“Perfesser, I wish to God he was dead, but you’ll love this part. I checked with the paramedics, who said Beaufort’s vital signs were strong. He’ll likely be permanently blind and ugly as hell with scarring, but he’s going to stand trial for his part in the Clutter family murders, and for the slaughter of the Walker family, too. Not to mention your old friend Father Santangelo. Besides Gloria Bentham.”

Carlo didn’t full-on sob, but he did choke on my words as if he’d spoken them himself. When I caught his gaze and held it I could see he was embarrassed by his gentleness in the face of however he saw me.

I was still the first one to look away. “But will you be all right?” I asked. Of course I knew even then that I was really asking will we be all right.

“Oh, I doubt that there’s anything wrong with me that several years of psychiatric counseling and a little Xanax can’t ease.” He finally picked up the glass of scotch from the table and raised it in my direction. He looked at me, carefully, seeing me for the first time again although through a film of great sadness. His hand was still trembling just a little when he said, “Cheers, honey.”

A door that had been momentarily opened between us was closing again. Damned if I’d let that happen. I swatted his knee, which was the closest thing to hand. “Oh, no you don’t,” I said. “Dammit, Perfesser, I’m the one who does sarcasm. ‘Cheers, honey’ isn’t enough for me.” I took a deep breath and released it with the sense that I had removed a glove and was smacking him with it. “You were the one who once told me love isn’t so much a feeling as it is a decision.” Then I took the glass from him and took a good swig before asking, “So. Are we still on? Are we going to fight for us or just slink off?”