“Perhaps,” Myron said, “we should meet with Gabriel Wire.” He turned to Esperanza. “Let’s also check on our favorite French teacher, see where Crush was at the time of Suzze’s death.”

“Okay,” Esperanza said.

“I can drive you home,” Win said.

But Myron shook him off. He needed the downtime. He needed to take a step back. Maybe Muse was right. Maybe it was a drug overdose. Last night, on that balcony overlooking Manhattan, all that talk about secrets, all that guilt about Kitty and the past—maybe it summoned up old demons. Maybe the answer would be as simple as that.

Myron got into his car and headed back to his home in Livingston. He called Dad to let him know that he was on his way. “Drive safely,” his father said. Myron hoped that maybe his father would offer up a clue about what they needed to discuss, but he didn’t. AM radio was already reporting the death of “former troubled tennis sensation Suzze T,” and Myron again wondered about the inept shortcutting of the media.

It was dark by the time Myron pulled up to his familiar abode. The light in the upstairs bedroom—the one he had shared with Brad when they were both very young—was on, and Myron looked up at it. He could see the outline of the long-faded Tot Finder sticker, something the Livingston Fire Department had handed out during the early Carter administration. The image on the sticker was dramatic, a brave fireman, his chin up, carrying a limp, long-haired child to safety. Now the room was a home office.

His car lights caught a For Sale sign on the Nussbaums’ front lawn. Myron had gone to high school with their son Steve, though everyone called him either “Nuss” or “Baum,” a friendly kid Myron really liked but for some reason never hung out with. The Nussbaums had been one of the original families, buying in when this farmland was originally turned into housing forty years ago. The Nussbaums loved it here. They loved to garden and putter and work on the gazebo in the backyard. They brought the Bolitars the extra tomatoes from their garden, and if you’ve never tried a Jersey tomato in August, you just don’t get it. Now even the Nussbaums were moving out.