She was confusing me. I didn’t dare glance at Stefan. There was nothing he could say at all. If I sat quietly, she might go on and at least I would know what was expected of the next few minutes. Jill began pacing up and down in front of the bench. The lights of cars from far down the hill, on the street below, searched the trees, up where there was still full daylight in the sky. At our level, objects at a distance near the thickest hedges were becoming indistinct, the graves and small mausoleums at Angel Oak blurring into a kind of miniature mountain range. And it was cold. I started to shiver, and felt Stefan move closer to me; but I stiffened so he wouldn’t come nearer. I was afraid of that. It would underscore her loneliness. We would walk away from here together. She would walk away alone. In my warm kitchen, in the light, even now, Jep was pulling out the makings of four or five meals. I wished I were there, the cube of light a shield around me.

Finally, I had to speak: “Do you mean, to make Belinda’s death matter? Or make domestic abuse matter?”

“Yes, both. I had to make something matter: I had to go on living with myself. You know, Stefan. Like your Healing Project? First the remorse, then the renewal?”

What was she talking about?

Jill swept in front of us again, clutching the leather case to her chest. She stopped and faced us then, as if surprised to see us there. “We should get on with this.”

She opened the small briefcase. Now we would see the certificate she brought, or a candle.

She took out a gun. It was so big and military that it looked fake.

You wonder what you will do, at a time like that. You rehearse it, although not as much as you rehearse what you would do if someone broke into your house. Rush a man with a gun, they say. Flee a man with a knife. Both of those people are lethal. One of them is crazier. Run, always run. The person is going to shoot you anyway. Never believe anybody who says if you just cooperate, nobody needs to get hurt. Run, say the self-defense mavens. Run crookedly, side to side and bent over. Be a bad target. Yell. Yell at the top of your lungs and blow a whistle.

A whistle.

I still had mine.

Was it still hooked to my purse by that little chain? Or...no, I had taken it off. Which coat was it in, and in the inside or the outside pocket? I stood up and patted the sides of my trench coat. Something was in there. The rectangle of my phone. Something else. My keys. Something else.