Robin moved past the two detectives to hug her mother, Renee’s grip even stronger than it had been the day before. On the tray in front of her was Quentin Garrison’s headshot, pulled from the NPR website and blown up. Robin stared at it as she pulled away. She knew she probably shouldn’t say anything, but she couldn’t help herself. “Do you know him, Mom? Have you seen him before?”

“He looks familiar, I . . . think?” Renee said it, not to Robin, but to Morasco and Baus. “I wish I could remember more of that night.”

Baus said, “You’re pretty sure he came by the house, though?”

“No,” she said. “I’m not sure of anything.”

“I understand,” Morasco said. “If you remember anything at all, call. Please. Any time of the day or night.”

Renee tried to hand the photograph back, but Morasco shook his head. “Keep it. Maybe it will jog your memory.”

They said their good-byes and left the room, and for a few moments, there was just quiet. Robin’s mother stared at the photograph.

“You don’t remember?” Robin said.

She shook her head. “Your father and I,” she said quietly. “We had a disagreement. I left to get some fresh air. I remember driving home. After that . . . nothing.”

Robin looked at her, thinking of her father’s sad voice on the phone, the ashtray full of cigarettes, the handwritten names on analyst’s notebook paper. Quentin Garrison. Kate Sharkey. April. Have we been good parents to you? “What was the disagreement about?”

Her mother looked at her, her eyes pinkish, the color fading from her cheeks, as though that simple question had weakened her. “I don’t remember.”

Robin moved closer. She took Renee’s hand in her own and squeezed it. “It’s all right, Mom,” she said. “You just rest.”

Renee’s hand was icy cold, but of course they’d always been like that. Bad circulation, but Dad viewed it more romantically. Cold hands, warm heart, he used to say . . .

Renee said, “You want to know something funny?”

“Yeah?”

“When the detectives got here, I was waking up from a nap. One of them was talking to the guards, and I heard his voice . . . I assumed it was your father.” Renee’s eyes glistened. A tear escaped. Robin grabbed a piece of Kleenex from the box at her bedside and dabbed at it, as though she were a child. She didn’t know what else to do.

“We had a fight,” Renee said in a small, choked voice. “We never fought, but we did that night, and it will always be the last thing we did together.”

“It’s okay, Mom.”

“It’s not.”

“You can say good-bye to him. Make your peace.”

“How?”

“Once you’re out of the hospital, I’ll take you to the cemetery.”

“We can’t.”

“Why not?”

“We’re supposed to wait a year. Then we have the unveiling.”