She looked to either side of her, but all she saw was the cold expanse of gray water. No sailboats today, just the low sky and a froth of whitecaps whipping across the river. She pulled out the cell phone and called the school. The receptionist with the affected accent had no idea what she was talking about and grudgingly transferred her to the security guard who sat at a desk in the lobby. She’d picked this school, despite its inconvenience, because it had a solid reputation and was housed in a magnificent red-stone mansion on a lovely side street near Harvard Square. What she hadn’t taken into account was that the teachers, used to prodigies, apparently, had little patience for Gerald, who tended to play in a thundering style and blame his weaknesses on his teachers. He’d gone through two in the past eight months.

“He’s probably standing in the lobby waiting for me,” Jane explained. “If you could just put him on.”

“There are about a dozen kids here,” he said. “What’s he look like?”

“He’s six,” Jane said. “Tall for his age. He has light hair and he’s wearing a light blue jacket with a hood. Although I doubt he’s wearing the hood.”

“Let me look.” But no, no one by that description was in the lobby.

“He’s a bit plump,” Jane said, realizing that the delicate euphemism for his size made him sound like a turkey.

“Sorry. If I see him, I’ll tell him you’re running late. What’s his name again?”

After she’d hung up, Jane reminded herself of Gerald’s awkward maturity and, at times, unsettling fearlessness. Most likely, he’d sit down in the most comfortable chair in the school and bury his head in a magazine, silently berating her for being late. One thing about a child with Gerald’s personality, you never had to worry about him talking to strangers. So why was she so panicked? Guilt, that was the only explanation. She had the heater on in the car, and the whole interior was starting to smell like fermented grapes. She checked her watch again. Eight past four. Not too bad, but there was no sign of the traffic breaking up. Maybe there was an accident ahead, or, more likely, some rich, spoiled students were stopping traffic to protest some imagined assault on their privileges. She leaned on her horn, a useless exercise, and one that only made her feel more nervous.

And then, thinking about how much she’d always hated Cambridge—or the smug superiority of Harvard anyway—she realized she had one more option. Brian’s office was two long blocks from the music school.

“He’s in a meeting,” she was told, which was what every receptionist and secretary in the world is paid to tell everyone.