“If anyone on my property is working, you can bet I’m going to be there. It’s a code we swear by around here. I hope you understand.”

“Your work ethic is honorable,” Will says, lingering over the word. “But we don’t have time to be flexible right now. I’ll expect you at my office tomorrow.” He looks at Lydia. “Both of you. How’s eleven a.m.?”

Drew’s expression sharpens. He’s angry.

“Of course,” Lydia says without looking his way.

Janice appears at the door, and Drew leans forward, grabbing up his hat. When he stands, he presses into my body space for just a moment, and I feel a crackle of physical power coming off him. It’s over in a blink, but I have a strange sense that the move is intentional, that he means to lean too close to me—to flex. My muscles read his subtext instantly, tense and on guard. I can’t help thinking of that rape charge during his undergrad years, and how violence against women is almost never about sex, but about domination. About crushing a woman’s autonomy with total control, driven by hate.

When he’s gone, Lydia walks us to the door. “We’ve been watching the news from Petaluma. I even have a few friends who are volunteering at the search center for Polly Klaas. If getting something similar started for Cameron is a matter of money, we’d like to contribute. Drew and I have already discussed it.”

Will and I exchange a look. Maybe she’s feeling guilty or ashamed for not doing more right away, or maybe this offer is a veiled attempt at an apology of sorts, repayment for what her husband has done, or who he is. Some wives of sexual predators are silently complicit, while others—a very few—openly collaborate, serving as a kind of pimp for their husbands’ appetites. And then there are those who know and suspect nothing, even when the abuse happens under their own roof, and not because they’re ignorant or lack insight. Many offenders have the uncanny ability to show only what they want others to see. There’s a level of duality—a firewall between discordant parts of their personalities. From our brief visit, there’s no way of knowing where Lydia falls on the continuum.

“Good of you to offer,” I tell her.

“We can discuss it more tomorrow,” Will adds. “Thank you for your time.”

(thirty-one)

“What the hell was that?” Will asks when we’re back in the car.

“Damned if I know. I don’t like him, though.”

“I can’t tell what to think. He’s got the whole midcareer Clint Eastwood thing going. But then you also get the feeling he’s been in a lot of boardrooms swinging his weight around and signing big checks.”