�t been to see Marta. That much I knew. When she�d left the house, she�d clearly intended to go to the Finster place, and, having gone there, had done something that was, in her own words, very dumb. I wish there�d been time for her to spill the rest of it, because then I would have had a better idea what to say to Marta in this moment.

I had no idea why Bonnie had gone there or what had happened in that garage that left her totally freaked out.

Marta had a witness that put Bonnie�s car at the scene. I couldn�t think of any possible excuse Bonnie could provide that would be exculpatory. What could she say, other than possibly the truth? But how damning would the truth be, to her or to me?

I felt a need to protect Bonnie, to cover for her, even though I didn�t know what act I might be covering for. My mind was racing, but not quickly enough. I needed another moment to come up with something.

Rachel, God bless her, bought me some time.

She strolled into the kitchen and her face went wide with a smile. �Aunt Marta!� she said, and threw her arms around her legs.

�Hey, kiddo,� Marta said, leaning over to return the hug.

�Is your head all better?� she asked.

That made Marta smile, too. �Yeah, I�m all better in the head.�

�Are you gonna have dinner with us?�

�No, honey. I just needed to talk to your mom and dad about something. But it�s good to see you, sweetie.�

Rachel seemed to understand that amounted to a dismissal. She gave Marta another squeeze to the thighs and went back to the family room as a familiar rumble from outside made the wineglasses tinkle in the cupboard. Marta seemed about to ask Bonnie what that was, but I had a statement to make.

�It was me,� I said.

Marta cocked her head to one side. �What�s that, Richard?�

�I was out last night, took Bonnie�s car.�

I know Bonnie wanted to ask me what the hell I was doing, but there was no way she could. Not now. I�d crossed that line and there was no going back now. And I was already second-guessing myself. What if Marta�s witness had seen who was behind the wheel? If she had, Marta would catch me in a lie any second now.

�What were you doing in that neighborhood last night?� Marta asked.

�Following a car,� I said.

Marta waited.

�I was coming along West Ave when this asshole in a Corvette cut me off. I try to be cool about these things, but, I don�t know, it just pissed me off so much that I went after him. We were both heading east, and then he � I�m assuming it was a guy � made a hard right onto Utica and took off like a bat out of hell. I was going after him, but Bonnie�s car�s not exactly a sports car, and I lost him. I made a turn onto Wooster and pulled over for a second to decompress, you know?�

�Did you catch the license plate on the �Vette?�

�No,� I said. �But it was white. An older one, from the seventies or eighties, I�d guess.�

�Why were you driving Bonnie�s car instead of your own?� she asked.

�Come on, sis, he answered your question,� Bonnie said.

�No, it�s okay,� I said. �We switch cars lots of times. And I couldn�t find my keys right away and saw Bonnie�s, so I grabbed them instead. It didn�t really matter which car I took.�

�What were you doing, going out at that hour?� Marta asked. �And in that part of town? It�s nowhere near here.�

I sighed and looked downward. �I didn�t really want to get into this, but...�

Bonnie touched my arm. �You don�t have to��

�Might as well tell her,� I said. A dramatic pause. �We�d had a fight.�

�A fight?� Marta asked.

�About the boat.�

Another cock of the head. �Go on.�

�So, you know about the LeDrews suing me. As frivolous as the suit might seem, you have to take these things seriously, and I hadn�t had it confirmed until today that the union would cover any legal costs.�

I had to hope Marta wouldn�t follow up on this, wouldn�t learn that I�d been given this news yesterday.

�So I was going to sell the boat to our neighbor.�

�Jack,� Bonnie said, helping out.

�Right, Jack. He wanted to buy it and we�d agreed on ten thousand, but before we could make the deal final Bonnie went behind my back and canceled it.�

�I didn�t think it was right, or fair,� Bonnie said. �And we all love the boat. But I shouldn�t have canceled the arrangement they had. Not without talking to Richard about it first.�

Go ahead and let Marta check that part of the story, I thought. Jack would confirm it.

�Anyway, I said a few things I shouldn�t have. I know you understand better than most what I�ve been going through. The trauma, the, you know, aftereffects of what happened to me at the school. So I just walked out, went for a drive. I wandered all over Milford, and I don�t even know if I realized where I was when that jerk cut me off. I was already so tense about everything that had happened, I snapped. I went after the car. It�s a good thing I couldn�t catch him. Not for his sake, but for mine. He�d probably have beat the crap out of me or, worse, shot me. You know how these road rage things can spiral out of control. So I guess I pulled over, calmed down, and then I came home.�

�And pulled over by the Finster house,� Marta said.

�I guess,� I said. �I had no idea whose house it was.�

�Did you get out of the car?� she asked.

I had a feeling this was a trick question. Had the witness seen anyone in the car or not? But Marta had only said that Bonnie�s car had been spotted. Nothing about anyone being behind the wheel.

�Yes,� I said. �At one point. Just to kind of walk things off.�

�You see a guy walking his dog?�

�No,� I said. �Is that who saw the car?�

Marta nodded. �Thought it seemed odd, the car sitting there. Made a note of the plate. And some lady next door saw a man watching the house earlier in the day.�

I felt my chest tighten.

�But she didn�t note the plate, wasn�t good at identifying cars, and has cataracts. So she wasn�t much help.�

I relaxed only slightly. There was still the matter of Finster�s call to me. If Marta knew about that, all these other lies would be for nothing.

I glanced at the wall clock.

�Have to be somewhere?� Marta asked.

�An event at the school later. It�s okay, go on.�

�When you stopped, did you see anything?� Marta asked.

�Like?�

�Any other cars speeding off? Did you hear a shot? People running? Anything at all out of the ordinary?�

I shook my head. �No.�

Another pause, and then a quick nod. �Okay, then,� Marta said. �I guess that explains it. When the report came back on that license plate, I have to tell you, it threw me for a loop. It�s a hell of a coincidence.�

�Coincidences happen,� I said.

�I guess they do. Sorry for barging in here and causing you all this trouble. You mind saying goodbye to Rachel for me?�

�No problem,� Bonnie said. �Let me see you out.�

�Take care,� I said, and watched as the two of them walked out of the kitchen.

I dropped into a chair. I�d broken out in a cold sweat. Had Marta bought it? And if she had, for how long?

A minute later, Bonnie came back into the kitchen, crossed her arms, leaned into the doorway, and looked at me.

�Why did you do that?� she asked.

I had a question for her.

�What were you doing at Billy Finster�s place?�

�I went there,� Bonnie said.

�To Billy Finster�s,� I said.

Bonnie nodded.

�It was stupid, I know. I was so angry, so... enraged by this shit he was pulling, what he was doing to you after you�d already been through so much. You didn�t deserve that. So I... I went there to confront him.�

She sighed. �Even while you were telling me what happened, I knew I was going to do it. Threaten him. Tell him who my sister was. That if he didn�t stop this, I�d see that he got arrested.�

We were sitting in the kitchen. Marta had left about ten minutes earlier. In another ninety minutes I was supposed to be at my school to talk to parents about the books I had assigned their kids to read.

I said, �Let me guess what happened. When you got there, he was dead.�

Bonnie slowly shook her head no. �I went to the house and no one answered. I saw a light in the garage and went out there. That�s where I found him.�

She took a breath.

�He was alone. I told him who I was, that I was your wife, that I knew what he was doing, and it had to stop. He pretended to have no idea what I was talking about.�

�He denied it?�

She nodded. �He told me to get out, but I wasn�t having it. I guess I raised my voice, kind of lost it. Told him you were a good man and would never have done what he was accusing you of, and he said something like, �I don�t know who the fuck you�re talking about.� And that�s when he started waving a gun around.�

I shuddered. �Jesus.�

�He pointed it at me, and...�

Bonnie�s hands were starting to shake. �...and I wondered at that moment whether he was going to kill me. I�d never in my life had anyone point a gun at me, and it changes you, you know?�

Like facing down someone with a bomb, I thought.

�And I thought about you and Rachel and what a huge mistake it had been, to go there. So I said I was leaving. And the second I was out of that garage I ran back to my car, didn�t look back, was scared that he might be chasing me, that he�d take a shot before I could get out of there.�

I put my hands over hers to calm them. �But you�re okay. Nothing happened.�

Or hadn�t happened yet. Because at some point, things came to an end for Billy.

She nodded and wiped a tear from her cheek. �I guess, for a moment, I was thinking I was back learning how to be a cop, before I decided to do something different. Thinking I could handle this. What I should have done, what we should have done from the beginning, was bring Marta into it, tell her everything. I�d been thinking all day that when I got home, I�d talk to you about it, insist we call her, because this wasn�t something we could handle. But then she shows up here, and says he�s dead... I had no idea. Somebody killed him, and my car was spotted, and even then I thought I could find a way to explain it, but then you��

�Jumped in and covered for you.�

�Why? Why would you�� Bonnie cut herself off. She was trying to put it together. �Because you thought maybe I�d done it.�

�I never seriously considered that as a possibility.�

�Not seriously,� she repeated. �But you hadn�t ruled it out. Oh my God, Richard.�

�I didn�t think it was good for anyone to think you might have been anywhere near Billy Finster�s place.�

�So you came up with that story because... you knew he was dead. You knew he was dead before Marta came here.�

�I did.�

The kitchen suddenly seemed very quiet. The only sound was the faint noise of Rachel�s movie.

�How... how would you have known he was dead?� she asked tentatively.

�I was there last night, too,� I said. �Clearly, after you were. I wanted to confront him, get real evidence he was lying in case he went public. So I asked Mrs. Tibaldi to look after Rachel. I was thinking I shouldn�t face him alone, so I dropped by Trent�s place to see whether I could talk him into going with me. But he was out. By then I was hyped up, had to see it through. I had this idea I could record him on my phone, get him to admit there was nothing to his accusations, that he just wanted money. So I went there.�

�You shouldn�t have.�

�Look who�s talking.�

�Richard, tell me you didn�t...�

�Let me finish,� I said. �I get there, but then this other car came along. A man and a woman get out, go to the house first, and then the garage, and I hear shouting and all this banging about. And then these two came back out, went into the house, and I could kind of make out through the blinds and curtains that they were tearing the place apart. Finally, they left.�

Bonnie waited.

�So that�s when I went to the garage and found him. Facedown, not moving. There was blood all over the place and I didn�t have to feel for a pulse to know. He was dead. I hadn�t touched a thing except the door handle and I wiped that down and I threw out the shoes I was wearing because I was worried I might have left footprints in the garage.�

�They killed him,� she said. �Did you hear a shot or anything?�

I shook my head. �There�d been so much banging around I thought maybe they�d beat him to death. A story online said he�d been shot. So maybe they used a silencer or something.�

�Who could they have been?� Bonnie asked. �Why would they kill him?�

I shrugged. �I don�t know. But they were looking for something, that�s for sure.�

Bonnie put her head in her hands for a moment. �We have to tell Marta.�

�If we do,� I said, �and she doesn�t believe me, I�ve put myself at the scene. I had a motive, I was there.�

�Yeah, but there�s those two that came to the house.�

�There�s just my word that that happened. I could be making that part up, for all she knows.�

�Oh come on. She knows you. She knows you wouldn�t do anything like that.�

I was not convinced. �Does she? Who knows what someone in my situation might do? Accused of something like that.�

Bonnie was thinking. �Do you think it happened at all? Do you think someone � someone from your school � did abuse him? I mean, why come up with something like that if there�s absolutely no basis for it?�

�I think someone did do it to him. Someone from the school. But how does that become a case of mistaken identity? Someone messes with you, forces you to do things to them, how do you not remember who that was?�

�None of this makes any sense,� Bonnie said.

�No shit.� I glanced at the digital display on the microwave, noticed the time. �You won�t believe this, but I have to go to this thing at the school.� I quickly filled her in.

She shook her head in exasperation. �Cancel.�

�If I don�t go, and Marta finds out, it would look like her visit freaked me out. I have to see these parents.�

�I don�t know how much more the two of us can take.�

We got up from the table and held each other. �I know,� I said.

�What now?� Bonnie asked. �I don�t know, what with that man being killed, whether our problems are over or just beginning.�

Trent was waiting for me when I walked into the school.

�Hey,� he said, greeting me with a handshake. �Was thinking you could use some moral support.�

That was true, and probably not a bad idea, given that I was going into this meeting more than a little distracted.

I told him about running into Fiona LeDrew, finding out that she was going to get her husband to drop the lawsuit. Trent beamed. �Excellent,� he said.

I wasn�t smiling. �But we got talking about Mark, and how messed up he was.� A few parents were entering the school, finding their way to the library. I lowered my voice to a whisper. �What do you know about Ronny Grant?�

�That he didn�t fix the latch on that door. Which is why he lost his job.�

�I�m not talking about that. This whole blackmail thing, I don�t think it comes out of nothing. I think there was someone abusing students, and I�m wondering whether it was Ronny.�

�Why Ronny?�

�It goes back to something Mark said, and now something his mother told me. This lawnmower man thing.�

Trent slowly shook his head. �Ronny had his problems. He�s borderline alcoholic. But an abuser? I never got a hint of that. I mean, he liked the kids, yeah. But we all like the kids. Why else would we work here?�

�Herb doesn�t like the kids.�

�Don�t get me started on him. He�s here, by the way. I saw him come in about five minutes ago.�

�I think he stirred the pot on this,� I said.

�Fuck Herb,� Trent said. He took a long look at me. �Don�t take this the wrong way, but you look like shit.�

I had no reason to doubt him. Marta�s visit, Bonnie�s revelations. It had left me frazzled. And the right side of my face was still swollen, bandages still on my neck and forehead.

�I gotta go do this thing,� I said.

There were two doors to the library: a main one and a secondary entrance that was by the librarian�s office. I used that one to enter unnoticed while the parents started filing in through the main entrance. Chairs had been set out by whatever caretaker Trent had brought in to take over from Ronny.

I found a library cart, the kind that gets loaded up with books when they are being reshelved, and wheeled it down the fiction aisle. I started loading it up with hardcovers and paperbacks. Star Trek novelizations and Stephen King tales of horror. The Twilight series and Harry Potter. The Hunger Games and all of Tolkien. The Anne of Green Gables books and the His Dark Materials series by Philip Pullman. Judy Blume and The Maze Runner books. Toni Morrison and Margaret Atwood. Classics the parents would know, like To Kill a Mockingbird, Lord of the Flies, Ray Bradbury�s The Martian Chronicles, The Call of the Wild, and one of my own personal favorites, The Princess Bride by William Goldman.

I stacked the cart with these books and others. Our librarian, who was not here this evening, would have a fit when he found out what I�d done, or was planning to do. I could hear murmurings at the other end of the room. People taking their seats.

Trent found me loading the cart.

�They�re here,� he said. �Fifteen, maybe twenty, tops. Not exactly the biggest mob in the world.� He paused. �And Herb.�

�Okay,� I said.

�Why don�t I say a few words, and then this group�s spokesperson will do some kind of opening statement.�

Sounded like a plan. He worked his way to the other end of the room and I followed, pushing the cart ahead of me. Fewer than half of the chairs that had been set out were filled, and Trent was right in his estimate. I did a quick count and came up with sixteen, eleven women and five men. But to get sixteen parents out to an event was still something of an achievement when everyone�s lives were so busy, so I wasn�t about to discount it.

At the back of the room, seated alone, was Herb.

I stood behind and to the side as Trent introduced himself to the room.

�Thanks for coming,� he said. �It�s always gratifying to me, and I know I�m speaking for Mr. Boyle here, too, when parents take a keen interest in what their children are studying. So we appreciate you taking the time to be here this evening to talk about this important issue. What I�m going to do is turn the meeting over to Mrs. Kanin, who�s going to explain why she asked for this opportunity to have some matters clarified, and then I�ll invite Mr. Boyle here to say a few words and take your questions.�

No wonder Trent had worked his way up the administrative ladder. What a politician. Not once did he use words like concern or complaint or censorship or ban. Trent, who was going to head back to the office, whispered to me as he slipped away, �Let me know how it goes, and text me if they look like they�re getting ready to string you up.�

Wasn�t it nice that one of us still had a sense of humor.

Violet Kanin stood up from her chair, but did not come to the front of the room. I recognized her, of course, as Andrew�s mother, who had for several years schooled him at home and, as I�ve probably already pointed out, did a pretty good job of it, at least where math and writing skills were concerned. She always attended parent-teacher events, and gave me a quick smile before speaking.

�Hi,� she said. �Forgive me if I seem a bit nervous, I�m not much of a public speaker.� She forced a laugh. �I want to say from the outset how grateful we all are for Mr. Boyle�s recent actions, and know that any of the issues we bring up tonight aren�t in any way meant to be critical of you.�

I nodded.

�But tonight we�re here to get some insight, we hope, into how you go about choosing what books our children will read, and whether they are really the best of the best, and just how appropriate they are. And it�s not about just the one book, this Road thing, but other books, too. Anyway, that�s all I have to say. I didn�t write anything down.�

Violet looked at me, sat down, and I took that as my cue. I took a step forward, hands in my pockets, trying to adopt a casual air, and said, �Thanks very much. I�m glad to have the chance to talk about��

One of the men blurted, �Why would you be teaching books celebrating cannibalism? What on earth is the point of that?�

I guess we weren�t going to waste any time getting into it.

�Okay,� I said calmly. �Let�s start there. I�m sure many of you, at some point, may have read your children the story �Hansel and Gretel,� or had it read to you as a child, and will recall that it�s about a witch who is trying to fatten up a couple of children on sweets before she cooks them and eats them, and that the children escape after pushing her into the oven and killing her. If I were teaching fourth grade, say, instead of high school English, and you learned the children had read �Hansel and Gretel,� I doubt many of you would have been in touch. Cannibalism and murder are themes in �Hansel and Gretel,� just as they are in the novel The Road, which, admittedly, is a much darker and more realistic tale, but in neither case are they things to be celebrated, although I don�t think we mind when the witch gets hers.�

Hoped for a laugh there, and didn�t get it.

�Most novels, most good novels, involve conflict and what human beings do to resolve it. The Road is a story about survival in the wake of a global catastrophe, and for kids who have grown up on stuff like The Walking Dead and 28 Days Later, it�s a way to engage them, to get them past the gore and the sensationalism and guide them toward a discussion of complicated moral issues.�

Violet said, �But this kind of material can be upsetting to some. Like my Andrew.�

I nodded. �It�s true. And if your son is troubled to the point that he does not want to continue reading the book, or participate in discussions about it, then I would find him an alternate. I think, if you were to ask him, he�d want to continue. Andrew has some pretty interesting insights into things that I�d be sorry if the rest of the class missed. But, and this is a question for all of you, don�t you think I would be doing your children a disservice if I made every effort to protect them from things that might challenge or upset them? I could cocoon them, avoid anything that might spark debate, that would raise questions of right and wrong. Of course, that would mean not reading any works of fiction at all, because that�s what we hope good fiction will do. Get the kids talking, thinking. Good fiction provokes and bridges gaps, can bring people together by exposing them to all sides of an issue.�

I stopped. I wasn�t foolish enough to think my little speech would win them all over, but at least a few of them appeared to be considering what I�d had to say.

I decided to go on, and wheeled out the cartload of books.

�Here�s a sampling of reading material from our library. We have a wide variety of things for kids to read here. Classics, more modern stuff. Everything from Huck Finn to vampires. I�m inviting you to take two or three books with you when you leave here tonight, read them, make notes about what you liked about the book, what troubled you about it, whether you think it�s right for your child. And if it�s a book you do like, that you think your child would get something out of, how would you feel if another parent decided your child shouldn�t be allowed to read it? And then��

One of the men had his hand up, but didn�t wait to be called on. �Hang on. You want us to read these books?�

�The best way to understand what the kids are studying � not just in my class or any other teacher�s class, but on their own � is to have a read of it yourselves. It might change your opinion, and then again, it might reinforce the opinion you already hold. But once you�ve read some of these��

�I don�t have time for that,� said the same guy.

�I do,� said one of the women.

I smiled. �Some of you may have noticed Mr. Willow sitting at the back of the room this evening.� A few heads turned around as Herb sat up a little straighter in his chair. �I want to thank him for coming tonight and showing an interest in this subject, and I�m delighted that he has volunteered to be part of all this. When you�ve read your books and written your assessment of it, Mr. Willow will be happy to look at what you�ve done and put together a report.�

Herb�s face flushed. Fuck you, Herb.

�But there�s one other point I would like to make,� I said. �And what I don�t want is to come across like I�m lecturing any of you. I know your concerns are sincere. You care about what happens here, in this building. So do I.�

I paused.

�Mrs. Kanin started off by mentioning what happened here last week, and thank you for the kind words.� I was looking right at her. �I see the world a little differently now than I did just ten days ago. A young man came into this school intending to do harm. Your kids were here for that. You received frantic phone calls while they were in lockdown. You raced to the school. It�s something you and your kids will never forget. The longest couple of hours of your lives. What made this person want to hurt us? What�s happening to our young people?�

I waved my hand toward the cart full of books. �Maybe the answers are here. Somewhere in these thousands of pages. The inspirations and motivations for these works are varied. Some writers set out to simply entertain, and that�s great. Others seek to understand who we are, to promote understanding, to bring people together. I don�t believe keeping our kids from reading them will make them safer. I believe shielding them from ideas will make them less tolerant, less understanding, less willing to engage, and that, ultimately, will make them less safe.�

Violet Kanin slowly stood.

�I don�t think you understand,� she said. �I know what you�re probably thinking. That we�re a bunch of ignorant book banners, that��

�I didn�t say that. I didn�t accuse��

�Please allow me to finish,� she said quietly. �I don�t need reminding about how terrified we all were that day. We all remember it very well. I could have lost my son that day. Any one of us here could have lost a child when that man came here with a bomb. We see the news. The shootings. We see what�s happening at one school after another. At malls and churches. We know our kids are exposed to drugs and awful things online and under all kinds of pressure from their friends. And here�s the thing: we don�t know what to do about it.�

I listened.

�We feel helpless and scared and overwhelmed. And then one day our kids are assigned a book to read. A book with all sorts of ugliness in it. It may be a wonderful book, and maybe you should keep teaching it. I don�t even know anymore. But we think, we can�t control any of these threats our children face, but maybe we can fool ourselves into thinking we�re making a difference in one small area if we ask, will this book make our kids� lives better?�

Her eyes were wet. �I guess that�s all I have to say.� She forced herself to smile and said, �Andrew�s liking Hoot, so I thank you for that.�

She sat down.

The room was quiet for a moment. I nodded slowly, looked at Violet Kanin, and said, �I hear you. Believe me, I do. This, right here, these are the kinds of discussions I want to have not just with parents, but with my students, so we can come to a better understanding of how we feel. I think we all really want the same��

I stopped. Someone new had entered the room. A latecomer.

And I suddenly felt light-headed.

Billy Finster had arrived.

�I have a question,� another woman in the library said, �about this whole trigger warning thing people have been talking about. Like, you�re supposed to warn people ahead of time if there�s something in what they�re about to read or see that they might find upsetting, but how are you supposed to know what might upset a person? I mean, everybody�s bothered by something. I don�t like to read anything where animals are hurt, but I�m not expecting something on the title page that says, oh, watch out, this is coming. What do you think?�

I said, �What?�

I was ever so slightly distracted.

Billy Finster was standing at the back of the room. Except it couldn�t be Billy Finster, because Billy Finster was dead. So either Marta was investigating the death of someone she thought to be Billy Finster, or this guy grinning at me was not, and never had been, Billy Finster.

He made a small come-hither gesture with his index finger. Like, Hey, buddy, we need to talk.

�Mr. Boyle? Do you want me to repeat the question?�

I looked at the woman who�d been talking.

�I�m sorry,� I said. �I have to go.�

I walked slowly toward the back of the library, catching curious reactions from the crowd as I passed. Like, I was just going to walk out on them? Yes, that�s exactly what I was going to do.

As I walked past Herb, he said under his breath, �I want to talk to you.�

I ignored him and went face-to-face with my blackmailer and whispered heatedly, �Who the fuck are you?�

He reared back slightly. Quietly, he said, �We should take this outside. Betting you have questions.�

We exited the room and started walking down the hall toward the main entrance. Behind us, I heard Herb, who had stepped out of the library, call out: �Boyle. Boyle!�

My blackmailer and I rounded a corner and as we passed an open classroom I steered him inside. I closed the door behind us. We were in a chemistry class. Raised desks with stools, a chart of the periodic table on the wall.

�What the fuck is going on?� I asked.

He smiled. �Okay, so you�ve figured out I�m not Billy.� He extended a hand. �I�m Stuart. Pleased to meet you.�

I didn�t take his hand.

He took in the room, shook his head. �I fuckin� hated chemistry class. Flunked it.� He took a breath. �Flunked pretty much everything, you wanna know the truth. Hate schools. Didn�t want to do this here. Was heading for your place, saw you leave, followed you. What was that meeting all about?�

�Who are you, Stuart?� I asked, wanting to bring him back on track.

�Billy�s friend. Well, I was Billy�s friend, until what happened to him. That was fucking wild, right? Listen, don�t look so pissed. I�m here with good news. Well, good news and bad news.�

I was simmering. �Why don�t you give me the bad news first.�

Stuart thought about that and shook his head. �No, it makes more sense to start with the good news, which is that I�m no longer interested in getting your ten grand. Consider it forgotten. Wiping the slate clean. No hard feelings, okay?�

�What�s the rest of it?� I asked.

�You�re not quite off the hook. I know you killed Billy.�

�I did not kill Billy.�

�Sure looks that way to me. Way I see it, you�re the most likely suspect. I mean, come on, didn�t it ever cross your mind to kill me? So you went to see Billy and offed him before you realized you�d made a mistake, that you got the wrong guy. You shoot him in the back? Did you even get a look at him? Anyway, when I tell the police what I know, that he was blackmailing you, they�ll put it together.�

�If you think I did do it, you should be more scared of me right now.�

�What are you gonna do?� He looked around. �Hit me with a beaker?�

�I didn�t kill Billy,� I said. �But I have a pretty good idea who did.�

Stuart�s eyebrows popped. �Oh?�

�Two people � a man and a woman � went into his garage. There was a whole lot of shouting. They took off. I went in after, and he was dead.�

�Oh, so you were watching the place again? Didn�t learn your lesson from the first time? That looks very bad for you. Very, what�s the word, incriminating. The police�ll be interested to know you were there.�

He was wrong thinking I�d murdered Billy, but he was right that he could do me a world of harm if he told the police I�d had a reason to want him dead. One anonymous call would do it. And who would believe my story? About this mysterious Stuart who�d pretended to be Billy who�d been putting the squeeze on me for something I hadn�t done. How crazy was all that going to sound?

But even before I could contemplate what fate might be awaiting me, I wanted to know why Stuart had gone after me in the first place.

�Why me?� I said. �Why pretend to be Billy? Why threaten to expose me for something I didn�t do to you?�

�Not to me,� he said. �To Billy.�

�I never did anything to him.�

Stuart nodded thoughtfully, then looked chagrined. �I might have gotten it wrong.�

�Gotten what wrong?�

�There was this thing on the news,� he said. �About that guy who was going to blow up the school. Billy�s watching, and he goes, oh, that�s my school, and he�s looking at the TV and he�s like, there�s that perv who liked to touch my dick when I was on the wrestling team. I look and I see you, and then I found your picture with the team in Billy�s yearbook and put it together.�

�Who else was on the TV?� I said.

Stuart�s brow wrinkled as he tried to recall. �Bunch of people standing around outside the school after the police got there. But I got a better look at you than anyone else.� He shrugged. �Billy might have meant one of the others.�

I tried to think back to what had been going on after the police arrived. It was all something of a blur. I was in shock. I remembered that at one point we moved outside, all of us, and that there was a TV news crew out on the street beyond the yellow police tape. I did remember one thing for sure. I remember Ronny was out there, being more or less interrogated by Trent about that goddamn door not shutting properly.

�Yeah, so, whatever,� Stuart said. �That�s why they put erasers on pencils, right? And, you know, you killing Billy, makes me think it all works out in the end.�

�I told you. I didn�t do it. It was those two people who came earlier.� And even though I probably knew the answer, I had to ask: �Why�d you do it in the first place? Blackmail me?�

Stuart looked at me like I was an idiot. �Uh, the money? Fucking Billy was making out like a bandit doing his thing. I had to find some action of my own.�

�I could have known it wasn�t you. Remembered Billy from school.�

�Thought about that,� Stuart said. �But it had been a few years, and we both kind of looked alike, you know. Lucy, Billy�s wife? She called us two peas in a pod.�

�Boyle!�

Herb, out in the hall, calling my name. He must have missed seeing us duck into this classroom and was hunting me down.

�Look,� I said, trying to sound reasonable, �we�re done, okay? I didn�t do it, you had the wrong guy.�

�I didn�t get to the bad news yet,� Stuart said. �Although, depending on how you look at it, it�s good news, too.�

I waited.

�I�m willing to, like you say, be done with all this. I just have one favor I�d like you to do for me before we go our separate ways.�

�A favor.�

He nodded.

�Nothing big. I need you to deliver something for me. Do an exchange. Not a big deal. A few minutes and you�re done.�

�You got something to return at Walmart?�

Stuart smiled. �That�s funny. You�re a funny guy, Mr. Boyle. No, what I need you to do is just a little more complicated.�

My stomach began turning over. I had an inkling where this was going. That man and woman who came to Billy�s. They�d been looking for something, and they appeared to have left empty-handed. Why did I have a feeling Stuart had it? And, given that he didn�t care about my ten thousand dollars anymore, was willing to exchange it for a significant amount of money?

Why didn�t he want to do the deal himself? I had a pretty good idea. He could end up dead.

�I don�t want any part of this,� I said. �Get yourself somebody else. Make your anonymous call to the police. I�ll take my chances.�

�I was afraid you might see it that way,� Stuart said. He reached behind his back for something tucked under his jacket.

A gun.

�This change your mind?�

He took a step back so there was room to point it right at me.

�Christ, put that away,� I said. Would he shoot me right here in the school? Maybe. I couldn�t make a run for it. I�d have a bullet in my back before I got to the door.

�So. Willing to do a guy a solid?�

�Okay,� I said. �Whatever you want.�

�That�s good, that�s good. So we�re going to walk out of here and head out the main door. My truck�s out there. I�m gonna give you the keys��and he dug into his pocket and handed them to me � �so you can do the driving.�

I took them.

�And don�t do anything crazy on the way, because I might just lose it and start firing, you know.�

�Understood.�

�Take out your phone and power it off.�

Slowly, I reached into my jacket, took out the phone, and did as he asked. He motioned for me to hand it over, and I did.

�Okay,� Stuart said. �Let�s go.�

He held the gun down at his side, tight to his leg, where it was not immediately visible. When we came out of the room, farther up the hallway people were starting to drift out of the library meeting.

�Quickly,� Stuart whispered, nudging me toward the main entrance.

We both walked briskly. As we passed a trash bin, Stuart tossed my phone into it. We were outside in no time. It was fully dark now, the school parking lot illuminated by towering lampposts.

�That way,� he said, giving me a shove, making a sniffing noise.

I saw his truck on the far side of the lot, the same one he�d been driving when he showed up at the end of my driveway... how many days ago? Time seemed to have lost all meaning lately.

Someone shouted, �There you are, you son of a bitch.�

I glanced over my shoulder and saw Herb running across the parking lot. I stopped, turned around, and raised a hand.

�Go back, Herb.�

He stopped about ten feet from me. He gave Stuart one quizzical glance, then looked back at me and said, �I guess you feel pretty clever, dumping that shit on me.�

�Herb,� I said calmly, �this is not the time. We can talk about this tomorrow.�

�No, we can talk about this now,� he said. �Okay, so maybe I poked the bear here, put an idea into that woman�s head. But you had it coming. You screwed me over, and I warned you, I warned you I wouldn�t take it.�

�Man, you need to back off and get the fuck out of here,� Stuart said, the gun still at his side.

�Who the hell are you?� Herb asked.

�Herb,� I said one more time, �for your own good, I�m telling you to walk away now, and if you want to ream me out tomorrow, then by all means.�

Now it was Stuart who was looking at Herb quizzically, as though he had seen him before.

�I know you?� Stuart asked.

And I thought: He saw him on the news.

�I never met you in my life,� Herb snapped. �And I�m not talking to you.�

�Yeah, well, we�re not talking to you anymore, either,� Stuart said. Then he raised his weapon and shot Herb in the neck.

I was stunned. I could not believe what I was seeing.

Herb Willow dropped to the pavement like a bag of wet leaves. No protestations, no wild gyrations, no screams. Herb simply hit the ground after Stuart shot him.

My mouth hung open. I might have said something. Probably �Holy shit� or �Oh my God.� Could have been any number of things. I honestly don�t know. I said something, and I said it reflexively. I probably should have run. I probably should have tried to tackle Stuart, wrested the gun away from him.

Something.

But my feet were rooted to the asphalt. I was frozen in shock.

�We gotta go,� Stuart said.

I blinked a couple of times, turned, and looked at him as if the words he�d spoken were in some language I didn�t understand. I managed, at this point, to form a sentence.

�You fucking shot him,� I said.

�You�re driving, remember? Can you drive?�

I looked down at my right hand. There was a set of keys in them. Stuart grabbed me roughly by the arm, steered me over to the door of his truck, opened it, and shoved me in behind the wheel. If I�d been more familiar with the vehicle and known immediately where to insert the key, I�d have tried to start it and slam it into drive before Stuart had a chance to run around to the other side and open the passenger door. But I was disoriented. I looked at the keys in my hand, trying to figure out which was for the ignition, and once Stuart was sitting next to me he grabbed the keys from my hand and slid the correct one into the slot on the steering column.

�You think you can turn it, dick bag?� he asked.

I turned it. The engine rumbled to life.

�Don�t forget your seat belt,� Stuart said. �Can�t be too careful.�

I reached around for the belt and buckled up. I figured Stuart cared less about my safety and more about slowing me down if I tried to make a run for it.

The truck had a column-mounted shifter, a type I hadn�t seen since I�d learned to drive on my father�s Ford Galaxie. I pulled it back and down into drive and hit the gas. The truck had been left parked in such a way that I could pull out straight ahead. The windows were down, and as I headed to the street, Stuart pointing his gun at me, I could hear shouting in the background. Someone screaming that a teacher had been shot. Another calling out for 911.

Stuart hadn�t told me which way to go once we hit the street, so I simply went right and kept on going.

�Hang a left at the light,� he said, and wiped his nose with his sleeve. I didn�t know whether he had a coke problem or just a runny nose.

I considered driving erratically, that doing so might catch the attention of a police car should we happen to encounter one. But Stuart had that gun aimed right at me, and it wouldn�t take much for him to pull that trigger, so I steered that truck down the road like I was taking my driver�s test.

�Yeah, here,� he said as I moved into the left lane, put on the blinker, and made the turn. �You know where the Eastway Motel is?�

I did not, and shook my head in answer.

�So, you keep going this way, then a right at the third light, and it�s up that way.� He moved the gun to his left hand and went into his pocket with his right for a phone. He brought it up, tapped the screen, and put the phone to his ear. When someone answered, he said, �Yeah, hi, can you put me through to room two-nineteen?�

He waited. And waited. �Come on, pick up. Pick up. Pick up the fucking phone. Shit.� He ended the call, lowered the cell, and said, more to himself than to me, �I guess I did tell her not to answer the phone.� Stuart sighed. �Okay, not a problem.� He put the phone back into his pocket and transferred the gun to his right hand.

We were almost to the third light. I slowed, put on the blinker again, made the turn. I could see the motel up ahead, on the right. I recognized it, had driven past it a thousand times here in Milford, one of those places that�s always there that you never notice. The neon sign said ea tway mot l, and as I turned into the lot, I quickly sized it up as a place where you might rent a room for an hour, or by the month, but nothing much in between. It was a two-story building, the second-floor units accessed by an exterior set of stairs and a long balcony-type walkway.

�Stop right here,� Stuart said, indicating the middle of the lot. I could have pulled up closer to the building, between an old Volkswagen Beetle and a panel van, but then we wouldn�t have had a view of the second-story units. �Keep the engine running and hit the horn a few times.� He was looking up at the window to a specific unit, Room 219, I guessed.

I tapped the horn a couple of times while Stuart kept an eye on the drape-covered window of the room.

�Come on, come on,� he said. �Come to the window. Hit the horn again.�

I did. Someone pulled the drape back a few inches for a quick peek. Stuart waved his right hand wildly out his window and shouted: �Lucy!�

The drape was pulled open several more inches, then fell back into place. About ten seconds later, the door opened far enough for a woman to stick her head out. The lighting was dim and I couldn�t be sure, but it looked like the woman who had left Billy Finster�s house the first time I�d been watching it. What was she doing with Stuart?

�Lucy!� Stuart shouted again. He waved her toward him.

Lucy came outside, closed the door behind her, walked to the stairway and descended it, then crossed the parking lot until she was at the open passenger-door window.

�Hey,� Stuart said to her.

Lucy looked small and afraid. �What�s going on?� she asked. She saw me behind the wheel and said, �Who�s this?�

�My new assistant,� Stuart said.

�Why are you pointing a gun at him?�

�He�s kind of a reluctant assistant. Look, everything�s ready to go down. Get the case.�

�I have to lug it down?� she asked. �You can�t go up and get it?�

�I�m kinda busy, unless you want to stay here and keep a gun on this guy while I get the bag. But you have to be prepared to shoot him.�

She looked at the gun and said, �I�m not touching that thing.� She turned and walked away. She went up the stairs like someone climbing the scaffolding to be hung.

�Billy�s wife,� I said.

�Yeah,� Stuart said. �She�s in kind of a rough patch right now. I�m helping her through it.�

�How, exactly?�

�By providing for her future,� Stuart snapped. �It�s all good. And you get to be part of it.�

I waited.

�I have something I have to deliver to these people, and in return they�re going to give me enough money so Lucy and I can start this new life together.� He smiled. �I�ve always really liked her. It�s going to take her some time to warm up to me, I understand that, because she�s just suffered a loss. So I�m going to give her a week or two. But by then we�ll be on the beach in Boca Raton, or maybe we�ll go out to L.A. or someplace like that.� He nodded confidently. �It�s all gonna be fine.�

�You�re giving the bag to those people who came to see Billy last night.�

�I�m not an idiot. I don�t trust them. I give them the bag, they�re supposed to give me the money. But I�m thinking, what if they don�t? What if they pull some kind of double cross? If it was just me with the bag, on my own, I couldn�t do a very good job of defending myself. So you�ll handle the bag, do the delivery, and I�ll be ready with this� � he waved the gun around � �in case they try something.�

There were a hundred ways this could go wrong. And I couldn�t think of a single way I was going to get out of this alive.

Run. Just run.

As if reading my mind, Stuart said, �I know where you live. You bail on me, I go to your house. You�ve got a wife, and a kid, too, right? You take off, and I�m heading straight there. You get me?�

�I get you,� I said.

Lucy had gone back into the motel room. Seconds later she emerged with a wheeled carry-on bag, dragging it behind her to the stairs.

�What�s in the bag?� I asked.

�I guess you�d call it pain medication,� Stuart said. �From south of the border. Got themselves a little lab down there. Probably more like a fucking factory. They ship finished product up by plane. Billy would take it off, hold it for pickup.�

�You took the bag from Billy?�

�He didn�t have much say in the matter,� Stuart said. �I go out for food, come back, the fucker�s dead on the floor. Was pretty shook up, didn�t stay long, but I have a nose for an opportunity, you know? The bag was there and I knew what was in it and that it was worth a fortune, so, you know.�

�You took it.�

�I took it, yeah. Wasn�t like Billy was going to care, and I knew his associates would pay to get it back.�

Lucy had the bag halfway down the stairs. Unable to wheel it, she was moving it one step at a time, holding it by the top handle.

�Billy was already dead, and the bag was there,� I said, more to myself than to Stuart. �And you left with it.�

�Could she be any slower?� Stuart said, watching Lucy descend the stairs.

Something wasn�t tracking. When I was watching the house, and those two showed up, the bag wasn�t there, so Billy had to already be dead. Shouts of �Where is it?� had been between themselves, not between them and Billy.

If Stuart was to be believed, someone else had visited the garage before either he or the couple in the black car had gotten there, and that person � or persons � had killed Billy. I could think of only one other person who�d been there that evening.

Bonnie.

No, couldn�t be Bonnie. She�d told me what had happened, and I believed her.

Maybe the answer was coming our way. Lucy had reached the bottom of the stairs and went back to wheeling, instead of carrying, the bag. She pulled it as far as the truck�s passenger door.

�Here you go,� she said. �I don�t think I can lift it into the back.� She tilted her head toward the pickup�s empty bed.

�Can�t go back there,� he said derisively. �Go over some railroad tracks and it�ll fly out.� He opened the door and slid out, keeping the gun on me. There was some space between the seat and the back of the cab. Stuart tipped the seat forward, grabbed the bag, and stowed it.

He moved in to give Lucy a quick kiss, but she pulled back, like you might if someone with the Ebola virus tried to embrace you.

�Okay, not pushin� it,� Stuart said. �All in good time.�

He got into the truck and slammed the door shut. He smiled at Lucy and said, �See ya later, babe.�

�Goodbye, Stuart,� she said.

�The meet�s all set up,� Stuart said. �Called them before I went looking for you. Drove by your house earlier, and when I didn�t see your car I was hoping I�d find you there.�

I said nothing. He�d tell me what I needed to know sooner or later. I was still at the wheel of this shitbox truck.

�You know Walnut Beach?� he asked.

�Yeah.�

�Down by a senior citizens residence on Viscount,� he said. �Had an aunt who used to live there. There�s a parking lot, kind of wide-open, but it won�t be busy late at night. You can see who�s coming and going.�

�Right.�

�I set it up for� � and he stopped to look at his watch � �twenty minutes from now. We get there, like, ten minutes before them, we�ll be ready.�

�And what are they giving you again, in return for the bag?�

�Fifty.�

�Fifty thousand,� I said. �Nice jump up from the ten you wanted from me.�

Stuart smiled. �You�re a fucking teacher. I�m a reasonable man.�

Since I knew where we were going, I didn�t need any more directions from him. There wasn�t a second that went by when I wasn�t thinking about some way out of this. I glanced over regularly to see whether the gun was trained on me, and Stuart was very attentive in this regard. I thought about hitting the brakes suddenly, throwing him forward, grabbing his head, and smashing it into the dash, knocking him out, the kind of stunt you�d see a Jack Ryan or a Jack Reacher � one of those Jacks � do in a movie. But this was no movie. I could end up with a bullet in my gut if I tried something like that.

I still wondered about jumping from the truck while it was moving. But, again, that was the kind of thing you could do in the movies and not get a scratch. I figured I�d end up run over by the back wheels. And with the seat belt on, the moment I went to unfasten it, Stuart could pull that trigger.

I kept waiting for an opportunity that might never come.

What worried me less was his threat to go after my family. If I could get away, the first thing I�d do is notify the police, give them my address and tell them to get there ASAP.

We were heading south on Viscount Drive, Long Island Sound shimmering in the moonlight ahead of us. I slowed as I reached the end of the street and made a right into a parking lot that, on a summer day, would be filled with cars as people hit the nearby beach.

Bonnie and Rachel and I had been down here many times. We�d bring towels and an umbrella and some sand toys for Rachel and pretend we were in Florida. Not quite as tropical, and not a palm tree in sight, but there wasn�t a twelve-hour drive to get here, either. Sometimes we�d walk out to the end of the Albert Munroe Pier, which extended some three hundred feet out into the Sound and afforded a view of Charles Island, a small state-owned bird sanctuary that was only a few hundred yards out there, and could be walked out to on a sandbar during low tide. None of that, of course, was visible at this time of night.

�Okay, okay, let�s just drive around, make sure they haven�t tried to pull a fast one and get here ahead of us,� he said.

�I know the car,� I told him. �That is, unless they�ve ditched it and are in a different one. Last I saw them they were in a black Audi.�

�Don�t see anything like that,� Stuart said.

He was right. There were maybe five cars scattered across a lot that would hold one hundred or two hundred vehicles. Stuart pointed.

�Let�s settle in up at the far end there. At the edge. Back into a spot.�

I did as I was told. Once the truck was in position and we had a good view of anyone who might arrive, I had a question.

�What�s to keep these people from taking your bag, giving you nothing in return, and shooting you in the head?�

Stuart smiled, like he had all the angles covered. �Thought we went over that. That�s why you�re here. You deliver the bag and I hang back by the truck. They try something dumb, I start shooting.�

And I�d get caught in the cross fire. �Have you even met these people before? I mean, when I walk out there and hand over the bag, are they going to think I�m you?�

Stuart thought on that. �They might. I never met them. Billy didn�t want me around when Psycho Bitch and Butthead did their pickups.�

Their nicknames did nothing to allay my fears, especially that first one.

�You don�t really think I killed Billy,� I said.

He shrugged. �I don�t think you�ve got it in you.�

�So you think it�s these drug dealers.�

�Would make sense,� Stuart said.

�Then why didn�t they take the stuff with them?�

�Huh?�

�You say you came back with food and Billy was dead. If they did it, why�d they leave the bag there? Why�d they leave it for you to take?�

Stuart went very quiet for a moment.

�Maybe... maybe they killed him, and figured the shit wasn�t going anywhere, and they were going to come back later and get it.�

�Why?� I asked, pressing him. �What would they be thinking? Okay, we just killed this guy, let�s grab a drink, and then we�ll come back? Who�d be that stupid?�

Stuart was looking annoyed. �What fucking difference does it make?�

�I don�t know. Maybe it might be kind of important to you, being Billy�s friend and all.�

It was possible Stuart was right. What fucking difference did it make? Still, something seemed wrong.

�Headlights,� Stuart said.

There was a car coming down Viscount. It slowed as it reached the end of the street, then turned into the lot.

A black four-door Audi.

�That�s them,� I said.

�Flash your lights,� Stuart said.

I turned the pickup�s headlights on for one second, then off. The driver of the black Audi popped his high beams for a moment in return. The car drove slowly into the lot, coming to a stop, angling across two spots, about three car lengths away from us. The light from a phone dimly lit the interior of the Audi by the steering wheel, as if the driver was making a call or sending a text.

�Oh shit,� Stuart said. �That�s probably for me.�

He got out a phone and powered it on. I was guessing it was a phone he was afraid could be tracked, so he�d been leaving it off whenever he wasn�t using it.

�Come on come on come on,� he said to the phone, waiting for it to be active. Once it was, he waved it in the window, a signal to the other driver.

The phone rang.

�Yeah,� Stuart said, hitting the speaker icon immediately.

�We�re ready,� a woman said.

�Same here. You got the money?�

�Do you have what�s ours?�

�Of course, what the fuck? Yes. So I�m gonna send someone over with it.�

�We want to deal with you. Who�s this other person?�

�Just a friend,� Stuart said, and gave me a smile, like we were pals. �He�s not a cop or anything, if that�s what you�re thinking. I�m not stupid.�

�No, of course not,� the woman said.

�Show me the money,� Stuart said.

�Can�t very well show it to you from here.�

�Hold it up or whatever.�

�A moment.�

We could see some movement in the car. Then the passenger door opened and a man stepped out.

�That�d be Gerhard,� Stuart said. �And the woman is Andrea. Billy told me their names.�

Gerhard was holding a backpack by one of the shoulder straps. He held it up high so we could see it.

�Okay, that�s good. He can just stay there,� Stuart said. �Give us a minute on this end. Sending him over shortly.�

Stuart ended the call, dropped the phone onto the seat between us. It was still glowing.

�I don�t trust those two,� he said. �I�ll get the bag. Don�t try running off. If I don�t shoot you, they probably will.�

I said nothing. My eyes kept going to the phone.

�Give me the key,� Stuart said. I removed the key from the ignition and put it into his hand. He got out of the truck. Once he had his feet on the pavement, he folded the seat forward so he could drag out the carry-on bag.

I had been waiting for an opportunity. This was as good as it was going to get. I picked up the phone with my right hand and immediately moved the small switch on the side down, muting it. I opened up the messages app.

�Fucking thing is really jammed in here,� Stuart said.

I tapped the icon in the upper right corner to send a text. Where it said �To� I quickly tapped in Bonnie�s phone number.

Stuart hauled out the bag, set it on the pavement, and pushed the seat back into position. I was about to type out a message, but stopped, rested my hand casually over the phone. Stuart closed the passenger door, extended the handle on the top of the bag, and started to wheel it around to my side. While he was passing the truck�s front end, I moved my thumb across the miniature keyboard as quickly as I could. Hit send. Took one fast glance at what I had texted.

Two typos, but clear enough. I turned the phone over onto the seat as Stuart reached my side of the truck and opened the door.

�You�re on,� he said, the gun in his left hand, the suitcase handle gripped by his right.

I undid my seat belt and slid out of the truck. I took the case from him and took a step away from the vehicle. Stuart moved the gun to his right hand, positioned himself behind the door, using it like a shield, and rested his right arm on the sill of the lowered window.

�Away you go,� he said.

I walked slowly toward the Audi. The driver�s door opened and Andrea got out. She and her partner, still holding the backpack, met at the front of the car and waited for me to get there.

When I was no more than six feet away, I stopped, wheeled the bag around to stand in front of me, and said, �Hey.�

�Hey,� Andrea said.

�So here it is.� I let go of the handle and held out my hand, expecting Gerhard to give me the backpack.

�Not so fast,� the woman said.

�It�s here,� I said. �It�s all here. Look, I�m not a part of this. That asshole basically kidnapped me to help him do this. Just give me the backpack and let us get the hell out of here.�

Gerhard handed the backpack to Andrea, grabbed the case by the handle, and set it on its side on the pavement. He got down on his haunches, took a key from his pocket to undo the lock that held the two zippers together.

Fine, I thought. See that it�s all there, give us the backpack, and let�s get the hell out of here.

He undid the lock, pocketed it and the key, and then slowly drew back the two zippers so he could flip open the top of the bag. I had a view of the contents that was almost as good as his, lit by one of the parking lot lamps.

Gerhard froze.

I didn�t know what was supposed to be in there or how it was supposed to be packaged, but it seemed obvious from his reaction that this was not what he was expecting to find.

�What the fuck?� he said under his breath.

He started pulling things out of the bag. A bottle of shampoo, a pair of shoes, some wadded-up clothes. The more items he pulled out, the farther he tossed them, getting angrier and angrier, shouting, �Fuck!� and �Cocksucker!�

I took one quick look back at Stuart to see whether he was aware that something was amiss. He had stepped out from behind the driver�s door, had a puzzled look on his face.

�Is there a problem?� he called out.

Andrea was looking over her partner�s shoulder to see what had so upset him. She was grim-faced as he stood and gave the bag a good kick with his right foot.

I�m not sure when she got her hand on a gun, or what pocket she pulled it from. But it was there now, and it was pointed straight at me.

This was not good. This was not good at all.

�I do not know anything about this,� I said, raising my hands to shoulder level, trying to appear nonthreatening with that gun being pointed at me by Andrea.

�What the fuck is this?� Gerhard asked.

�I�m telling you, I don�t know.� I pointed a thumb behind me. �Ask him. Ask Stuart. This is his deal. I�m just a bag boy.�

�Hey, dipshit!� the woman shouted at Stuart. �The hell is this?�

�What are you talking about?� Stuart said.

�Come and see for yourself,� Gerhard said.

Stuart slowly approached, the gun at his side. He scanned the items that had been tossed from the bag.

�Those are my shoes,� he said disbelievingly. �That�s my shampoo. That�s... that�s all my stuff. It�s all stuff from my place.� He looked at me, as if somehow I would have the answer, then at the woman. �I don�t understand.�

�I understand,� Andrea said. �You tried to fuck us over.�

�No, no, that�s not true,� Stuart said. �Someone�s playing a trick here.�

�Yup,� Gerhard said. �I�m looking right at the trickster.�

Stuart shook his head. �No, it�s� Shit. It�s Lucy. It�s got to be Lucy. Goddamn it. I don�t know how... she wouldn�t have a key. I don�t have a key. Maybe she switched bags.� He took a moment, trying to puzzle it out, licked his lips. �Billy said something... something about how she could open a bag and��

�Where is she?� Gerhard asked.

�She�s... she�s at my place,� Stuart said, bewildered. �Look, I�ll go back. This is a minor hiccup. I�ll find her. I�ll find her and get your stuff. All of it.� He forced a laugh. �Just a bump in the road, is all. I can get this all sorted out fast.�

I had my own doubts. If Lucy had helped herself to the contents of that carry-on bag, what were the odds she was still hanging around, waiting for Stuart to return? I could tell from Andrea�s dubious expression she was thinking the same.

�But first,� Stuart said, �I want to make sure you guys are keeping your end of the bargain, so I want to see the money.�

The man laughed. �You bring us Reeboks and Head & Shoulders and you want to know whether we�re ripping you off?�

Stuart forced a chuckled. �Just being thorough.�

�Yeah, thorough,� Andrea said. �It might be better if we had a word with Lucy. Where would we find her, if she hasn�t already taken a flight to Bolivia?�

�I got a place at the Eastway. The Eastway Motel. Room two-nineteen. It�s on the second floor. There�s stairs up and��

�I know the Eastway,� Gerhard said. He glanced at his partner. �How do you want to handle this?�

�Like this,� she said as she raised the gun that had been in her hand all this time and shot Stuart in the chest. The gun, even though it appeared to be equipped with one of those silencer attachments, still made a hell of a racket, and I jumped.

Stuart staggered backward a couple of feet and looked down at the blossoming red spot on his chest. �The fuck,� he said. This was followed by some coughing and gagging noises.

And then he started to wobble, knees buckling, and then he was on the pavement, moaning. �Shit shit shit,� he said, becoming quieter with each utterance. The gun he�d been holding slipped from his fingers and settled on the pavement next to his thigh with a dull metallic clatter.

Gerhard must have caught me noticing the gun, as he immediately bent over, picked it up, looked at me, and said, �I don�t think so.� He went over to the Audi and tossed it through an open window onto the passenger seat.

�And now you,� Andrea said, looking at me.

�I had nothing to do with this,� I said.

In my head, I was reciting a mantra. Hold it together. Hold it together. Hold it together. I�d seen two people shot to death this evening. I wasn�t sure a mantra was going to cut it.

�You know where we can find this Lucy?� Andrea asked.

Not at the motel, I was betting. And if not there, I had absolutely no fucking idea where she would have gone. I�d set eyes on her only twice. Once when she was leaving her house, and once more when she brought the suitcase down to Stuart.

But what I said was �Maybe.�

�Maybe?�

�I know what she drives. She�s got a Kia. A little silver one. I�d know it if I saw it.�

�I guess now that you�ve told us that, we�d know it if we saw it, too.�

I wasn�t very good at this.

�She might go back to her house,� I said.

�We know where that is, too. And dumbass Stuart here just told us where he lived.�

Gerhard said, �We don�t need him.�

I took a look at Stuart. No more moaning, no more breathing. The pavement was black with his blood.

�There�s nothing in that backpack, is there?� I said. They said nothing. �You were always going to kill him.�

�We don�t like people holding our stuff for ransom.�

�Sure, I get that. He was a piece of shit. He was blackmailing me for something I didn�t do. For something bad that didn�t even happen to him, but had happened to someone else, and��

�Did I ask?� Andrea said. �Do I strike you as someone with an inquisitive nature?� She gave her partner a quick look. �Let�s try the Eastway in case she�s still there.�

Then she looked my way and raised her gun. �Sorry, pal,� she said.

So here I was again. Staring death in the face, just like eight days ago with Mark LeDrew. I�d been able to talk my way out of that one, but I didn�t see that happening this time.

I thought of Bonnie and Rachel. That I wished I�d told Bonnie it was time to change all the smoke detector batteries, a task I always took on. That the property tax bill was due this week, that I�d meant to do it but I�d been so stressed it had fallen through the cracks. Thought about Rachel�s upcoming birthday, how she�d been begging us to take her to the Mystic Aquarium so that she could see a beluga whale, and that I hoped Bonnie would still take her even if I couldn�t be part of it.

You can think of a lot of things in the split second before you�re going to die.

And then we heard the car.

A squeal of tires first, like someone taking a corner too fast, followed by the gunning of an engine. Not a throaty, sports car kind of sound, but a regular car being driven beyond its normal limits.

It was coming south on Viscount at probably fifty or sixty miles per hour in what had to be no more than a thirty zone. Headlights on, heading straight for the Sound.

Andrea lowered her gun and turned to look.

�Shit,� she said.

The car � it looked to be an SUV, actually, probably a Lexus � was soon going to run out of road, and the driver knew it, because suddenly the SUV braked hard, the tires screaming, no doubt leaving long rubber streaks on the road. It had slowed to make the turn into the Walnut Beach parking lot, but was still going too fast, looking like it might topple over as it made a sharp right in our direction.

I recognized the vehicle. It was Trent�s Lexus. And if it was him behind the wheel, I was betting Bonnie was with him. She�d have received the text, figured out it had to be me.

The driver did some quick correcting to keep the vehicle from going into a roll, and once the SUV was back on a straight path, it headed our way.

Far off in the distance, I heard a siren. Maybe more than one.

In the intermittent light that was cast across the windshield of the Lexus, I made out Bonnie in the passenger seat next to Trent. The car slowed to a stop, the headlights aimed straight at the three of us, the Audi and the pickup.

�Who the fuck is that?� Gerhard asked.

Andrea wasn�t going to wait for introductions. She�d turned the gun away from me and was aiming it at the Lexus.

�Goddamn you, sis,� Marta said under her breath as she ran for her car.

Bonnie had never listened to her when they were kids, so why, Marta asked herself, should things be any different now? But this was a life-or-death situation, and Bonnie had no idea what she might be getting herself into. Marta hoped, if she put on the siren and broke every Milford speed limit, she could get to Walnut Beach before Bonnie and the principal.

She got in her car and tore out of the Lodge High parking lot without telling anyone where she was going, but once she was on the way she got on the radio to tell the dispatcher that the suspect in the school shooting might be at Walnut Beach, but that any cars responding would need to exercise extreme caution.

Once she�d made her call, she wondered whose phone Richard � if it even was Richard � had used to text Bonnie. They�d never found Billy Finster�s, nor had they been able to track it. Marta was also thinking about those chicken wings that had been left at the scene, how the manager at the wing joint said a guy driving a pickup truck had waited for them at the shop.

Maybe, Marta mused, Billy Finster�s killer was Herb Willow�s killer.

She was on Viscount now, heading south. Once she had passed the seniors residence on the right, she was able to get her first view of the Walnut Beach parking lot. Something was going on. At that far end sat a dark car and a pickup, and midway in the lot, heading in that direction, was the Lexus she�d seen Trent and Bonnie driving away in.

She heard what sounded like a muffled gunshot.

The Lexus veered wildly.

It all happened very fast.

Andrea fired at Trent�s car, shattering the windshield.

Bonnie. Please, God, don�t let it have hit Bonnie.

Trent cranked the wheel hard to his left, steering toward the water. The car did a complete turnaround and zoomed off in the opposite direction, but came to a stop a few seconds later. Did that mean Trent had been shot? Had Bonnie been shot and he�d stopped to see how she was?

Gerhard�s attention was on Andrea and the Lexus, which gave me an opportunity to do something I�d been wanting to do for some time:

Run.

Lanes of parking in that lot were divided with mini-boulevards adorned with tall trees, so I had intermittent cover as I ran, moving right and left, thinking, bizarrely, of that old Peter Falk � Alan Arkin movie The In-Laws, where Falk offers advice on dodging gunfire: �Serpentine!�

While my route might have looked haphazard, I was heading for Trent�s car to see whether, and how badly, he and Bonnie had been hurt. I glanced back over my shoulder a couple of times to see whether the drug dealers were in pursuit.

They weren�t coming after me. They were jumping into the Audi. Gerhard was getting in on the driver�s side, Andrea hopping in next to him. She barely had the door closed before the car started to move.

Someone else was coming to the party.

A dark unmarked Dodge Charger police cruiser � the kind Marta drove � was wailing its way down Viscount, lights flashing.

I was still running for Trent�s car, and was relieved to see Bonnie bailing from the passenger side.

�Bonnie!� I shouted.

She turned and looked my way as the Audi went screaming past me, heading for the exit.

Trent was out of the car now, too. Worried Andrea might try shooting at them again, I yelled as loud as I could, �Get down!�

Bonnie dropped. Trent ran to her side of the Lexus and threw himself over her. But Andrea wasn�t worried about them and took no shots in their direction as the car continued heading for the exit.

There was a problem there.

The Charger had screeched to a stop and was positioned sideways, blocking the Audi�s path. Someone was leaping out. It was, as I�d suspected, Marta. She was running toward the Lexus.

The Audi altered course and started gunning straight for her, engine roaring.

Marta had drawn her weapon, grasping it in both hands, arms raised.

She fired off three shots before she had to dive out of the car�s path. She went flying off to the right, landing on one of the grassy medians, the gun slipping from her hand. The Audi kept going and smashed hard into the side of the unmarked police car with a thunderous shriek of metal on metal.

I was still running.

Trent had crawled off Bonnie and was on his feet, and by the time I got there Bonnie was upright, too. Neither of them appeared to be injured. Bonnie threw her arms around me, but there wasn�t time, not yet, for any kind of joyous reunion.

The Audi passenger door swung open and a dazed Andrea staggered out, gun still in hand. She took a moment to get her bearings and fired a shot at Marta, who was scrambling across the grass, looking for something.

Her gun. She�d lost her gun. When it flew from her hand, she hadn�t seen where it landed. She managed one quick look at Andrea, and there was a microsecond of recognition.

I could barely read Marta�s lips. �You bitch,� they seemed to say.

Andrea was running from the parking lot and toward the beach. More sirens became audible. A cruiser was speeding down Viscount.

Bonnie, Trent, and I ran to Marta. I helped her to her feet, but her eyes were on the ground, scanning it.

�My gun!� she said. �It flew out of my hand!�

She turned her head, caught a glimpse of Andrea running off into the darkness.

�Trent,� Bonnie said.

�Huh?� he replied.

�Give her yours!�

Trent must have brought the gun he was known to have kept locked in his office desk. He looked hesitant about handing it over.

�Trent!� Bonnie shouted.

He dug into his jacket pocket, brought out the firearm, and held it out to Marta. She gave it a quick look, appraising it, snatched it out of his hand, and ran.

�Keep looking for the gun!� I said to Bonnie and Trent, and then I ran to the Audi. I knew there was another gun in there, and if Gerhard was still alive, he might be looking for it.

I reached the open passenger door. The airbags had deployed, and partially deflated. The windshield was a spiderwebbed mess, and there were glass shards throughout the front of the car. Gerhard�s head was resting on the steering wheel. I wasn�t about to touch him to get a better look, but he appeared to have taken a bullet in the right cheek.

There was no reason to worry about him. But the gun Stuart had used to shoot Herb was down in the passenger footwell, and I grabbed it.

And did something I knew even then was very stupid. I went after Marta. She didn�t have any backup, not yet, and I didn�t want my sister-in-law out there alone.

Marta was shouting over the sound of the waves breaking against the shore. �Stop!� she cried. �Stop!�

At the other end of the beach, flashing lights. There were more police coming from the opposite direction. If Andrea kept running that way, she�d be handing herself to them.

My eyes having adjusted to the darkness some time ago, and with the help of a half-moon and a clear sky, I could make her out, pumping her legs about fifty feet ahead of Marta. She�d reached the base of the pier and, clearly having run out of alternatives, started running toward the end of it.

What did she think she could do? Swim to freedom?

I could hear her footsteps on the wood decking, then Marta�s in pursuit. I�d reached the point where the pier met the beach, but was hesitant to go any farther. Just as well.

There were more shots.

Marta went down. At first I was worried she�d been shot, but she was taking a defensive posture. She flattened herself onto the deck, arms outstretched in front of her, and aimed at the silhouetted figure that was almost to the end of the pier.

And fired.

Andrea went down.

It was over.

Or so we thought.

�Another beer?� Trent asked.

I�d already had two and was okay for now. I was feeling, more or less, pretty good. The swelling on the right side of my face had shrunk and the bandages on my neck and forehead were gone. Bonnie was on her second white wine spritzer. Trent�s wife, Melanie, had just brought it out to her on their backyard deck. Bonnie took a sip and proclaimed it to be perfect.

So here we were again, gathered together early on a Friday evening in the wake of another catastrophic week. There had been a funeral that afternoon for Herb Willow. We�d all attended. His elderly mother was there, but it wasn�t clear that she had any real sense of what was going on, or even understood her son was dead. It was all very sad. Fortunately, she had a sister in Vermont who was going to either take her in, or arrange for her to be moved to a seniors� residence up her way.

Trent had invited Bonnie and me over to talk about the future. Neither Bonnie nor I had been back to work all week, and Trent believed we both qualified for stress leave. At first I was inclined to fight him on this, but Bonnie had urged me to reconsider. I knew she wanted some time off. While she hadn�t been abducted at gunpoint, she�d been through a hell of a lot that night.

We all could have died.

This time, we�d offered to bring some steaks for Trent to throw on the grill, and Rachel had been left with Mrs. Tibaldi, once again, for the evening. Trent and Melanie�s daughter was at a friend�s house for a sleepover, so it was just the four of us.

�I�m feeling a little tipsy,� Bonnie said.

�I�ve been there for a while,� Melanie said. I wasn�t keeping track, exactly, but I had a feeling she was on her fourth spritzer.

�Maybe you should go away,� Trent suggested, firing up the barbecue. �Paris or someplace.� The steaks were sitting on the plate to the side.

�Yeah, well, that�s kind of costly,� I said. �Maybe something this side of the Atlantic. San Francisco or L.A. or San Diego. We could take Rachel to Disneyland. We�ve never been to the West Coast.�

Bonnie nodded. �We couldn�t go for long. Two weeks is about the max I�d ever want to take Rachel out of school. She can�t afford to miss any more time than that.�

Trent was scraping down the grill with a barbecue brush.

�You could get some lessons in advance,� Melanie said.

Bonnie shook her head. �What kind of trip would that be for her, and us, if we have to spend time doing homework? No, I�m not crazy about that. I don�t know. Maybe we just need some time at home, do things locally, go into Manhattan. See some shows, go to museums. Rachel would love that. Anything to make us forget, even for a while.� She looked at me. �If you can even do that.�

�Won�t be easy,� I said. �And there�s still things we don�t know, that we�re never going to know. Like, who really molested two � or maybe even more � Lodge students? Mark LeDrew�s mother said someone assaulted him, and Billy Finster was evidently victimized by somebody. He�d told Stuart Betz about it, and Betz used that story to go after me. Hate to speak ill of the dead, but I�ve wondered about Herb. Or maybe Anson. And there�s still Ronny, although I don�t have anything more than a feeling about him.�

�Ronny,� Trent said, shaking his head. �He�ll drink himself to death before the truth�s ever known.�

He had stopped scraping the grills and was now examining the barbecue brush. �The bristles are coming off this thing,� he said. �Last thing we want is little bits of metal in our steak.�

�Didn�t you buy a new brush?� Melanie asked him.

�In the shed,� Trent said. �I got half a dozen of them.�

Melanie looked at Bonnie and smirked. �Trent never fixes anything. He won�t even let things wear out. Battery dies in his watch, he buys a new one. Gets a hole in his sock and he throws it out.�

�Well, hang on,� Bonnie said. �Who darns socks anymore?�

Melanie turned to me. �Richard, are you sure you wouldn�t like another beer?�

�You talked me into it,� I said.

Trent said, �Back in a sec.�

He stepped off the deck and headed for a metal garden shed located in the back corner of the yard. I decided to accompany him. As we walked across the yard, I said, �I�m worried that if I take a leave of absence, in about a week I�ll be bored anyway and want to come back.�

�Maybe,� he said. �So ask for three weeks or something like that. Honestly, I think you should take the rest of the semester.�

We�d reached the shed. He slid a metal door to one side and we stepped in. It was crammed full of gardening and other implements. Various rakes and shovels hung from hooks on the wall. Two battery-operated weed trimmers. I was guessing one had conked out and Trent bought a backup. There was yet another barbecue in here, the lid and supporting structure rusted with age. Bags of fertilizer and topsoil. A wheeled spreader for distributing grass seed or weed killer.

And three lawnmowers.

There were two gas-powered ones tucked toward the back that didn�t look to have been used lately, and an electric one within reach. A coiled extension cord lay on the floor next to it.

My eyes were on the lawnmowers. I couldn�t stop looking at them.

�You know me,� Trent said. �Like Melanie said. Something breaks down, I just buy a new one. Gotta admit, I�m a bit of a hoarder. I never get rid of the old stuff. I have this delusion that one day I�ll get around to fixing it. Oh, here we go.�

He�d found the new barbecue brush, still in its cardboard packaging, the price tag still dangling from it, hanging from a nail tapped into the wall.

I wasn�t aware Melanie had followed us out.

�Here you are, Richard,� she said, and I turned around to see her standing there with a beer in her hand, beads of moisture bubbled on the cold bottle.

I guess she must have seen what had caught my attention and laughed.

�I guess it�s no wonder that sad boy was always calling Trent the lawnmower man.�

I had to force myself to look away from the lawnmowers and give Melanie a smile. I held out a hand and took the beer from her.

�Thank you so much,� I said.

I couldn�t look at Trent. I didn�t want to look at Trent. All I could think about was how, when I first told him how Mark LeDrew had gone on about the �lawnmower man,� Trent acted as baffled as I�d been. He pretended to have absolutely no idea who LeDrew might have been referring to.

And then there was what LeDrew�s mother had told me, earlier on that evening when all hell broke loose. How Mark had been abused by someone at the school, someone he would only refer to as the �lawnmower man.�

It was Melanie who�d mentioned that there was a summer when they�d hired Mark LeDrew to maintain their property while they were away. He�d been here. He�d been in this utility shed.

I exited the structure and started walking back toward the deck, getting ahead of Melanie. I took one sip from the beer and set it on the patio table. Bonnie could read my expression and see that something was wrong.

�What is it?� she asked quietly.

�We�re leaving,� I said.

�Why? What��

�Richard!� Trent shouted. I glanced back, saw him coming out of the shed with the new barbecue brush in his hand. �Wait up!�

When Melanie reached the deck, I turned to her and with a look of apology on my face said, �I�m so sorry, but we have to go. Bonnie just got a text that Rachel isn�t feeling well, so we�re going to have to pick her up.�

�Oh no, that�s terrible,� Melanie said. Trent was at her side now, an excessively jovial smile on his face.

�You�re leaving?� he said. �I won�t hear of it.�

Melanie said, �Rachel�s sick.�

Bonnie, reading the signals, tried not to look confused, stood up from her chair, and played along. �That�s right. We�re so sorry.�

�You must take the steaks home with you,� Melanie said. �Let me wrap them up.�

�It�s okay, really,� I said. �Enjoy. You can make it up to us next time.�

I didn�t think there would be a next time.

Bonnie and I made our way through the house, heading for the front door, Melanie and Trent trailing us.

�Why don�t you bring Rachel back here,� Trent suggested, his voice on the verge of pleading.

�I think she�ll want to go home,� I said.

We were out front now, by the car. Melanie, all smiles, giving Bonnie a hug as she got into the passenger side, expressing hope that Rachel would feel better soon, you know how kids are, they can be sick to their stomach and an hour later devour a hot dog, and while that was happening Trent was following me to the driver�s side, trying to engage with me.

�Richard,� he said with quiet urgency. �I think you may have gotten some idea into your head that�s wrong.�

I shook my head. �I have to sort some things out.� I was behind the wheel now, turning on the engine. My window was down and Trent wouldn�t give up.

�Please, come on, we should talk,� he said. He leaned his head in so only I could hear him. �I know Rachel�s not sick.� And then, �What I did, I did for you.�

Whatever the hell that meant, I wasn�t waiting around to find out. The car was in reverse. As soon as Bonnie got in, I took my foot off the brake, backed out onto the street, and sped off.

Bonnie was clearly waiting for me to explain myself, and when I didn�t say anything, she said, �Talk to me.�

I focused on the road ahead. �Something�s not right,� I said. �I haven�t quite put it together, but something�s not right.�

�What? Tell me?�

�When I get home, there�s something I have to check.� My mind was racing. �Something Stuart said.� I paused. �If I find it, if I can clear this up in my head, I�ll explain.�

�And just for the record, you didn�t hear from Rachel? She�s not sick.�

�She�s fine, far as I know,� I said.

�We could pick her up on the way home anyway.�

�No, I have to do this thing. When we get back, you can go get her.�

Bonnie decided she�d pushed hard enough. We were home a few minutes later, and once I had the front door unlocked, I gave the set of keys back to Bonnie and she drove off to Mrs. Tibaldi�s.

I went straight to the kitchen, where we had a laptop on the counter, plugged in and fully charged. I disconnected it, brought it to the table, flipped it open, and brought up Chrome. I entered some key words into the search field to find local news video reports about what had happened at Lodge High School the day Mark LeDrew blew himself up.

Stuart�s entire blackmail scheme was based on a false premise. He thought I was the one who had sexually abused Billy Finster. They�d been watching TV. The news item had come up, a shot taken from the street at a moment when I and other members of the staff had been out front, talking to the police.

Only one station had sent a video team to the school in time to catch a shot of us in person, in real time. It was aired by a Fox affiliate in Hartford. When I found the segment on the station�s archived news items, I clicked play.

A woman was standing in front of the school, mike in hand. Across the bottom of the screen were the words school bombing averted. Captured in the footage were Marta and some uniformed officers. There was me, bandaged, a quick glimpse of Herb Willow. Ronny Grant was there, too, but they were all quick, almost impossible to recognize unless you already knew who you were looking at.

�It could have been much worse,� the reporter said. �The would-be bomber, a former student whose motivations remain unclear at this time, ended up taking his own life, perhaps accidentally, but not before threatening to come into the school and kill an undetermined number of people. Police said...�

More general footage. A broad shot of the school. The woman talking into the camera.

�...from here we can see teachers and administrators from Lodge High, including some of the staff we believe stood up to the bomber and persuaded him not to come into the school. Much credit goes to this teacher here.�

There was already a close-up on the screen of Trent, without any identifying information, like his name, at the bottom of the screen, but the second she said �this teacher� there was another close-up, again unidentified, of me.

That was how it must have happened.

Billy said something like �That�s the guy,� when Trent was on, but by the time Stuart looked, I was the one on-screen. And then he�d gone to Billy�s high school yearbook and picked me out like someone in a police station�s catalogue of suspects.

Trent was Billy�s abuser. And Mark�s, too. Maybe Billy had sloughed it off in a way that Mark couldn�t. Billy hadn�t shown up at the school with a bomb, and Billy hadn�t blackmailed me. But Trent had done Mark a more serious emotional injury.

Shit.

I heard the front door open. I called out: �Bonnie! In here! I found it!�

When she didn�t respond, when Rachel didn�t come running into the kitchen, I knew something was wrong. I was getting up from the table when I saw Trent standing in the doorway. He was red-faced and out of breath. He must have hopped in his car seconds after we�d left.

�Trent,� I said.

�I should have just said something at the beginning,� he said. �When you told me Mark had been going on about a lawnmower man, I should have said, yeah, that was his nickname for me, and come up with a reason for why he had it in for me. But covering it up, that was my mistake, wasn�t it?�

I stood there.

�It wasn�t my only one,� he said. �I should have gotten rid of the gun. I shouldn�t have had it with me. Bonnie and her big mouth, telling me to give it to her sister. I�m worried that might be a problem. I haven�t been able to sleep since that night, like waiting for the other shoe to drop. You have to understand, Richard, that what I did, part of it was for you. It wasn�t fair, you being victimized that way by that Stuart Betz guy.�

I didn�t quite understand, but the tumblers were slowly falling into place.

�It made no sense to me,� he said. �Why would Billy be going after you when you never did anything to him? Yeah, I believed you when you told me you were blameless, because it was me.� He looked down to the floor briefly, sorrowfully. �After you told me you were being blackmailed, you came to the office looking for those yearbooks. I asked Belinda about it, she said you were trying to track down Billy Finster.�

�You went to see him,� I said slowly. �That night.�

�I never meant... he had a gun. I found him in the garage and asked him what the hell he was doing, putting you through that ordeal, what was he thinking? He said he had no idea what I was talking about, and we know now he really didn�t, but at the time... He grabbed the gun and started waving it around, threatening me, and what he didn�t know was, I had my own. Ever since Mark came to the school, I�d been pretty freaked out, was carrying it with me everywhere I went.�

�You killed Billy Finster,� I said.

�I ended up doing you a favor,� Trent said, and managed a wry smile. �I�m not expecting a thank-you or anything, but once he was dead, your problems kind of went away.�

That prompted a laugh from me. �Oh yeah, they just vanished. Everything�s been fucking great since then.�

�I�m sorry,� Trent said. �I�m sorry about all of it.�

�How many boys were there?� I asked. �How many did you take advantage of? How many did you assault?�

He couldn�t look me in the eye. �Not... that many. I tried to keep it under control.�

I thought back to that fateful Monday, how Trent had tried to get into position to shoot Mark LeDrew.

�You wanted to shoot Mark,� I said. �When you saw him, you had to have a pretty good idea what his grievance was. He had his list, but you had to rate pretty high on it.�

�No,� he said vehemently. �He could have killed all of us, if he�d had the chance. It wasn�t just about me.�

I thought I noticed some tiny movement, something out of the corner of my eye, on the floor behind Trent. It was there, and then it was gone.

�I don�t recall you ever filling in to oversee the wrestling team,� I said, taking a step closer to him.

�A few times,� he admitted. �When you, or Herb, weren�t available.�

�That was when you assaulted Billy. Was that a one-off? But with Mark there was more, wasn�t there?�

�He was kind of a lost kid,� Trent said. �I tried to help him. I tried to boost his confidence. Took him under my wing. His father didn�t give a shit about him. Had high expectations Mark couldn�t begin to meet. The boy was looking for a father figure and I wanted to be that for him.�

�You exploited that need.�

�I know... I know what I did was wrong, but I was good to him. I... I gave him work. Paid him well for looking after our place that summer. I... I came back a few weekends, alone, when I knew he would be there. So I could spend time with him. Mentor him.�

He said it like he almost believed it. I could guess other ways he boosted that boy�s confidence. With free beer, maybe, video games, companionship. All to get what Trent actually wanted. I took another step in his direction. We were no more than four feet apart now.

�Does Melanie know?� I asked, �About your extracurricular interests?�

I saw that movement again. I saw what it was.

He shook his head. �I�ve been a good husband to her. I�m a good father.�

�You�re a parasite,� I said. �You used your position of authority to exploit a student. Everything that�s happened, all of it, finds its way back to you. Your abuse of Mark, how it tormented him and drove him to consider something horrific. The subsequent mix-up that led to my blackmail, to Finster�s death, to Herb�s. All of it has its seeds in your sickness.�

Trent reached into his pocket and brought out a small handgun and pointed it at me. I was surprised to think the police had returned to him the weapon he�d let Marta use.

�It�s not the same one,� he said, as though reading my mind. �You know I like to have backups of pretty much everything.�

�What�s the plan, Trent? Kill me? Then Bonnie when she gets home? You going to kill Rachel? Will that cover your tracks? I doubt it. Like you said, you�ve been waiting for the other shoe to drop. When they connect your gun to Finster�s death, it�ll be all over.�

Trent�s hand was shaking, but the gun was still leveled at me.

The thing that I�d seen was now crawling up his pant leg. A weird-looking bug. A three-inch-long stick with long, slender legs. Some kind of praying mantis, I thought. Its long legs were taking it higher and higher. I remembered Ginny putting it into a jar for Rachel when we went to visit.

�It�s mean to keep things locked up,� she�d said. �They should all be set free.�

�I could disappear,� Trent said.

�If you�re going to do that, you hardly need to kill me.�

�I�d need a head start. A few hours.�

�They�ll find you,� I said. �It�s time to pay for your sins.�

I stopped looking him in the eye, and instead focused on the creature that was nearly up to his belt. Eventually Trent would have to look, would have to know what had caught my attention.

�You were always a good friend,� he said. �I don�t want to have to do this.�

I said nothing. Instead, I stayed focused on the praying mantis.

Trent finally had to follow my gaze. He glanced down at his side, saw the creature, and acted as I had hoped, and expected, he would. Rachel had told us how freaked out he was about bugs.

�Fuck!� he said, and swept his left hand down, swatting the bug, knocking it from his belt and to the floor.

I only had a second.

I charged him, grabbing him around the waist and bringing him down to the floor. I reached for his right arm, got both hands around it between wrist and elbow, and slammed it onto the floor once, twice, three times, before the gun shook loose from his hand.

I scrambled over him to grab it, landing on it as though it were a live grenade I was trying to save the rest of my unit from.

Trent scrambled to his feet, and instead of attacking me to get the gun back, he bolted, heading for the front door.

I didn�t want to chase him with the gun. He was unarmed now, there was no need to shoot him as he fled. But I didn�t want to leave it lying on the floor, either. I picked it up and quickly placed it on a high cupboard shelf, atop a stack of plates.

And then I ran out after him.

He was standing in the front yard, hands in the air. Marta�s unmarked cruiser was at the curb. She was out of the car, standing by the front bumper, hands clasped around a gun she had pointed at Trent.

�Don�t move, Mr. Wakely,� she said.

Driving up the street and coming to a stop behind the cruiser was Bonnie. She got out of the car and was about to open the back door for Rachel when she saw her sister training a weapon on my boss.

We all heard a rumbling.

One of those huge dump trucks was making its way up the street, the driver taking a shortcut once again through our neighborhood between the construction site and wherever he was taking all that landfill.

Trent saw it, too, and when the truck was only two houses away he dropped his arms and darted into the road. His timing could not have been better.

The driver hit the bullhorn not a millisecond before Trent ran in front of the beast, the bumper knocking him down like he was made of straw. The truck didn�t come to a full stop until the right front tire had rolled over Trent and ended whatever life might have been left in him after being hit by the bumper.

I ran to Bonnie, who was standing there, hand to mouth, eyes wide. I scooped up Rachel from the back of the car, pressing her head down onto my shoulder so she wouldn�t be able to see what had happened, and then the three of us went into the house where we would start the hard work of getting our lives back to normal.

I was thinking, Trent was right. We needed a break. Maybe a trip up to the lake. We�d take the boat.