“You okay to keep driving?” Harry asked Paul, who was lighting up another cigarette.

“You’re awake?”

“I’ve been awake. I haven’t slept.”

Paul turned up the music—an Alanis Morissette album (“just while we’re in Canada”)—and told Harry that he’d be able to drive the rest of the way.

They reached the outskirts of Ann Arbor by midmorning, the sky a deep metallic blue, and picked the first motel that didn’t look like it was owned by Norman Bates. They each stood by the car for a few moments after getting out, Paul doing jumping jacks while Harry stretched out his legs. The air was cool and smelled of nothing.

They rented a room with two double beds. The woman at the front desk, her sparse white hair combed over a bald pate, suggested they go to the Nichols Arboretum if they wanted a nice activity for later in the day. Paul told her they were attending a funeral Mass, and Harry watched as her eyes flicked from Paul’s face to his, then quickly back down to the computer. The murders in Kennewick, Maine, were national news, and Harry was sure that they were much bigger news in Ann Arbor, where Grace McGowan’s memorial was being held at three that afternoon.

They each ate an enormous breakfast at a Shoney’s, then went back to the motel room to sleep.

Paul crawled under his covers fully dressed, and said, “I don’t have to go to the service, if you don’t want me there. I’ll be happy to tour Ann Arbor’s bar scene instead.”

“Oh no, you’re coming,” Harry said.

Paul didn’t answer. He was asleep already.

Harry tried to sleep, but found himself alternately staring at the ceiling and then his phone, hoping to get a text from Caitlin, who knew he was arriving that morning. He hadn’t planned on texting her himself—it was the day of her sister’s funeral, after all—but he was secretly hoping she might reach out to him, just to acknowledge his arrival, to tell him it was okay he was there, although she’d already given him that blessing.

It was five days since he’d opened the trunk of Jake Richter’s car and thought he was looking at her dead body. The returning policeman had helped Harry lift her from the trunk as an ambulance arrived. She’d started to shiver once his arms touched her, and called his name, her voice barely audible. When she was on the gurney and about to be rolled into the ambulance, she lifted her hand and beckoned to Harry. He came close to her, placing his ear down by her mouth.

“It was John Richards,” she whispered.

“I know,” Harry said. “He’s dead now.”