William French was no genius, and was smart enough to know as much. He was steady and solid, a determined man who’d become a better cop than he had a right to be. It was the same with his marriage. Gabrielle was out of his league on the day they’d met, and still there on the day they’d married. He’d asked her once how someone who’d studied literature at Vanderbilt and lit up every room she entered could possibly settle for a college dropout three years into a job that might get him killed. She’d kissed his cheek, put a hand on his heart, and said, “Don’t ever ask me that again.” Three sons and thirty years later, she was still a gift—his whole life—but she’d lost one son already.

Now this …

He parked in front of their house, and thought, as he often did, how empty it felt. That, too, was about the war. They’d buried their oldest son, then watched his twin brother return from the same conflict only to spiral into violence, drugs, and prison. In that regard, Vietnam had killed two of their three boys, Robert with a bullet to the heart, and his brother more insidiously. Jason never talked about the things he’d done in the service of his country, but Burklow had a friend at the Department of Defense. He refused to provide details, but said once that there was war and there was WAR, and that Jason had fought the latter kind.

“Gabrielle?”

The silence inside was familiar from all the years of mourning, a large house with parts of its soul carved away. Nearing the bedroom, French heard running water, and stopped where the bathroom door hung open an inch.

“Sweetheart?”

She was in the tub and in the dark, but he could see her silhouette against the tile.

“Don’t turn on the light.”

He took his hand from the switch, wondering if she’d known or merely guessed. As his eyes adjusted, he saw more of her shape. Water rose to the curve of her breasts, and her arms were wrapped across her shins.

Without turning, she said, “Is he the reason you’re here?”

“What do you mean?”

Her head tilted, then, and a glint showed in one of her eyes. “You haven’t come home midafternoon since we were newlyweds. I’m asking if Jason is the reason you’re here.”

French sighed unhappily. “Who told you he’s back?”

“Marion called. She saw him at the square. His hair was longer, but she knew him. She said he was pale, that prison cost him twenty pounds.”

“I’m going to handle this, Gabrielle. I promise.”

“Gibby will want to see him, to spend time—”

“I won’t allow that.”

“How will you stop it?”

“Gabrielle—”