He considered this and said, “Well, since she’s not my daughter, I suppose it’s okay.” After a moment, he gruffly mumbled, “Sorry— of course I was referring to Gail, not your child . . . must have sounded heartless.”

I assured him I had understood what he meant.

You could tell that the modernization of the neighborhood around his home was not a high priority for the city fathers, because it still relied on the old two-light semaphore signals on the corner. A bell rang as a stop sign went up with an accompanying red light.

After a few seconds of silence, Russ said with some discomfort, “But if I were you, I would mention to Gail that you’re married, seeing as the two of you will be working together and I note you don’t wear a wedding ring. I would feel the responsibility to say something to her about that. If you didn’t.”

“Nancy and I were divorced a year after my daughter died.”

“Oh,” he said. “Oh, well, I suppose that’s all right then.”

He eased the Studebaker into his driveway and silenced the engine. “I won’t be more than a minute.” He paused. “Do you need to make use of the facilities?”

I told him I was fine. He left me and let himself into his house.

My face was burning. I stepped out of the car and slouched back against the trunk, hoping the cool afternoon breeze fresh off the bay would soothe my skin. The street being a cul-de-sac lined on both sides by a tight row of houses, the breeze came at me as if I were standing in a wind tunnel.

A woman at the end of the block had turned in to Chancery Lane and was now walking toward me with an even gait. She was all in white, including her shoes and stockings. It was disquieting, because the last person who’d approached me from a distance in such a steady, assured manner was Marie Prasquier, who’d sat with me, propositioned me, and died. Now it seemed I had an appointment with the White Angel of Death.

I was not much relieved when I realized it was Martha Prentice. She had stabbed me, after all. Gail’s mother was outfitted in a white uniform that evoked the offices of a doctor. She came to a halt about four feet from me, but her demeanor made it feel more like the distance of a ten-foot pole.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Sherwood,” she said in the same tone used by my fourth-grade teacher when she’d caught me cheating on a geography test. “If you’re waiting for Gail, I’m not expecting her.”

I looked to see if her hands contained any sharp objects. “No, I’m waiting for your . . . for Russ. He’s inside. He’s giving me a ride to the Claremont.”