dependability. She was my rock.

But now, she was imploding. Coming apart.

Susan looked at her hand and studied her wedding ring, her brow furrowed. I knew, by her expression, that there was more. She was deciding how much to reveal. “Go on,” I said. “What?”

She looked up, all innocence. “What do you mean, ‘what’?” “What else?”

“Nothing else. So,” she dodged, changing the subject, “how’s work?”

“Work’s fine. Don’t change the subject.”

“What subject. We weren’t talking about anything.”

I didn’t know whether to press the topic or let it go, wasn’t sure what she wanted me to do. This was a new situation for us. Suddenly, I smelled flowers.

“Ready?”

No, not flowers. I smelled Gladys, the waitress. Her lily of the valley toilet water.

Gladys didn’t like waiting and punctuated passing seconds by batting her false lashes. She had large hands with long, silver sculpted nails, silver rings on every finger.

“Can I have a milk shake, Mom?”

“Can we get onion rings?”

Normally, it was Susan who ordered. She naturally assumed the alpha position. Top dog, head hen, queen bee. But now, even menu items were beyond her; she had no capacity for making choices. Gladys tapped her nails on the order pad, shifted her pen, rolled her eyes, and glowered until, finally, I managed to spit out the names of enough dishes and drinks to feed the four of us and probably half the people in the place.

Gladys scribbled on her pad and snorted off.

“I’m starving.” Molly whined. “How long till the food comes?”

“Don’t whine,” I said. “You’re not starving. You don’t even know what starving is.”

“Yes, I do. It’s dying of hunger. And I am.”

I didn’t want to get into it with her. “Hang on. It’ll be here soon.” She complained some more but gave up after a while, when I didn’t respond. She and Emily began a hidden-word place-mat game.

“I see one. P-I-G. That spells pig.”

Molly had sounded it out. I kissed her as Emily, ever competitive, declared that she’d found D-O-G first. I returned my attention to Susan.

“It’s really nothing.” It took a second to figure out what she was talking about. She’d picked up our conversation exactly where we’d left it.

“What’s nothing?”

She fidgeted with her silverware. “It’s no big deal, Zoe. I just don’t want to talk about it.”

“Why not?” Obviously, she did. “Talking won’t do any good.”

“Susan, please don’t say that to a therapist. It’s like telling a lawyer that suing won’t do any good.”

“You’re an art therapist, not a talk therapist. I didn’t knock making pottery or mosaics.”

“Okay. Don’t tell me.”

“I’ve had some nightmares, that’s all.”

“Nightmares?” Susan had my attention. I was, after all, an expert on nightmares, having had my share. I knew what it was to wake up sweating, caught in the talons of a bad dream.

“All week. Since Claudia. I’ve just been rattled.”

Except that Susan didn’t rattle. She dealt with murders and murderers every day. Reality, even brutality, didn’t shake her.

“Dreams can seem more real than reality,” I said.

She nodded. “I don’t sleep. That’s the main thing. I’m so tired.”

I couldn’t help playing therapist. “Do the nightmares come only when Tim’s out of town?” “No. It’s not like that.”

“Well, do you know what sets them off? PMS, maybe? Or the moon? Your diet? Trial dates?”

“No, no. They just began the other night. After Claudia.” She stopped, irritated, wanting the topic to go away. “I really don’t want to talk about this.”

“But if they’re so bad that you’re not functioning—”

“It’s no big deal. It’s just temporary. Stress. I’ll manage. Let’s forget I brought it up? And, please, don’t repeat this—”

“Repeat it? Why would I—”

“I know you wouldn’t. It’s stupid to say that. But I have trouble enough being taken seriously around the Justice Center—I’d be finished if anyone knew about this. Not even Tim knows.”

“Susan. There’s nothing shameful about having nightmares.”

“Yes, there is. For a criminal lawyer, there is.”

She glanced at the girls, making sure they were absorbed in their own banter. “See, they’re about the crimes. The victims.” Susan looked at her hands, studied her manicure. “They, uh, come back in the night. Every night, since Claudia disappeared. They’re after me, as if it’s my fault they’re dead. They blame me.”

“Blame you? For what?”

She looked at me as if I were addled. “For what. For defending their killers. For getting their killers off so they can go free.”

“Oh,” I nodded. “That’s scary.” A macabre chortle slipped out my mouth.

The girls, finished with the puzzles, began discussing what colors to make Arthur and his shirt and pants.

Susan went on.