When Hawkins went through the archway into the chapel, a signal light went on in Reverend Ryder’s office. Ryder was writing the eulogy for the Garners’ funeral. He’d missed dinner and now was late for bed. He knew he had to talk about the way they died. He didn’t know what to say and he turned away from his typewriter and noticed that the red light was on. A stray cat had triggered the light about three years ago, and five or six years before that a nine-­year-­old boy who’d run away from home. The deacons wanted him to lock the church at night but he pointed out that they were Congregational, not Catholic. There were no chalices, vestments, statues with gold leaf, or jeweled halos to steal. Ryder never thought that anyone would come here to steal anything. But when Ryder went into the chapel and saw the huge, hunched-­over black man, he thought that this had to happen sooner or later. The black man was standing up. He was enormous, and Ryder told himself that he should have prepared himself for this moment. He thought he should pray but couldn’t think of anything appropriate. Maybe he should sing, but the only song that came to mind was “Ebb Tide.” Ryder reached slowly for the light switch, but the man didn’t jump him or pull a knife. The light came on and Ryder saw that the man was handsome —sweet-­looking, he told his wife later—and he looked to be in trouble of some kind, but Ryder knew from the jacket, the sport shirt, the coat, but most of all from Hawkins’s face, that the trouble wasn’t criminal. Ryder wished, as he had before, that he was a Catholic surrounded with likenesses of Christ and His relatives. It would be easier than facing people in pain in this bare room.

Hawkins was abrupt. “You heard what happened in Laurel?” he asked Ryder.

Ryder nodded. “The Garners came to church here.”

“I’m a police officer.” Hawkins showed his badge. It was too far for Ryder to see his number and photo, but Ryder nodded again. “The same thing happened a couple of years ago,” Hawkins said, “in Brooklyn.”

“Was it on your beat?” Ryder asked.

“I don’t have a beat. I’m an inspector. Inspector Hawkins.”

“How do you do.” Ryder had never felt so foolish but he didn’t know what else to say. “I’m Ed Ryder . . .”

“The point is, it happened,” Hawkins said. “Same way . . . and the same people were in both places.” Suddenly Hawkins’s voice shook. “I knew them,” he said. “They were my friends. . . .” Hawkins wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his coat.

“Do you want to talk?” Ryder asked.

Hawkins hesitated.

“Is it privileged? Like talking to a priest?”

“If you want.”