Half an hour later, Gurney was sitting in front of his computer in the den, making his way through the website of the Cyberspace Cathedral, “Your Portal to a Joyful Life.” Predictably perhaps, given the name of the organization, he could find no physical address, no picture of any brick-and-mortar headquarters.

The only option offered on the Contact page was email. When Gurney clicked on it, the actual email form that popped up was addressed to Jonah himself.

Gurney thought about that for a while—the disarming, almost intimate suggestion that one’s comment, inquiry, or plea for help would go directly to the founder. That in turn made him wonder what sort of comments, inquiries, or pleas for help the website might be generating; looking for the answer kept him scrolling through the site for another twenty minutes.

The eventual impression he got was that the promised joyful life was a vaguely New Age state of mind, full of soft-focus philosophy, pastel graphics, and sunny weather. The whole enterprise seemed to be proffering the sweetness and protection of baby powder. It was as if Hallmark had decided to start a religion.

The object that held Gurney’s attention longest was a photograph of Jonah Spalter on the Welcome page. High-resolution and seemingly unretouched, it had a kind of directness that contrasted sharply with the surrounding fluff.

There was something of Carl in the shape of Jonah’s face, the full dark hair with a slight wave, the straight nose, the strong jaw. But there all resemblance ended. While Carl’s eyes at the end were full of the most extreme despair, Jonah’s seemed to be fixed on a future of endless success. Like the classic masks of tragedy and comedy, their faces were remarkably similar and totally opposite. If these brothers had been locked in the kind of personal battle that Kay had indicated, and if Jonah’s photograph truly represented his current appearance, there was no doubt which brother had emerged victorious.

In addition to Jonah’s picture, the Welcome page included a long clickable menu of topics. Gurney chose the one at the top of the list: “Only Human.” As a page with a border of entwined daisies came up on the screen, he heard Madeleine’s voice calling to him from the other room.

“Dinner’s on the table.”

She was already seated at the small round table in the nook by the French doors—the one at which they ate all their meals, except when they had guests and used the long Shaker table instead. He sat across from her. On each of their plates were generous portions of sautéed haddock, carrots, and broccoli. He poked at a slice of carrot, speared it with his fork, began chewing it. He discovered he wasn’t very hungry. He continued eating anyway. He didn’t care much for the haddock. It reminded of the tasteless fish his mother used to serve.