It struck her then, as she pushed back and molded into the soft cushions, that she had put David in an entirely untenable position. On one hand he’d been threatened, told that his wife and child would never be safe unless he carried out one last assassination. But if he went through with it, she had promised to leave him. For the first time Christine put herself in David’s place. She asked herself that same question. Would she kill a man to protect her child? Chillingly—and without hesitation—the answer came.

Oh, David. What have I done to you?

She closed her eyes tightly. The room was cool and quiet, the only noise being the rhythmic beep of a vital signs monitor. Sleep-deprived and queasy, confused and exhausted, Christine put her free hand to her belly. Soon she was fast asleep.

*   *   *

Sanderson sat under the chestnut tree for a very long time. On the lake sailboats heeled against a stiff breeze as they scythed through sun-flecked water, and Mont Blanc was clear in the distance, two colorful hot-air balloons hovering near its black-granite base. As he watched the crowds stroll the sidewalks, it struck Sanderson that nearly everyone seemed oblivious to the glorious morning around them. A couple arm-in-arm were too distracted by one another. A woman carrying groceries was consumed by her chore. And the elderly man shuffling with his duck-handled cane? Yes, Sanderson thought. He’s the one who’s seeing it.

Ingrid had talked for half an hour, telling him what he needed to do and who he needed to see. He was glad about that, not because of what she’d said, but simply to have someone there to say it. He would need her in the days ahead, and not for the first time labeled himself a fool for ever having let her go. He promised her he’d come home right away, knowing he wouldn’t. Sanderson did, however, take the time afterward to check tomorrow’s flight schedule. This in itself—the consideration of a flight—he saw as a clear admission of the gravity of his situation.

Thirty-five years a policeman, Arne Sanderson had witnessed more than his share of misery, and so he was well versed in the five conceptual stages of grief. He also knew he would not bother with them. Denial of facts was not in his nature, and anger he thought self-defeating. He might eventually bargain with God for salvation, but right now had more pressing matters to deal with. And depression? Sanderson thought.

Please.