“Then you know already.”

“Know what?”

“It was nothing.”

Interesting. The same argument. Myron decided to do a little bluffing. “That’s not what he said.”

“Pardon?”

“Chick admitted you two were having an affair.”

A small smile came to her lips. “You’re full of shit, Myron.”

And so he was.

“We were friends,” Nancy said. “We talked. We talked a lot.”

“Yeah, Nancy, no offense, but I’m not buying that.”

“You don’t believe me?”

“I don’t, no.”

“Why not?”

“For one thing, Chick doesn’t hit me as a great talker.”

“But he does hit you as being a great lay?”

Touché, Myron thought.

Nancy moved close to him. She looked up at him with the eyes of a doe. It was, he imagined, a move she’d made before to get a point across to a man. It was, he imagined, a move that had served her well in the past.

“Will you trust me that it has nothing to do with what happened to the boys?”

“No,” Myron said.

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

“You think I’m lying?”

“Maybe,” Myron said. “Or maybe you don’t know.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Things ripple. Things wiggle beneath the surface. You can’t always see them, especially when you’re as close to it as you are. You know about the butterfly effect, the concept that a butterfly flapping its wings may seem inconsequential—”

“But can change everything,” Nancy finished for him. “I know it. It’s nonsense. And anyway—”

She stopped when she heard the clumping footsteps. They both turned toward the stairs. There, stopping on the third step from the bottom, was Patrick Moore. Or maybe–Patrick Moore. Either way, it was the boy Fat Gandhi had stabbed in the tunnel.

Myron surreptitiously hit a button on his mobile phone.

For a moment, no one spoke. Nancy broke the silence.

“Is everything okay, Patrick? Can I get you something?”

Patrick had his eyes on Myron.

“Hi, Patrick,” Myron said.

“You’re the guy who saved me,” he said.

“Yeah, I guess I am.”

“Francesca said you were here.” He swallowed hard. “That fat guy. He tried to kill me.”

Myron glanced at Nancy.

“It’s okay,” Nancy said in the soothing, unmistakable tone of a worried mother. “You’re home now. You’re safe.”

Patrick still had his eyes on Myron. “Why?” he asked. “Why did he stab me?”

It was a common enough question after a violent crime. Myron had seen it before—this need to know. It was an unselfish “Why me?” Rape victims often wonder why they were chosen. So do victims of any crime.

“I think,” Myron said, “he was trying to save himself.”

“How?”

“He figured that if he stabbed you, I’d stop chasing him. I’d have to choose between going after him and saving you.”

Patrick nodded, seeing it now. “Right. I guess that makes sense.”

Myron took a tentative step toward the boy. “Patrick,” he said, trying to keep his voice even and as nonthreatening as possible, “where have you been?”