“I look forward to meeting you with you again at a more fortuitous moment,” Ruth said. “To continue our dialogue.”

“That’s not going to work out,” George answered. “Don’t call us, we’ll call you. Ever hear anyone else say that to you before? I’m guessing yes.”

“Oh, that is very witty,” Ruth said nervously.

“No, it isn’t,” Rebecca corrected. “It was a literal statement followed by a serious question, followed by a reasonable surmise.”

“Well, I do hope you will both reconsider, once you have gotten over your very emotional response to this unfortunate circumstance,” Ruth said. “All’s well that ends well, that’s what I always say. And I will be in touch about documenting your artifacts.” She gathered up her things and walked to the door.

George, ordinarily unfailingly polite, threw himself down onto the sofa and sat with folded arms, watching her make her exit. Rebecca sat down beside him, still clutching the now-restless cat, which struggled to break free of her grip, subsided, and then struggled again, but she held him tightly in her lap. Ruth went to the coat closet and removed her beige London Fog raincoat. The belt was safety-pinned to the belt loop.

“May I ask one more question, Rebecca?” Ruth said as she put her coat on.

“What?”

“Was your grandmother dyslexic, by chance?”

“What are you talking about now?” Rebecca snapped. “What does that have to do with anything? Next you’ll want to know if she was hypoglycemic or had attention deficit disorder. Is there any cliché you’ve missed? Was there a lot of anorexia in the needle trades? Why don’t you look into that?”

“I have a particular reason for my inquiry, because a careful reading of her various descriptions over the years of her work at the Triangle reveals some apparent confusion between left and right.”

“No! She wasn’t dyslexic! She knew her left from her right! She was old! Leave her alone!” shouted Rebecca in frustration. George put his hand on Rebecca’s shoulder to restrain her from even considering a lunge at Ruth Zion.

“Very well,” said Ruth. She took a crumpled paisley scarf from her coat pocket, obliviously dropping a used tissue on the floor as she did so, and wound it around her neck before buttoning her coat carefully all the way to the top. She opened the door, placed her briefcase out in the hallway, and then hesitated. “There is something I want to say to you, Rebecca.” She drew herself up and squared her shoulders, as if preparing to make a well-considered statement. “I want you to know,” she said in a slightly quavering voice as her emotions overtook her, “that I have forgiven Esther Gottesfeld for her testimony, although I have concluded that it was the turning point in the trial. I just want you to know that.” She looked at Rebecca, her jaw squared with a kind of prideful resolve. “I have made my peace with Esther Gottesfeld.” With that, Ruth turned away dramatically and closed the door behind her.