He hadn’t set the alarm system; he seldom did when he was at home. But he had locked the door. He was pretty sure he had locked the door. However, the moment was so exhilarating, this fulfillment of his most ardent wish so intoxicating, that he didn’t question how she’d gotten into the house. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was that she was here.

“Davey, my sweet Davey.” Maddison had not before called him Davey, but Emily often had. Like Emily, Maddison was not meekly submissive but an equal partner, and when joined they were not two in pursuit of their pleasures, but one in rapture. He was lost less in the physical sensations of their coupling than transported by a passion of mind and heart, by delight in her satisfaction, by the wonder of her existence, by astonishment at this reunion. He called her Maddison, but a few times he slipped and spoke Emily’s name. When he said that he was sorry, she hushed him and whispered, “It’s all right, all right, all right. I’m whoever you need, Davey. I’m me and her—and yours.”

The first time wasn’t quick, but it wasn’t as slow as David wished. However, they were so energized by pent-up yearning that they needed no pause before continuing. There wasn’t a single moment of awkwardness to any of it, not one instant of bestial awareness or ugly mechanics, not a surrendering but a sharing, not a taking but a giving, each breathless raveling up followed by a long, silken unraveling. And throughout, he felt the world, which had for so long been wobbling on its axis, now establishing a right rotation, the broken past being repaired moment by moment, his long-lost future resolving into view once more.

A still, small voice within cautioned that this might not be the knitting together of a torn destiny. Not all mysteries, when solved, revealed a world of exquisite design or benign intention. Enigmas of physics, when deciphered, might produce a sublime light, but the answers to mysteries of human behavior seldom resulted in glorious revelations.

He heard this inner voice but discarded the warning that it conveyed. Maybe Maddison was trapped in an oppressive relationship. Maybe someone had a hold on her that required of her actions that she despised, so she felt as though she were killing herself with a thousand self-inflicted wounds, resulting in the unsettling metaphor of assassination. He could have listed a hundred maybes, and every one would have justified his trust in her.

Now he gave himself to her, lost himself in her, and fell asleep with her in his arms.

Sometime later, a continuous rhythmic murmur woke him. Still in a gauze of half sleep, he realized that he was alone in bed, and he raised his head, looking for the source of the voice.