“Brighton is a rather odd place to be in February,” I commented to Wesley in an unsteady voice. “Why would someone be coming from a seaside resort that time of year?”

“I don’t know why,” he said, looking around. “This was all about terrorism. As you know, that was what Mark was working on. So no one’s saying much.”

“Right. That was what he was working on, and that was how he died,” I said. “And no one seems to think there was a link. That maybe it wasn’t random.”

He did not respond, and I looked at him, my soul heavy and sinking down into the darkness of a fathomless sea. People, and pigeons, and constant announcements on the PA blended into a dizzying din, and for an instant, all went black. Wesley caught me as I swayed.

“Are you all right?”

“I want to know who he was seeing,” I said.

“Come on, Kay,” he said, gently. “Let’s go someplace where you can sit down.”

“I want to know if the bombing was deliberate because a certain train was arriving at a certain time,” I persisted. “I want to know if this is all fiction.”

“Fiction?” he asked.

Tears were in my eyes. “How do I know this isn’t some cover-up, some ruse, because he’s alive and in hiding? A protected witness with a new identity.”

“He’s not.” Wesley’s face was sad, and he held my hand. “Let’s go.”

But I wouldn’t move. “I must know the truth. If it really happened. Who was he meeting and where is that person now?”

“Don’t do this.”

People were weaving around us, not paying any attention. Feet crashed like an angry surf, and steel clanged as construction workers laid new rail.

“I don’t believe he was meeting anyone.” My voice shook and I wiped my eyes. “I believe this is some great big Bureau lie.”

He sighed, staring off. “It’s not a lie, Kay.”

“Then who! I have to know!” I cried.

Now people were looking our way, and Wesley moved me out of traffic, toward platform 8, where the 11:46 train was leaving for Denmark Hill and Peckham Rye. He led me up a blue and white tile ramp into a room of benches and lockers, where travelers could store belongings and claim left baggage. I was sobbing, and could not help myself. I was confused and furious as we went into a deserted corner and he kindly sat me on a bench.

“Tell me,” I said. “Benton, please. I’ve got to know. Don’t make me go the rest of my life not knowing the truth,” I choked between tears.

He took both my hands. “You can put this to rest right now. Mark is dead. I swear. Do you really think I could have this relationship with you if I knew he were alive somewhere?” he passionately said. “Jesus. How can you even imagine I could do something like that!”

“What happened to the person he was meeting?” I kept pushing.