That evening at dusk, Jenna and Brad walked down to the ocean. What Boyle had said, the likelihood of separation, hung between them. There were so many things to say that they found it hard to speak. The first stars were coming out when Brad finally broke the silence.

“Jenna, this will be over soon—sooner than we think, thank God. When it is, let’s go away somewhere. A month, maybe two. The islands. A cottage in Ireland. You tell me.”

“That sounds nice. But it’s not over. And I can’t go anywhere until I know what’s happened with Karim.”

“Well, that will work itself out. He’s upset now—it’s only natural—but it won’t last forever.”

“It’s more than that. You don’t know Karim. And then, you know, sooner or later, I need to get back to work. It’s been so long. It’ll be like starting over.”

“It’ll be like that whenever you go back. Take the time before you get caught up in it again.” He looked up at the evening star, unbelievably brilliant in a west- ern sky that had darkened to cobalt. “We could make it a honeymoon,” he said. “No one could blame us for taking time off for that.”

She wanted, with all her heart, to say yes. She traced a pattern in the sand with her toes and said nothing.

“It’s not an ultimatum,” Brad went on. “It’s open-ended. It runs till that star burns out. I love you, Jenna. That’s never going to change.”

“I love you. It’s just … it’s just too much right now.” How could she explain? It wasn’t just Karim, or Malik, or Laila, or anyone else. It wasn’t about going back to work. It wasn’t about marriage. It was about shooting a man to death. Ever since Sam Adams Boyle had mentioned the possibility of a plea bargain, her thoughts had been in turmoil. She didn’t feel guilty—yet, she knew she was. She could have screamed, that day at the pool; she could have run for help. But she had done something else entirely. Much of her life’s work was devoted to healing the effects of violence. Yet, when the choice had been hers, she had chosen violence.

“Whatever you decide,” said Brad, hearing what had not been spoken, “just remember that Jordan Chiles isn’t a man to make fine moral distinctions. Don’t give him any more ammunition. He’ll use it to make you look like a murderer.”

It was dark now, and cold. They headed home.

O

At the house, lights were blazing. A Rolls-Royce and a Lincoln Town Car lounged smugly at the curb. On the deck, looking out over the sea, Malik, Farid, J.T., and Rosalie were raising glasses.

“So much for a low profile,” said Brad.