“Right now, his car is low on my list. I’ve got all his things in the house,” I told her.

I took a deep breath.

“I can’t make decisions about everything at once,” I said.

“You should clear every bit of it out today.”

Lucy leaned against the counter, drinking coffee and watching me with that same flat look in her eyes.

“I mean it,” she went on in a tone that carried no emotion.

“Well, I’m not touching anything of his until his body has come home.”

“I can help you, if you want.”

She sipped her coffee again. I was getting angry with her.

“I will do this my way, Lucy,” I said as pain seemed to radiate to every cell in me. “For once I’m not going to slam the door on something and run. I’ve done it most of my life, beginning when my father died. Then Tony left and Mark got killed, and I got better and better at vacating each relationship as if it were an old house. Walking off as if I had never lived there. And guess what? It doesn’t work.”

She was staring down at her bare feet.

“Have you talked to Janet?” I asked.

“She knows. Now she’s all bent out of shape because I don’t want to see her. I don’t want to see anybody.”

“The harder you run, the more you stay in one place,” I said. “If you’ve learned nothing else from me, Lucy, at least learn that. Don’t wait until half your life has passed.”

“I’ve learned a lot of things from you,” my niece said as windows caught the morning and brightened my kitchen. “More than you think.”

For a long moment she stared at the empty doorway leading into the great room.

“I keep thinking he’s going to walk in,” she muttered.

“I know,” I said. “I keep thinking it, too.”

“I’ll call Teun. As soon as I know something, I’ll page you,” she said.

The sun was strong to the east and other people heading to work squinted in the glare of what promised to be a clear, hot day. I was carried in the flow of traffic on Ninth Street past the wrought-iron-enclosed Capitol Square, with its Jeffersonian pristine white buildings and monuments to Stonewall Jackson and George Washington. I thought of Kenneth Sparkes, of his political influence. I remembered my fear and fascination when he would call with demands and complaints. I felt terribly sorry for him now.