As soon as I round the curve in the road, the square appears, and I slow to a walk. The parking lot holds a smattering of compacts, SUVs, and pickups. The Volvo is likely parked behind the eatery; Anne would have driven to work, not only to get there quickly but to avoid tempting Dad with wheels. As I approach, another pickup appears, this one with the logo of a construction company. Two men climb out and head for the yellow beacon of Sunny Side Up. They’re barely at the door when it opens and a family of four explodes from inside, two children breaking into a run, like they’d been caged and are suddenly free.

Shouting their names—Liam! Ava!—their parents run after them. I watch for only a second before spotting Jack Sabathian and his dog.

Chapter 9

They are at a picnic table on the edge of the square. The man sits on its top with his elbows on splayed knees, while the dog sits on the bench seat with its short, sandy-haired body pressed to his leg. As I watch, Jack tightens the leash while the children pass.

I consider what to do myself.

Still running? he asked me last night. If I were, I would study my phone like I was checking a crucial message and make for my sister’s shop as if I hadn’t seen him there at all. But that would be ridiculous, with Jack now the only human in the square. Giving the picnic table a comfortably wide berth, I circle to the front. Both heads follow me around.

Jack is wearing mirrored sunglasses, so I can’t see his eyes. I do know they’re gray, but what shade? While his nose is blade-straight, his body solid, and his opinions either for or against with no room for doubt, his eyes can go darker or lighter, harder or softer, iron to pewter to dove. They are a paradox, the only part of him that lacks absolutism.

Well, there is his hair, I concede. Despite the occasional strands of gray in his beard, I see no gray on his head. In a nod to memory, its chestnut is perpetually streaked, more so under the June sun, and while it is inches shorter than it was, it still has enough length to form waves. That hair is the devil’s lure.

I focus on the dog. “Smart move, the leash,” I remark.

Jack is stroking the dog’s ear, drawing it between forefinger and thumb with soothing repetition. “It’s for his own protection. Kids can be lethal.”

“But there are always kids here. It’s the way of the square. So why bring him?”

“Training. He’s learning that not everyone is a danger.” He takes off the shades, drops them on the table, and adds with what I see now is amusement, “Want to give him a pat?”