I GOT HOME that night in time for a dinner I did not feel like cooking. Benton had left me three messages, and I had not returned any one of them. I felt strange. I felt an odd sensation of doom, and yet I felt a lightness around my heart that spurred me into working in my garden until dark, pulling weeds and clipping roses for the kitchen. The ones I chose were pink and yellow, tightly furled like flags before glory. At dusk, I went out to walk and wished I had a dog. For a while I fantasized about that, wondering just what sort of dog I would have, were it possible and practical.

I decided on a retired greyhound rescued from the track and from certain extermination. Of course, my life was too unkind for a pet. I pondered this as one of my neighbors came out of his grand stone home to walk his small white dog.

“Good evening, Dr. Scarpetta,” the neighbor grimly said. “How long are you in town for?”

“I never know,” I said, still imagining my greyhound.

“Heard about the fire.”

He was a retired surgeon, and he shook his head.

“Poor Kenneth.”

“I suppose you know him,” I said.

“Oh yes.”

“It is too bad. What kind of dog do you have?”

“He’s a salad bar dog. Little bit of everything,” my neighbor said.

He walked on, taking out a pipe and lighting up, because his wife, no doubt, would not let him smoke in the house. I walked past the homes of my neighbors, all different but the same because they were brick or stucco and not very old. It seemed fitting that the sluggish stretch of the river in the back of the neighborhood made its way over rocks the same way it had two hundred years before. Richmond was not known for change.

When I reached the spot where I had found Wesley when he had been somewhat mad at me, I stood near that same tree, and soon it was too dark to spot an eagle or the river’s rocks. For a time, I stood staring at my neighbors’ lights in the night, suddenly not having the energy to move as I contemplated that Kenneth Sparkes was either a victim or a killer. Then heavy footsteps sounded on the street behind me. Startled, I whipped around, gripping the canister of red pepper spray attached to my keys.

Marino’s voice was quickly followed by his formidable shape.

“Doc, you shouldn’t be out here this late,” he said.

I was too drained to resent his having an opinion on how I was spending my evening.

“How did you know I was here?” I asked.

“One of your neighbors.”

I did not care.

“My car’s right over there,” he went on. “I’ll drive you home.”