And then he got in the car, cursing himself, and drove through the slush to Millbrook, where one of the village’s two cruisers swung out behind him and flashed its red lights. He was already upset enough—Lori, Joanie, Corey, subbing—and though he’d had nothing to drink but coffee and nothing to smoke but tobacco, the sight of the cruiser in his rearview mirror and the single truncated whoop of the siren made his heart clench. His hands were trembling on the wheel as the officer approached the car—a man of forty with an expressionless face he’d seen around the village a dozen times but had never acknowledged because they were strangers and there was no need to acknowledge him because they were on opposite sides of the divide that made Millbrook what it was and gave the police department its rights and prerogatives.

The man had a flashlight in his hand—it was dark now, a fine misting rain dancing in the headlights—and he shined it through the driver’s side window, at the same time making a circular gesture with his other hand, indicating that Fitz should roll the window down. Which he did, the wet air a cold kiss on his face and throat. “License and registration,” the officer said.

“But I didn’t do anything—what’s this all about?”

“License and registration,” the cop repeated.

It was a simple request—unnecessary maybe, wrong, the heel of the boot—and though Fitz didn’t yet know it, it was the first in a long unspooling skein of requests, demands, searches, seizures and routine harassment of everybody who passed through the gates of the Hitchcock estate, though what they were doing, legitimately, violated no laws. Or hardly any. He dug his license out of his wallet and handed it to the cop, then began fishing through the glove box, looking for the registration as directed, but the glove box was a mess, stuffed with tissues, crumpled burger wrappers, maps, pens, notebooks, a pair of sunglasses—the fact was the station wagon had become a kind of communal car and anybody could have been driving it last. Okay. Fine. But the registration remained elusive. He said, “It’s right here somewhere, I know it is.”

“You know why I stopped you?” the cop asked, bending down to peer through the window.

“No, no idea.”

“You didn’t signal back there—when you turned onto Franklin?”

“I didn’t?”

The cop shook his head.

“I’m sorry, I thought I did. Everything’s okay though, isn’t it?”

The cop took a minute, the fine misting rain shining on his black leather cap. “You’re up the end of the road, at the Alte Haus, right?”

He nodded.

“You live there?”

He nodded again.

“This license is a Massachusetts issue, are you aware of that?”

“Yes, but—I mean, we just moved in.”