“They’ll shoot him, you know. Like they shot Jim Borden. They put us in a bus, Jean. Well, two buses. Drove us up to Fort Meade, not saying a word about where we were headed. Some team-building exercise was the rumor. I can still see him. I see him every single day at two twenty-three in the afternoon. Jimbo there, cuffed to a post, staring out at all of us as Reverend Carl read the scripture. Glory, glory fucking hallelujah, we’ve got a fox in the henhouse, men, and there’s only one way to deal with a prying fox. Thomas—you remember Thomas—well, it was that son of a bitch who did the shooting. No trial, no jury of peers, no last request. They just fucking shot him, there in the rifle range of Fort Meade. I watched Jimbo go down, slump down the pole he was cuffed to, watched him bleed out life onto a patch of sand that was already stained red.”

Patrick leans over, picks up my beer, and swallows it down in one long gulp. “Anyway, that’s why I didn’t tell you. When they come for me, it’s better if you don’t know anything.” When. Not if.

“But I do now,” I say.

“I guess you do, babe. I guess you do.”

“Steven?” I don’t want to ask the question, but I can’t help myself. “If he makes it up to North Dakota and they find him—”

Instead of answering, Patrick folds himself forward, head buried in his hands.

Chapter Fifty-seven

FIFTY-SEVEN

There’s no love tonight, but there is.

We put three children to bed and silently make a wish for Steven, that he turns back before it’s too late. Then Patrick takes me to bed, wrapping himself around me.

“You need to get out,” he says. “Any way you can.”

“I can’t,” I say, even though I can.

“You know someone, don’t you? That Italian who worked in your department.”

So this is what it’s like, having my own husband sanction my affair.

I get out of bed and take Patrick’s hand. “Let’s have a drink.”

On the way to the kitchen, I still haven’t fleshed out the story, not the whole story, not the end of the story, but I know how it begins. And it might as well begin with the truth. I take out two glasses and pour an inch of neat scotch into Patrick’s, a full measure of water into mine.

“No grappa tonight?” he says.