“And they don’t know what I do, Benton.” I sipped champagne. “She killed Wingo.”

“You did the best you could,” he reminded me.

“I miss him,” I said with a sad sigh. “I haven’t been to Wingo’s grave.”

“Why don’t we switch to coffee?” Wesley said again.

“Can’t I just drift now and then?” I didn’t want to be present.

He started rubbing the back of my neck, and I shut my eyes.

“Why do I always have to make sense?” I muttered. “Precise about this, exact about that. Consistent with, and characteristic of. Words cold and sharp like the steel blades I use. And what good will they do me in court? When it’s Lucy in the balance? Her career, her life? All because of that bastard, Ring. Me, the expert witness. The loving aunt.” A tear slid down my cheek. “Oh God, Benton. I’m so tired.”

He moved over and put his arms around me, pulling me into his lap so I could lean back my head.

“I’ll go with you,” he quietly said into my hair.

We took a black cab to London’s Victoria Station on February 18, the anniversary of a bombing that had ripped through a trash can and collapsed an underground entrance, a tavern and a coffee bar. Rubble had flown, shattered glass from the roof raining down in shrapnel and missiles with terrible force. The IRA had not targeted Mark. His death had nothing to do with his being FBI. He simply had been in the wrong place at the wrong time like so many people who are victims.

The station was crowded with commuters who almost ran me over as we made our way to the central area where Railtrack ticket agents were busy in their booths, and displays on a wall showed times and trains. Kiosks were selling sweets and flowers, and one could get a passport picture taken or have money changed. Trash cans were tucked inside McDonald’s and places like that, but I did not see a single one out in the open.

“No good place to hide a bomb now.” Wesley was observing the same thing.

“Live and learn,” I said as I began to tremble inside.

I silently stared around me as pigeons flapped overhead and trotted after crumbs. The entrance for the Grosvenor Hotel was next to the Victoria Tavern, and it was here that it had happened. No one was completely certain what Mark had been doing at the time, but it was speculated that he had been sitting at one of the small, high tables in front of the tavern when the bomb exploded.

We knew he had been waiting for the train from Brighton to arrive because he was meeting someone. To this day I did not know who, because the individual’s identity could not be revealed for security reasons. That’s what I had been told. I had never understood many things, such as the coincidence of timing, and whether this clandestine person Mark was meeting may have been killed, too. I scanned the roof of steel girders and glass, the old clock on the granite wall, and archways. The bombing had left no permanent scars, except on people.