Hansen’s muddy irises took yet another journey upward, and his mouth began to tremble. He tried to cover it with a smile. Crossed his legs, as if imitating Milo. The result was contortive, not casual.

“I never saw Vance or the Cossacks or Brad Larner. But there was another boy, Luke Chapman—though we’re talking twenty years ago, for God’s sake. Luke was . . . what is it you want to know, exactly?”

Milo’s jaw tightened. His voice turned gentle and ominous. “Luke was what?”

Hansen didn’t answer.

Milo said, “You do know he’s dead.”

Hansen nodded. “Very sad.”

“What were you going to say about him?”

“That he wasn’t very bright.”

“When, after graduation, did you see him?”

“Look,” said Hansen. “You need to understand the context. He—Luke—was no genius. Honestly, he was dull. Despite that, I’d always thought of him as the best of them. That’s why—does this have to do with Luke’s drowning?”

“When did you see Chapman?”

“Just once,” said Hansen.

“When?”

“My first year in grad school.”

“What month?”

“Winter break. December.”

“So just weeks before Chapman drowned.”

Hansen blanched and brought his eyes back to the carved beams. He sank in his chair and looked small. Incompetent liar. Painting had been a better choice than the corporate thing. Milo slapped his pad shut, shot to his feet, strode to Hansen and placed his hand on the back of Hansen’s chair. Hansen looked ready to faint.

“Tell us about it,” said Milo.

“You’re saying Luke was murdered? All those years ago . . . who do you suspect?”

“Tell us about the meeting with Chapman.”

“I—this is—” Hansen shook his head. “I could use a drink—may I get you something, as well?”

“No, but feel free to fortify yourself.”

Hansen braced himself on the arms of his chair and rose. Milo followed him across the tiled entry, across an adjoining dining room and through double doors. When the two of them returned, Hansen had both his hands wrapped around a squat, cut-crystal tumbler half-filled with whiskey. When he sat down, Milo resumed his stance behind the chair. Hansen twisted and looked up at him, drained most of the whiskey, rubbed the corners of his eyes.

“Start with where.”