My heart flips one way and then the other as I ring the bell. Bowman refused to say that Zachary was cleared of his wife’s murder. It’s possible he’s the killer. But if he is, what’s taking the cops so long to close the deal? I told Bowman about the fight. Might they turn their eyes back to Zachary now? Had anyone else ever been a suspect? Was I a fool for coming to his house?

The blinds are drawn behind the large front window. Brittle stalks of long-dead flowers remain in a window box, quivering in the cold wind. It’s almost ten, and Zach is likely to be at work. But I have to try something. Anything.

I wait. The wind kicks up, freezing the tips of my ears, and I keep my hands in my coat pockets. My head thumps dully, a steady but not excruciating presence. A reminder of Madeline’s wild swing. I wait some more, then ring the bell again.

I think it’s a lost cause until the lock starts rattling, the sound just reaching me above the wind. The door swings open and I’m face-to-face with Zachary for the first time since that night I stepped in between him and his wife.

He stares at me across the threshold, searching for recognition that isn’t quite there. He looks the same but without a beard. Maybe a few flecks of gray in his dark hair.

How do I start? Where?

“Can I help you?” he asks, still searching my face.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” I say. “I’m not sure if you—”

His eyes shift. Something brightens there. Or maybe it flares. I can’t be sure. But I see the change. He knows who I am.

“What do you want?” he asks, his voice sharper.

“I want to talk.”

“About what?”

“I think you remember me, right?”

“I do,” he says. “It’s been a while, and I do. You’re the creep who used to come by here with your dog.”

“No, I’m the guy who stopped you from fighting with your wife.”

“Oh, yeah. Well, I’m not interested in relitigating the past. Whatever you’re here for, you’re way too late. Just like the cops, just like everybody else. Get lost.”

He steps back and shoves the door toward my face.

I make the only move I can and stick my foot out. I place the sole against the bottom of the door, blocking its progress. Zachary’s brow wrinkles. He bites down on his lower lip and applies more pressure to the door, as if through sheer application of strength he can knock me out of the doorframe and out of his life. And he probably can. He’s younger than I am. Stronger.

But I do what I can.

“Zachary, wait. Just wait.”

He pushes harder.

“Sophia,” I say. “I want to talk to you about Sophia.”