Angie said, “After I kill Patty-Cake, I may just go looking for Caroline.”

Caroline, who had just come out onto the gallery, bracketed by her family on all sides. Mother and uncle, sisters and brothers-in-law, nephews. She was wearing a suit in a delicate shade of pink and a silky white blouse with a scooped neck. There was a single rose on her lapel that matched the color in her cheeks almost exactly, and her eyes were so bright that John wondered if she had been drinking.

“That must be her going-away outfit,” Angie said. It wasn’t really a question, which was just as well, because John couldn’t have said one way or the other. All he knew for sure was that Caroline wasn’t wearing a wedding dress. That was such a relief that for a moment he couldn’t talk at all.

The camera was on Patty-Cake again, who looked suddenly ten years older, and angry. She batted at it openly and it tilted.

“John’s not here,” somebody said, very distinctly from behind the camera. “John Grant is not here.”

Then Caroline raised her voice and spoke, her tone sure and easy. This strange new Caroline, confident, unshakable. “Y’all must be wondering what exactly is going on,” she said. “So come on over here and let me explain.”

There was a scuffle and then the screen shifted: to the sky, a clear deep blue, to the grass, and then nothing.

“She turned it off,” Angie said. “That bitch. She turned the camera off.”

Sometime later, when the television had sparked to life again with a rerun of a local beauty contest, Angie roused herself. John was sitting slumped in his chair, his chin on his chest.

“I’ve got this idea that Patty-Cake may not come unlock the door tomorrow after all.”

“You think?” John said. “What about Tony, or Rivera?”

“Possible,” Angie said. “But unlikely.”

He didn’t seem upset by the idea that they might be here all weekend; he didn’t seem happy or angry or anything at all. He had a right to a little shock, Angie thought. She had no idea how she would react if she knew all of Hoboken was out looking for her with malice on their minds for something she hadn’t even done.

She said, “Last year I totaled my father’s car. Some idiot ran me off the Parkway and I ran into a construction site at about sixty miles an hour. The airbag went off. Have you ever had an airbag go off?”

He shook his head.

“You get slammed with what feels like a full-body punching bag moving about three hundred miles an hour.”

John looked thoughtful. “You’re right,” he said. “That’s just about what this feels like.” He finally turned his head toward her. “You didn’t get hurt?”

“Nah. Just some scrapes.”