“I don’t hate him. I’ve never hated him. I just thought he was a pig.”

“He is.”

“Well, now I think he must have a good side I haven’t met yet, since Emily chose him.”

“You don’t have to sell me on them. I’ve known them for ages, remember?”

“I liked talking to her. I told her we’d try to go to their Memorial Day thing this year. Why haven’t we ever gone?”

“You’re romanticizing them because you’re emotional. They’re fine. They’re not all that great, and we always have Memorial Day plans, so don’t worry about it.”

She winces. “Well, it felt nice to talk to someone.”

“Well, talk to me, then.” I open a document, pretend to care about its contents. “Let me finish this and I’ll be right in.”

Elizabeth shakes her head and closes the door behind her. I probably should offer to sit with her now, but the choir in my head is still singing. The moment the door clicks shut, I open one of those incognito tabs on my browser—knowing that incognito has its limits, making a mental note to scrub my search history after my obsession wanes—and look up the term that’s been haunting me ever since hanging up the phone with Walsh. Behind every polite greeting with every patient who passed through my office today, the only thing on my mind was coroner’s investigation.

I hit enter and dive deep: coroner’s inquest, autopsies, cause of death, proximate cause, worst-case scenarios I’ve avoided entertaining until now. If Nick told anyone about how I fucked with his head—and he could have called or visited or emailed someone the minute I walked away—then his reason for climbing to a “death trap” and leaning his weight against a rotten banister could fall to me. The district attorney could bring action, in theory. In reality. Press charges. Wrongful death. What the fuck.

I scrub my browser, clear my cache, dump my electronic trash. Double-check my downloads for stray materials concerning amyotrophic lateral sclerosis, or stem cell regeneration treatments south of the border, or message boards about fidelity and infidelity—cybercesspools of whining men with addictions to negative feedback.

I return to my family with positive feedback, a positive outlook: a shining example of life going on. The casseroles keep coming. The questions, too, but no information. Wednesday into Thursday into an argument with my son about Nick’s funeral upstate.

“It’s going to be tough to clear the whole day with work,” I tell Jonah.

“Unbelievable,” he says. “You do realize that Nick was my best friend. He was my roommate, and he died in our backyard—your yard—just days ago. This isn’t optional for me and Elizabeth. We’re leaving at seven tomorrow morning, with or without you.”

Elizabeth speaks for me, saying, “Your dad will be there, Jonah.”