I said Dick Colby could do a good job with it. I’m too close this time, I said. Let someone with a bit of distance write about it. The thing was, I didn’t see how I could write a story that I wasn’t prepared to tell in full. I didn’t want my byline on a story I couldn’t write honestly.

I knew who’d really killed those three bikers that night at the Kickstart. And I wasn’t feeling fully committed to the public’s right to know.

What business did I have being a reporter for the Metropolitan with that kind of attitude?

“Well,” said Magnuson over the phone, “if you change your mind and want to come back to work for us, let me know.”

I told him I would think about it.

To the best of my knowledge, Frieda never did get anyone to write a series on linoleum. I never saw it in Home!

So many stories that go untold.

Things could be better on the home front.

I had failed to keep my promise—make that promises—to Sarah that I’d stop getting mixed up in these kinds of messes. It’s a knack I seem to have developed of late, and I’d like very much to lose it. Sometimes, you make one mistake, and it’s like knocking over that first domino. I’d already allowed a couple of dozen to tip over, and had no idea how far down the row I was.

Lawrence Jones phoned. “You should have called me,” he said.

“Believe me, if it had been possible, I would have,” I said.

“How’s it going?”

“Sarah mentioned the other night that maybe we should…that maybe we should try some time apart.”

“Jeez,” Lawrence said. “Seriously?”

“Yeah. I mean, I think she loves me. But look at what I’ve done, Lawrence. Look at the things I’ve fallen into. I’m a menace to my loved ones. Maybe I’ll just go back to writing science fiction novels. Keep to myself. Lock myself in a room someplace, where I’m not going to get into trouble, drag my family in with me.”

“I’d offer to let you bunk in with me for a while, but I think you’d drive me out of my mind.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “I guess we’ll see how it plays out,” I said.

“Good luck, man,” Lawrence said.

A couple of weeks after the dust all settled, and we had our own car back, and Sarah had returned to work every day and I was home, still trying to figure out what to do, Trixie—she’d actually gone back, legally, to Miranda Chicoine but I still have a hard time thinking of her by that name—dropped by with Katie.