Ruth Fleming had instructed me to back off the Trejos for fear of a lawsuit but, like most laypeople, her fear of litigation was exaggerated. Lawsuits are complicated, costly to bring and can drag on for years. They also tend to expose secrets in the discovery process. The Trejo family didn’t seem the suing types, even with a lawyer in the family, and they were clearly hiding something about Bill Ryan’s death.

But what? There was really only one person who could tell me what had really happened that night. Nick. My interest in the case had taken on a life of its own unrelated to my employer’s. I could care less whether Western States paid out the claim. I needed to know how Bill Ryan had died, and Nick was the only witness to that event. Unexpectedly, I had come to care for them. They were part of my tribe, apples who’d fallen, not just far from the tree but rolled into another orchard. I didn’t want what I suspected had happened that night to be true. I didn’t want Nick to have killed Bill. But even if he had, there are many degrees of culpability and not all of them warrant the same punishment. I had to find out where Nick fell on that spectrum. What would I do then? I didn’t know yet.

Nick drove across the Bay Bridge and onto the 280 and exited at Ocean. When he took a left on Junipero Serra, then a right on Holloway, I realized he was heading to San Francisco State University where he had been a student when he met Bill Ryan. By now the rain had abated. I parked a couple of cars behind him and waited a moment before following him onto campus.

The sprawling, factory-like campus with its concrete buildings and cemented quadrangles looked particularly naked in the gray winter light. Only a few students picked their way along the leaf-strewn paths. Nick went into the administration building. When he emerged sometime later, he was tucking a sheaf of papers into the inside pocket of his raincoat. I followed him into the student union where I found him drinking a cup of coffee and eating a Danish. His long dark hair was brushed into wings around his face which seemed even younger to me than the first time I had seen him.

“Hi, Nick,” I said, pulling a chair from the table and seating myself.

Panic flashed in his eyes but he managed a stuttered, “Hi.”

“I’m not here to hurt you, but I have some questions that only you can answer.”

“I don’t want Bill’s money.”

“This isn’t about Bill’s money anymore. I think you’re in trouble and I want to help you.”

“What do you mean? You work for the insurance company.”