The words rang like an echo in my head. It took me a moment to remember why: I had said them to Richie, just two nights before, about Conor Brennan. My eyes wouldn’t focus; the monitor looked off-kilter, like a dense lump of dead weight sending the case rocking at dangerous angles. “No,” I said. “I know.” I took a swig of water; the cold helped, but it left a foul, rusty aftertaste on my tongue. “You need to bear in mind, though, that that doesn’t necessarily make him a murderer. There’s nothing in there about hurting his wife or children, and plenty about how much he loves them. That’s why he’s so set on getting his hands on the animal: he thinks that’s the only way to save his family.”

Richie said, “‘It’s my job to take care of her.’ That’s what he said, on that home-and-garden board. If he felt like he couldn’t do that any more …”

“‘What the fuck do I do now?’” I knew what came next. The thought rolled through my stomach with a dull heave, as if the water had been tainted. I closed my browser and watched the screen flash to a bland, innocuous blue. “Finish your phone calls later. We need to talk to Jenny Spain.”

*

She was alone. The room felt almost summery: the day was bright, and someone had opened the window a crack, so that a breeze toyed with the blinds and the fug of disinfectant had dissipated to a faint clean tang. Jenny was propped up on pillows, staring at the shifting pattern of sun and shadow on the wall, hands loose and unmoving on the blue blanket. With no makeup she looked younger and plainer than she had in the wedding photos, and somehow less nondescript, now that the little quirks showed—a beauty spot on the unbandaged cheek, an irregular top lip that made her look ready to smile. It wasn’t a remarkable face in any way, but it had a clean-lined sweetness that brought up summer barbecues, golden retrievers, soccer games on new-mown grass, and I have always been caught by the pull of the unremarkable, by the easily missed, infinitely nourishing beauty of the mundane.

“Mrs. Spain,” I said. “I don’t know if you remember us: Detective Michael Kennedy and Detective Richard Curran. Would it be all right if we came in for a few minutes?”

“Oh …” Jenny’s eyes, red-rimmed and puffy, moved over our faces. I managed not to flinch. “Yeah. I remember. I guess … yeah. Come in.”

“No one’s here with you today?”

“Fiona’s at work. My mum had an appointment about her blood pressure. She’ll be back in a while. I’m fine.”

Her voice was still hoarse and thick, but she had looked up quickly when we came in: her head was starting to clear, God help her. She seemed calm, but I couldn’t tell whether it was the stupefaction of shock or the brittle glaze of exhaustion. I asked, “How are you feeling?”