Barrett cleared his throat as he entered the room, and Gutman looked up, his eyes red and brimming behind the smudged lenses.

“The police are on their way. Are you up for this, Elliott?”

“I—I don’t know. What—what do I need to do?”

“Just tell the truth.” Barrett took a seat on a chinoiserie chair. Lucy’s decor was nothing like the English-country look one might have expected. Instead of cabbage-rose florals, there were embroidered jewel-tone silks; instead of cherry flooring, teak; instead of mahogany case goods, bold red lacquerware. If he didn’t already know how far she’d renounced her British heritage, he could have guessed by this room. Displayed on the fireplace mantel was a collection of blue-and-white porcelains amid photographs of their two sons. “And the truth is,” Barrett said, planting his elbows on the bamboo armrests, “Lucy never would have wanted to leave you and the boys.”

“No. No, she wouldn’t.”

“She had a happy home and a good life.”

“Yes—”

“Nothing was bothering her. Not at home. Not at work.”

“Well—”

“Nothing out of the ordinary. She had a high-stress job. But she coped. She always did.”

“Yes, but Barry—”

“Here’s the thing, Elliott.” Barrett sat down beside him and put a hand on his shoulder. “The police are going to be looking for an easy way out. All they want to do is clear their cases and close their files. So they’re going to default to suicide, I guarantee it.”

“Oh.”

“I can’t emphasize enough how important it is that you not let them close this out as suicide. Because that won’t end it for you. Everyone will go looking for reasons. What drove her to do it? Was she mentally ill? Was her husband having an affair?”

“No! My God!”

“But people will speculate. They’ll ask questions. And in ten years your boys will be asking those same questions.”

Gutman winced.

“If the police think there’s any chance the gun was Lucy’s? That’ll clinch it in their minds. They’ll swallow this panic-attack nonsense and close their file. And you and your boys will have to live with all those questions for the rest of your lives.”

“No, I can’t let that happen—”

“You need to protect your children, Elliott. They’ve already lost their mother. Don’t let their memories of her be ruined, too.”

“No. But—”

“And not to be crass, but you’re their sole provider now. You have to think of that. The company policy on Lucy won’t pay out in the event of suicide. That’s ten million dollars, lost forever.”

Gutman’s red eyes went wide.

The doorbell rang. Barrett gave him a reassuring pat on the back as he stood. “You can do this, Elliott. Do it for Lucy and your boys.”

Barrett went to the front door and opened it. Two plainclothes cops were on the semicircular brick porch, one a sad-sack white guy and the other a dapper young Puerto Rican. Barrett sized them up instantly. A has-been and a never-will-be. They held up their shields and pronounced their names. “Is this the residence of Lucy Carter-Jones?” the younger one asked.