They took the same seats they’d occupied for their conversations following Danny’s death, Claret easing himself down with evident difficulty.

“Let’s get to the point,” he said in his direct but soft voice, bypassing any preamble or small talk. “I’ll tell you what Madeleine told me. Then you can tell me whether you think it’s true. Is that all right with you?”

“Sure.”

“She told me that on three occasions in the past two years you walked into situations where you could easily have been killed. You did this knowingly. In all three, you ended up with a gun pointed at you. In one, you were shot multiple times and put in a coma. She thinks you’ve probably taken these extraordinary risks many times before, without telling her. She knows that police work is dangerous, but she thinks that for reasons of your own you welcome that danger.” He paused, perhaps to observe Gurney’s reaction, perhaps to await some response.

Gurney stared down at the low table between them, noting numerous scuff marks, which suggested clients often used it as a hassock. “Anything else?”

“She didn’t say it, but she sounded confused and terrified.”

“Terrified?”

“She thinks you want to be killed.”

Gurney shook his head. “In each situation she’s talking about, I’ve done everything possible to stay alive. I am alive. Isn’t that prima facie evidence of a desire to survive?”

Claret’s blue eyes seemed to be looking through him.

Gurney went on. “In every dangerous situation, I make every effort—”

Claret interrupted, almost in a whisper, “Once you’re in it.”

“Beg pardon?”

“Once you’re in the situation, once you’re fully exposed to the danger, then you try to stay alive.”

“What are you saying?”

Claret said nothing for a long while. His tone when he finally spoke was mild and even. “Do you still feel responsible for Danny’s death?”

“What? What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Guilt has tremendous power.”

“But I’m not … I’m not guilty of his death. Danny stepped into the street. He was following a goddamn pigeon, and he followed it off the curb into the street. He was killed by a hit-and-run driver, a drunk in a red sports car. A drunk who just came out of a bar. I’m not guilty of his death.”

“Not of his death. But of something. Can you say what it is?”

Gurney took a deep breath, staring at the scuff marks on the table. He closed his eyes, then opened them and forced himself to look at Claret. “I should have been paying more attention. With a four-year-old … I should have paid more attention. I didn’t notice where he was walking. When I looked …” His voice trailed off, and his gaze descended again to the tabletop.