Duckworth let Ruth Pierce continue with her story.

“My husband was devastated by all of it. He was so . . . ashamed. He wanted to believe Craig was innocent, but he knew . . . we both knew he’d done what they’d said he’d done. But he had a sickness, you know? Something was wrong in his head. We were going to get treatment for him.”

“About your husband,” Duckworth said, steering her back.

“Then, when Craig was . . . when he was attacked, and the aftermath . . . When Craig finally came home from the hospital, Brendan couldn’t even go into his room, couldn’t bear to see him, the way he was. He couldn’t look at him. I don’t think it was shame by that point. He just couldn’t bear to see his son that way. I made him . . . I made him go up.”

“What do you mean?”

“Aren’t you going to have a scone?” she asked.

“Of course.” Duckworth reached for one, buttered it, then scooped out some strawberry jam the woman had put out and dropped it onto the scone.

Ruth smiled sadly. “I always used to love to watch a man eat.”

Duckworth took a bite. “Wow. That’s fanatastic. It’s still hot. The butter’s melting.”

Her smile faded. “But it’s hard to watch Craig have his dinner. I mean, there was so much damage.”

They were both quiet for a moment. Duckworth waited for Ruth Pierce to finish her story.

“So I said to my husband, he’s your son. You can’t stay out of his room forever. He needs you, I told him. I’d made Craig some lunch. Tomato soup with crackers. He’s loved tomato soup ever since he was three years old. He can make the crackers soft by putting them in the soup. That makes it easier for him. I said to Brendan, take your son his soup.”

Ruth Pierce took a breath before continuing.

“And he finally said okay, he would do it. He took the tray and he went up the stairs so slow. I stood at the bottom and waited. I heard him go into Craig’s room. I asked Craig later what his father said, and apparently he said nothing. Brendan came back down the stairs, and when he got to the bottom . . . he just collapsed.”

Duckworth stopped chewing his scone.

“What was it?” he asked.

“They said it was a massive heart attack. They said he was gone before he hit the floor.” She looked at the detective with damp eyes. “I killed him. I killed my Brendan.”

“No.”

“I shouldn’t have made him go up. I shouldn’t have let him see how bad his son looked. Not until he was ready. He needed to do it in his own time. It wasn’t a heart attack, you know. It was a broken heart. That’s what it was. His heart was so broken he couldn’t continue.”

Duckworth reached across the table for the woman’s hand and held it. “How long ago was this?”