Joel was screaming at him, pulling his arm. Ethan realized the storm was real. He was standing in the middle of the street, exposed on Third Avenue, surrounded. The newspeople were shouting at him, cameras were clicking. A sharp flash of lightning and an immediate rolling thunderclap shook the ground, and everyone gasped and scattered, seeking cover.

Joel tugged at him, finally got his feet moving, towed him onto the porch. Shouted in his ear, “We need to go in, Ethan. It’s dangerous out here.”

“No.” Ethan wrenched his arm away, sat hard on the porch swing, ran his fingers along the metal chain that bound it to the ceiling. Started to rock. The wind played along, helping him move. Movement was his friend. Joel stood in the front door, arm on the jamb, watching, calling, but Ethan stayed planted on the swing. Inside the news vans, he knew video was being shot, knew photos were being taken. He raised a middle finger toward them, held it long enough for everyone to get a good view.

When the storm abated, he went inside. Joel had made tea. They sat at the kitchen table, unspeaking.

Finally, Ethan said, “When will they arrest me?”

Joel shook his head. “I don’t know.”

* * *

Ethan wrote. He hid away from it all, the condemnation and the accusations he knew were flying, sat by himself at the long driftwood desk in the big old house on Third Avenue, with the ghosts of his wife and child, writing every word he could conjure. The story was already taking shape. He had always been able to write quickly once his idea was settled; this was no different. Thousands of words poured from his fingers. He ignored the ever-ringing doorbell. He ignored the constantly ringing phone.

He ignored the fact that no one he cared about was reaching out to help.

It had been the same when Dashiell died, come to think of it, minus the words, of course. People had kept their distance. He understood it was hard to approach them, hard to say the words. I’m so sorry your child died.

They’d say everything else. I’m sorry for your loss. I’m sorry about your pain. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.

But no one could bring themselves to utter the words they really needed to hear.

He mostly didn’t care. It wasn’t like there was anything anyone could do. Sutton’s friends had hung around the first few days, bringing casseroles, changing sheets. Ivy had made Sutton shower and dress every morning. But even Ivy had eventually been drawn away, off to a conference in Rhode Island, and then it was just the two of them, Ethan and Sutton, alone in the house with the gaping maw of death surrounding them.