He watched her through the powerful night-vision scope that Lucy had given to him for his birthday two years ago, and was lonely for the sound of Scarpetta’s voice. He recognized her mood by the way she moved, shifting her position, slightly gesturing her dark-gloved hands. She was understated. People said that about her all the time, that she said and did less, rather than more, and because of it made her point more loudly, so to speak. She wasn’t histrionic. That was another word Marino had heard. In fact, he remembered, Berger had said it when describing how Scarpetta conducted herself on the witness stand. She didn’t need to raise her voice or flail away but could just sit there calmly and shoot straight with the jurors, and they trusted her, believed her.

Through the scope, Marino noticed her long coat and the shape of her neatly styled blond hair, a little longer than she used to wear it, a little bit over her collar and brushed straight back from her forehead. He could make out her familiar strong features, so hard to compare to anyone he could think of, because she was pretty and she wasn’t, her face too sharply defined to be of beauty-pageant quality or to fit in with the sticklike women in designer clothes who cruised the runways of fashion shows.

He thought he might throw up again, just like he had that morning in her carriage house. His heart began to pound as if it were trying to hurt itself.

He longed for her but as he hid in his rust-smelling, filthy shadowy space, he realized he didn’t love her the way he once did. He had driven the stake of self-destruction into the part of him where hope had always hidden, and it was dead. He no longer hoped she would fall in love with him someday. She was married, and hope was dead. Even if Benton was out of the picture, hope was dead. Marino had killed hope and killed it savagely, and he had never done anything like that in his life, and he had done it to her.

On his most disgusting, drunken dates, he had never forced himself on a woman.

If he kissed her and she didn’t want his tongue in her mouth, he withdrew. If she pushed his hands away, he didn’t touch her again uninvited. If he had a hard-on and she wasn’t interested, he never pushed himself against her or shoved her hand between his legs. If she noticed his soldier wouldn’t settle down, he’d make his same old jokes. He’s just saluting you, baby. He always stands up when there’s a lady in the room. Hey, babe, just ‘cause I got a stick shift don’t mean you gotta drive my car.