Frank has always been grateful his mother was spared, even though as a boy he had sometimes—with enormous pangs of guilt—allowed himself to imagine his life if he’d been orphaned to his grandmother’s care and stayed where he was—his house, his school, his life. O heart of my mother! And then he would find himself going to sit near his mother, to take it all back. He was so relieved she was there, even though it was hard in boyhood to see Horace, the little red-faced mewler with chronic cradle cap, as hero of the world. “Don’t you go near those tracks,” his mother had said, and he can almost conjure her voice as he makes his way from the edge of the woods back into the glare of the rails and the short distance to go.

Shelley

“Here’s the deal,” the judge says when Shelley enters her office and is asked to close the door. There is a lawn mower passing right outside the window, and the judge holds one perfectly manicured finger skyward while waiting for it to pass. Shelley saw him as she was coming in, a man wearing aviator shades with a tattoo sleeve of snakes; this judge is big on hiring prisoners, giving chances for people to work and redeem themselves, which might be in Shelley’s favor right now.

There is very little decoration to be seen, no personal photographs, nothing hanging on the drab beige walls; the venetian blinds behind where the judge is sitting are barely slanted, to let in a little bit of light. It’s kind of like in The Godfather, and Shelley almost says that but then thinks better. The judge is already robed and ready to go. “It’s short notice and slim pickings in the clerical pool these days.”

“Okay.”

“I have no idea what you were thinking the other day, but it was inappropriate. People may come in here gawking and acting like they’ve gone to the theater, but it is not the theater.” She holds a hard stare and waits for Shelley to nod. The mower is far in the distance now, but it sounds like it might be circling back, and the clock on the otherwise bare mantel is ticking, ticking. “You know that, right? Not the theater.”

Shelley nods.

“A woman was murdered. A child was orphaned. I take that seriously,” the judge says.

“Yes.”

“Yes, you know that I take it seriously, or, yes, you do as well? Yes, you know that this is no laughing matter? Not a soap opera or some silly form of amusement.” The woman never blinks, and she leans forward with each syllable.

“Yes to all of that. Yes, I know.”

“Do you have a personal connection to this case? Because if you do, that is something you should have disclosed in the beginning.”

“No. No, I don’t.”