I didn’t detect the faintest shadow of anything that might have been bothering him. But Benton is stoical. He’s one of the most unreadable people I’ve ever met.

“What’s the likelihood he doesn’t know, Kay?”

There’s no likelihood, and that’s probably the dismal truth because how could he not have had a clue that his colleagues were about to raid Lucy’s property and seize her belongings? Of course he knew, and how could he not be bothered by that fact? How could he sleep in the same bed and make love to me while knowing such a thing was about to happen? I feel a twinge of anger, of betrayal, and then I feel nothing. This is our life together. We have more nonconversations than any two people I know.

We routinely keep secrets from each other. At times we lie. It might be by omission but we deliberately mislead each other and misrepresent the truth because that’s what our jobs require. At moments like this as an FBI helicopter beats overhead and agents raid my niece’s property I wonder if it’s worth it. Benton and I answer to a higher power that’s actually a lower one. We faithfully serve a criminal justice system that’s flawed and compromised on its way to being broken.

“I’ve not talked to him since we left the house this morning,” I summarize to Donoghue. “I’ve told him nothing.”

“Let’s leave it like that for now,” she says, and after a weighty beat she adds, “I have a question for you, Kay, while we’re on the subject. Have you ever heard the term data fiction?”

“Data fiction?” I repeat, and Lucy turns around and stares in my direction as if she heard what I just said. “No I haven’t. Why?”

“It’s a term that’s central to a case I was just in court about this morning. Not a case that has any direct relevance to you per se. Well we’ll talk when I see you. I’m on my way.”

Chapter 15

CHAPTER 15

I END THE CALL AND LEAN AGAINST THE DOGWOOD tree, thinking. The helicopter is a huge menacing black hornet. It’s been nosing low and loud over the river, going up and down, then cutting hard left or right, flying a grid pattern as if searching for someone.

I feel sunlight on the back of my neck as I look around at the freshly mown grass and lush trees. The meadow beyond the rock garden is a paint-spattered canvas in bold primary colors and electric mixtures of them. It’s breathtakingly beautiful in this spot. It’s supposed to be peaceful but the FBI has turned it into a war zone and I realize how alone I am. I can’t confide in anyone, not really, and especially not Benton.