Greenwood spun the story. His wife had received a scholarship to Columbia Law, and his three years with Bloomington PD had gotten him hired by the NYPD. Six months before 9/11, he’d started in patrol. The table let him move through his time line without opening that wound. He told them how he’d transferred to major crimes, worked his way to homicide. His wife’s work in family law had kept them in a Brooklyn brownstone.

Mary found the appropriate opening. “Why did you come home?”

“My father-in-law was hospitalized. Melissa wanted to make peace in case he passed.” Greenwood glanced at Caitlin, reached for his wine.

“And your wife?” Lubbers refilled his wine glass. “Do you mind if I ask how she died?”

“Shit, Mary,” Aaron said, “is the lasagna ready?”

“I’ve got a timer. It’ll go off.”

“How about an awkward meter, babe? Got one of those?”

Greenwood held a hand up. “I don’t mind talking about it. Melissa suffered from polycystic ovarian syndrome. It’s usually not serious, but she had a cyst rupture.”

Mary leaned in. “You can die from that?”

“If the hemorrhage causes an infection, but it wasn’t that.” He took a breath. “I was working on the south side of town. She was visiting her father at his nursing home, two blocks from Meadows Hospital, out by State Road Thirty-Seven. She’d gone through the pain before. They say it compares to what people with appendicitis feel. Trooper that she was, she didn’t want to waste an ambulance, and drove the two blocks. I left work to meet her. She parked in the lot, walked to the ER.”

He cleared his throat.

“They were re-curbing around the awning over the ER door. The sidewalk was messed up, so she cut through the construction.” He took another breath. “Same time, a cab swings up to the door. Driver’s looking at the back seat, where a nineteen-year-old is screaming at the top of her lungs, pushing out twins.”

“Oh God,” Mary said.

Greenwood nodded. “He thought he hit the curb. Didn’t even notice Melissa until an orderly came out. The bumper knocked her off her feet, her head hit the curb, and—” He made a futile wave with his hand, let the story end. He probably wiped tears away. Caitlin couldn’t tell. She, Mary, and Aaron were all busy doing the same.

He broke the silence. “Should have warned you, I’m shit at parties.”

Mary got up and threw her arms around his shoulders. “I’m the worst host in the world. What can I do to make this better? You can shoot me if you want. Did you bring your gun?”

Greenwood laughed. “Maybe a slice of lasagna?”

*   *   *