The parents of Peter Stimovich and Pamela Stokes joined together in a class action suit against the state, the governor (again), and Walpole Penitentiary for releasing Evandro Arujo.

Campbell Rawson was, quite miraculously, according to doctors, unaffected by the overdose of hydroclorophyl administered by Gerry Glynn. He should have had permanent brain damage, but instead he woke with a headache and nothing more.

His mother, Danielle, sent me a Christmas card with a rambling thank-you note inside and an assurance that any time I passed through Reading I was welcome to a hot meal and friendship at the Rawson household.

Grace and Mae returned from a safe house in Upstate New York two days after Gerry’s death. Grace resecured her position at Beth Israel and called me the day I was released from the hospital.

It was one of those uncomfortable conversations in which polite reserve replaces intimacy and as it stumbled toward a close, I asked her if she’d like to meet for a drink sometime.

“I don’t think that would be a good idea, Patrick.”

“Ever?” I asked.

A long, unpopped bubble of a pause followed and was an answer in and of itself, and then she said:

“I’ll always care for you.”

“But.”

“But my daughter comes first, and I can’t risk exposing her to your life again.”

A pit opened and yawned and extended from my throat to my stomach.

“Can I talk to her? Say ’bye?”

“I don’t think that would be a healthy thing. For either of you.” Her voice cracked and her quick inhalation was a wet hiss. “Sometimes it’s better to let things fade.”

I closed my eyes and placed my head against the phone for a moment.

“Grace, I—”

“I have to go, Patrick. Take care of yourself. I mean that. Don’t let that job destroy you. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Promise?”

“I promise, Grace. I—”

“’Bye, Patrick.”

“’Bye.”

Angie left the day after Phil’s funeral.

“He died,” she said, “because he loved us too much and we didn’t love him enough.”

“How do you figure?” I stared into an open grave cut through hard, frozen earth.

“It wasn’t his fight, but he fought it anyway. For us, And we didn’t love him enough to keep him out of it.”

“I don’t know if it’s that simple.”

“It is,” she assured me and dropped flowers in the grave onto his coffin.

Mail has piled up in my apartment—bills, solicitations from supermarket tabloids and local TV and radio talk shows. Talk, talk, talk, I find myself thinking, talk all you want and it won’t change the fact that Glynn existed. And so many others like him still do.

The only thing I’ve pulled from the pile is a postcard from Angie.

It arrived two weeks ago from Rome. Birds flap their wings over the Vatican.

Patrick,

Gorgeous here. What do you think the guys in this building are deciding about my life and my body these days? Men keep pinching our butts over here and I’m going to clock one soon, start an international incident, I just know it. Going to Tuscany tomorrow. Then, who knows? Renee says Hi. Says don’t worry about the beard, she always thought you’d look hot with one. My sister—I swear. Take care.