Another draw from his tumbler of Dutch courage, and he continues. “He went out to the garage to find some boxes—I don’t know—maybe to pack the knives in or something. He didn’t say. He thinks he was gone about ten minutes when he saw the smoke from their bedroom window. They kept it open a crack, even though it’s warm. I guess they liked the fresh air. I don’t know, Jean.” Patrick’s voice starts to tremble.

“It’s okay,” I say, laying a hand on his.

He tips the bottle again. “She made a loop, you see. She recorded twenty words and made a loop out of them on the Dictaphone. Then she put the gizmo out of reach and set it to play. Over and over and over again. If she even knew what she was doing after the first of the charges, she wasn’t able to get to the machine and turn it off.”

“Oh. Oh no.”

Patrick falls onto the counter, head in his hands, still talking, although his voice is muffled. “Evan said when he came into their bedroom, the recording was still playing. Same words, over and over. ‘I’m so sorry, Julia,’ it said. And all the time, it was burning her, that goddamned metal monster on her wrist, eating into her skin until—until—”

I run a dish towel under the tap, wrap a few ice cubes in it, and lay it over the back of Patrick’s neck. “Shh. Be still for a minute.”

“When did it get so bad, Jean? We’re doing everything we can. But when did it get so fucking bad?”

We.

A moan—no, a low, animal-like sob—comes from the living room. I leave Patrick at the counter, the towel on his motionless head, walk through the dining room, and crane my neck around the corner toward the front window.

Steven is there, watching as the ambulance reverses down the Kings’ driveway and takes off, sirens blaring. My son’s shoulders undulate in a jerky, arhythmic pattern.

“She’ll be all right,” I say, coming up to where he stands, but still keeping some distance.

“Nothing’s all right,” Steven says.

This is not the right time to talk about making beds and lying in them, so I stay silent.

“You have no idea, Mom. You have no idea what they said about her today.”

He watched it at school, the broadcast of Julia and Reverend Carl. “About Julia?”

Steven spins around, and his face is a picture of horror, pale and drawn, puffy around the eyes. His nose is running, and he swats at it with a sleeve. “Who do you think?”

All of a sudden, he’s five years old again, sniffling and crying about a scratched knee or a palmful of road rash from when he tipped his bike and went skidding to a stop. So much for sullen seventeen-year-olds.