Patrick nodded. “He's a good guy. I checked him out, of course. No priors, never been married, lots of publications and awards in his field, ichthyology. That's the study of—”

“Fish—sharks. I know, dear. Is that what happened to his arm?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact,” Patrick said. “How would you know that?”

Maeve stared past his head, at clouds going by the window. The expression on her face was beatific, like Saint Theresa or the Mona Lisa. Patrick had seen that gaze a million times during the years he was investigating the case. It jostled him slightly now. She was a wise woman. The aide asked if she wanted to get into bed, but Maeve just shook her head. She wanted to stay sitting up, in the chair.

“I guess I know because of something in his eyes,” Maeve said. “He's a very handsome man. He loves Lily—that's obvious to anyone who looks at him. But there is sorrow in his eyes. I think he is very reserved, except with Lily and Rose. He has the look of someone who has been terribly wounded.”

“You can tell all that just by looking in his eyes?” Patrick asked. “Jeez, Maeve. You should have been the detective, not me.”

“Oh, teachers have to be detectives,” she said, peering at him. “Don't think I don't see the same thing in you.”

“The same?”

“My darling, tough detective. Wounded by life and love and this investigation.”

“Maeve, let's leave it at ‘tough,' okay?”

She sighed. “I had a boy in my class once, thirty years ago now. Peter Liffey—he came to school with his arm in a sling one day. All we were told was that he had a broken arm.”

Patrick listened, seeing infinite compassion in Maeve's eyes.

“His schoolwork suffered. I had him come after school, for extra help. Little by little, I began to find out about him. Small things he'd let drop. Like, his mother had a black eye. His father got mad when Peter forgot to take out the trash. Or when Peter asked too many questions. You get the idea.”

“Domestic violence back in the day,” Patrick said. “Back when guys could beat their wives and kids behind closed doors, and the cops would look the other way. It used to be called ‘family business.'”

“Yes.”

“What happened to Peter? Did you turn him around? Or did he go the way of his father? Is he somewhere beating his own wife right now?”

“He turned around,” Maeve said. “He went to college, and then to medical school. We stayed in touch the entire time. He became a psychiatrist, and he has written many papers and books on the subject of family violence. He studies the very thing that hurt him the most in his young life.”

“That's why you guessed the ichthyologist had been attacked by a shark?”