There was thunder above, and Sophia’s eyes were flashing. Her own overcoat was open. It blew back around her. The wind swept over her hair and sent wisps of it across her face, into her mouth. She snatched at them, pulled them back.

“We can’t go through with it,” she said. “We can’t. He’s sick. You can see that. He’s ill, Richard, something’s wrong with him.”

“You’re telling me,” said Storm. He rubbed his aching brow. “He just threatened to kill me in there.”

“What?” She barely broke stride, barely glanced at him. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“He did, honey! He said he was going to blow my head off. Really.”

She snorted. “I’m sure he was making some kind of joke.”

“Hey, ha, ha, ha,” said Storm. “The guy’s a comic genius.”

She stopped. Faced him fiercely with the swaying beeches behind her and one stone wing of the house with the gathering clouds on its dark windows. She crossed her arms beneath her breasts. Oh boy, he thought, pulling up short. He’d seen that look before. He’d had to have a couple of them surgically removed from his neck. Jesus, there were moments with women when it seemed a man was born two apologies behind.

“I cannot believe I let you talk me into coming here,” Sophia said. “I can’t believe you expect me to interrogate and … and torment that man about a … a tragic, tragic thing in his life that happened twenty years ago. Especially now, especially when he looks like this. He’s sick, Richard.”

It was a tragic, tragic thing in your life too, Storm wanted to say. But he was a mite too experienced for that. Go head to head with a girl in this state and you wound up explaining to the judge why you should be allowed to keep the clothes on your back. This called for a little Relationship Judo.

Sophia kept glaring at him. The first jagged fork of lightning fired off clear of the horizon. Storm flinched, but not because of the lightning. The cold wind carried the thunder to them, long and low.

“So why don’t you ask him what’s wrong with him?” Storm said finally.

“What?”

“You come home, your dad looks like the cat dragged him in, how come you don’t say, ‘What’s the matter, Pops? Should I call the doctor?’ How come you don’t ask him that, okay?”

The glare faltered. Thank God. “Well, I … I don’t know, I …”

“I mean, like you said, Sophie—look at him.”

She shifted from foot to foot. Glanced away. “Well, if he doesn’t want to talk about it … I mean, if he’s … reluctant …”

“He wants to talk about something, that’s for sure. The man threatened to shoot me.”

“Oh, he did not.”