had no appetite. The sauce, the sausage—it all looked like pieces of Charlie.

The girls were exhausted and sat, eyes glazed, watching television, but Susan wouldn’t leave until Nick arrived. When he did, at around nine-thirty, she still didn’t leave. Nick looked worn-out, so Susan fixed him a Scotch, dealing with her stress by becoming hostess, rifling through my cupboards for some hearty late-night snack.

“You okay?” he asked me. His clothes were rumpled and stubble shadowed his face, but his gaze was warm, concerned.

“Are you?” I avoided answering.

“We need to talk.” He seemed urgent, harassed.

“Okay.” I couldn’t imagine focusing long enough to discuss anything, but we went to the sofa and sank onto velvet cushions.

“I was an asshole—”

“Really, Nick. It doesn’t—”

“please just listen, Zoe. I guess I blew it with you, so I’m not surprised you don’t want to hear what I have to say. But I’m responsible for what happened tonight, so I—”

“Wait—what? How are you responsible—”

He interrupted. “You told me about this guy, how nuts he was. You gave me the information, and I should have taken care of it. I should have prevented the whole damned thing. It was my responsibility. I screwed up. I let you and those other people down. And I’m sorry.” He took my hand. “Man, you’re like ice.” He moved closer and began warming me, rubbing my hands. “You want a blanket? A sweater?”

I shook my head. I didn’t object to the contact, but I didn’t say anything. I didn’t know what to say. I hadn’t yet absorbed the idea that Charlie was the killer. And, if fault for what had happened were to be assigned, I’d get my share. After all, if I’d listened to Charlie that day and not gone out—if I’d only stayed home in my own house with my little girl, everything would have been different. Charlie wouldn’t have followed me. Molly would be upstairs, tucked in her bed. No trash bags or keepsakes would have been found in Charlie’s basement. And Charlie would still be alive.

“Give me a minute,” Nick said. He took off his jacket and hung it on my shoulders. When he went into the kitchen, I wandered over to Molly and Emily. They were sprawled in front of the television.

“You okay, girls?” I joined them on the floor.

Molly looked my way. “Charlie’s killed, right, Mom?”

I took her hand. “He’s dead, yes.”

“Told you,” she said to Emily

“No, I told you,” Emily insisted. “You said he’d get better.” “Uh-uh—you said that—”

“Well, he’s gone,” I said. “He was sick and he couldn’t think straight, and he made a bad mistake.”

Molly spoke with authority. “He had bad dreams that seemed real, Em. It was like—he couldn’t wake up from them. Right, Mom?”

“That’s right.” Once again, it surprised me how much she understood.

“But if he was sick, why’d the police shoot at him?” Emily asked.

“ ‘Cause he shot at them.” “But why’d he shoot at them?”

Molly rolled her eyes as if the answer were obvious. “ ‘Cause he didn’t know they’d shoot back at him.” The explanation baffled me but seemed to satisfy both of them.

“Well, it was very sad. And scary. But it’s over and we’re all safe.” I put an arm around each of them, almost melting from their hugs.

“Mommy?” Molly’s voice was urgent. “Do you think my tooth will come out tonight?” She wiggled it for me. It was still tethered securely.

“Not tonight. Maybe tomorrow.” I stroked her head.

Emily grinned. “Yes!”

“Yes?” I asked. Clearly, they’d discussed it.

“If it won’t come out tonight, then the Tooth Fairy won’t have to find me. So maybe—can I sleep over at Emily’s? Pleeeeze?”

FORTY-FOUR

MOLLY SLEPT AT HOME THAT NIGHT. I WOULDN’T LET HER GO anywhere, even to Susan’s. I couldn’t. But somehow, by the time Susan and Emily left, I’d agreed that Molly and I would spend the weekend at Nick’s place in the country. Nick and Susan seemed convinced that I should get away, have a view of something other than Charlie’s empty house. A break from responsibilities. Nick insisted that I was to do nothing, not cook, not clean, not plan, not think. I was to pack a minimum and allow Nick to take care of everything.

I went along with the scheme, aware of my uncharacteristic passivity. I didn’t see what difference it made where we were, but I didn’t argue. My body was limp and drained. I was weak, nonverbal, slow to react. I found it difficult to form clear thoughts. I couldn’t imagine standing up, let alone fixing