He pauses. My stomach’s about to come up through my mouth.

“You’ll never have proof,” I say. “Everything I’ve told you. You can’t prove it.”

“Maybe not, but I have to do something. I took an oath.”

“Okay,” I say, hardly breathing.

“That’s the best I can do, and more than I should. You need to protect your family, and I understand that with more heartache than I would ever wish on my worst enemy. But I can’t just let this go, Rose. Someone has to pay. Time doesn’t erase murder, never will.”

“I understand,” I whisper. “Thank you.”

He nods. “You’re welcome.” Pearson inhales deeply, as if he’s about to explore the bottom of the ocean on one lungful of air. The exhale is resigned. “You ready?”

“I’m ready,” I say.

I’ve never been less certain of being ready in my life.

Then follows a simple mantra, repeated in my head, just as I’ve done thousands of times before. A mantra to which I never truly connected but still repeated, hoping to understand. But now, as I repeat the two words—a total of three letters—there’s a clarity that’s eluded me for thirty-seven years. There’s a beauty in the words. A beauty and a sadness. And an absolute, stunning revelation.

I am.

I am.

I am.

“Goodbye, Rose.”

“Goodbye, Colin.”

He opens his door.

I open mine.

Seventy-Two

This world is no longer a familiar one. The landscape is a blazing white; the reflection of the sun off the snow sears my eyes. I blink. Tears gather, run halfway down my cheeks, then freeze in place.

I’ve walked a few feet toward my car when I stop and follow Pearson’s shuffle up to the house, watch as his boots plunge into the soft snow, leaving behind deep, dark imprints. Between ten and ninety minutes, he said. Ten minutes does no good. Ninety is probably enough to get me to the airport without being hunted down. I touch the front pocket of my jeans, feel the folded paper inside. The single phone number, my get-out-of-jail-free card. For all I know, whoever is supposed to answer the phone is long dead. The number no longer in service.

Pearson reaches the porch, and I can’t move. I should be back in my car, at least making the most of any few minutes I have. I should be fishtailing though this snow to Boston Logan, hoping not to see a swarm of blazing red-and-blue lights in my rearview mirror.

But I can’t. I have to watch.

I wipe my eyes, squint to focus. I haven’t breathed in a hundred years.

My future depends on if the Benners are at home. Everything that happens next results from whether or not they open that door.

Pearson stands and waits. Waits some more, gloved hands tapping against his thighs. Frosted breath, tight little clouds.

I can’t look away.

And then.

Then it hits me, and when it does, it releases me from my unwavering stare and I turn my head and look over to the Suburban. To where my son sits, waiting for me, the weight of the world on top of him.