“I know. Don’t you think I know that? It couldn’t be the same, because if the bad stuff—if what I did—doesn’t matter, then the good stuff doesn’t matter, either. And it all matters, it all counts—all of it. I chose you—then and now-—and I choose you and it all counts: you, Jack, Molly, me—we all matter.”

Phil turned away from her and leaned against the counter; his shoulders sagged. She touched his back. He turned to her. “I don’t know. I just don’t know.”

She nodded and touched his cheek.

Molly ambled into the kitchen. “Mom, what in the world did you do in the hall upstairs?”

Amy went to Molly and hugged her. “I found your Cinderella sheets.”

Molly laughed. “Oh, great. I’ll just pack them for college now.”

Amy held up her hand. “Look what else I found. It was in your old pink jewelry box.”

“Your necklace that you gave me—that’s what you were looking for?”

“Yes. Yes, I guess I was.”

Nick slammed the front door, then walked into the living room. Eliza was bent over a sewing machine, hemming Alex’s school-uniform khakis. She didn’t look up.

“Eliza,” he said loudly.

She didn’t respond.

“Eliza.” He slammed his hand on the sewing machine, knocked the pants to the floor.

She looked up at him. “What is it, Nick?”

“I haven’t been home in three weeks and that’s all you have to say?”’

“I don’t know what else to say.” Tears filled her eyes.

Sorrow washed over him; the pain he’d caused was evident everywhere he turned—his own shattered heart, Eliza’s anguish, Amy’s broken spirit. He didn’t know if he could look at any more of the havoc his desire had wreaked. He asked what he’d come to find out—it seemed vital to resolving the situation.

“Eliza, why do you love me?”

“I always have.”

“That is not what I asked.”

She threw the khakis on the couch and stood. “Why do I need to answer that? You left—why do I need to answer that question?”

“I need to know.”

“I don’t know, Nick. I love your strength. I love your eyes. I love . . . Why are you making me say this? It hurts.”

He grabbed her shoulders. “I want to know why. If you think I’m so terrible—a killer . . .”

“I never, ever said that.”

“You’ve said it without saying it. Tell me out loud, then—do you think I would have missed that woman if I hadn’t been drinking?”

“I don’t know.”

“Answer me. Do you think I would’ve killed her if I’d been sober?” He squeezed her shoulders, each word a staccato beat.

She lifted her hand and pushed his hands off her shoulders. “No. I don’t think you would’ve hit her if you’d been . . . sober.”