They lay in silence for some time, skin growing slick against the heat of skin. A crease in the pillow bit into his cheek, but he did not move. The pain was like a pin, a place to focus, something to hold him here, pressed against the shuddering body of his ex-wife.

Frankie was their boy, the bond that no amount of bitterness could break. The miracle was easily forgotten, and when it was remembered, it so often seemed absurd. A man spilling hot into his wife, the biology of blood and slurry, and then life, another dumbfounded soul breaching the surface of the black, the all-encompassing black.

Despite Sam and his feeling of dawning regret, it seemed right that he hold Nora like this. Like coming full circle.

'I always loved this duvet,' Nora said vaguely, running her fingers over the floral patterns.

Adolescent shouts filtered through the windows. The afternoon light possessed a peculiar copper cast. The air was sticky and smelled of guilt.

His gut turned to sand. Her words from the transcript wheeled unbidden through his mind.

'He wasn't Neil…'

Something savage rattled through him. Suddenly, inexplicably, it seemed he knew, with Old Testament certainty, that she was to blame. Not him. Not the father who slept while his son was stolen.

He found himself asking, 'Why, Nora?'

She pressed free of his arms and turned toward him. Her look was hard, almost vicious in its intensity.

But her voice was calm—the pedestrian tone she used to describe grocery lists and co-workers. 'I want you to kill him, Thomas. Promise me you'll kill him.'

Neil. Destroyer of worlds.

Thomas watched Nora from the front door. She put Ripley's things into her Nissan, then after a shy wave, walked across to Mia's to get Ripley. She wanted to 'Say hi to the old fag,' she had said, making Thomas wince. For some strange reason she always insisted she could use the term because she was a woman.

Thomas had told her to give Ripley his love. He didn't feel strong enough to say goodbye.

Out of habit, he flipped the mailbox lid on his way in, fishing out assorted bills and what looked like yet another garbage BD from AOL—why wouldn't they just die? But the lack of flash and color on the case caught his attention. He pulled it out and froze.

In dark blue marker, someone had written

GOODBOOK

across the transparent plastic. The Blue-ray flashed like a knife beneath.

Thomas backed through the door, hands shaking.

No-no-no-no-no-no…

Thoughts of Frankie flooded his eyes with tears.

Please, God… Please!

He stumbled on a mat. The envelopes tumbled to the ground.

Not my boy…