“Did she enjoy relocating to western New York? Heck of a transition.”

“She didn’t hate it. Ringing endorsement, eh? The state is gorgeous. And Sean was getting good pay, for once.”

“Long way from California,” I said. “Cold winters. Hicks.”

“Linda worked from home and traveled when necessary. She wasn’t trapped. Have you ever visited Healdsburg? It’s quaint. Her property is surrounded by hills and woods. A drier, sunnier version of the hills that border this area.”

“You don’t buy suicide based on Sean’s chronic depression. Fine. Let’s consider the possibility there were additional variables. Did you notice changes in his behavior?”

“He was buttoned down around me and his father, so my insight is admittedly limited in certain regards. He didn’t handle stress well. The last year, he became scattered, forgetful. His handwriting, which had been fairly neat up through college, degraded. Something weighed on his mind. A bad marriage would account for certain aspects. But I couldn’t help but wonder if he was hiding an illness or trouble at work.”

I closed my notebook.

“Thank you for your help, ma’am.”

“Sorry for my loss, et cetera?”

“Et cetera, et cetera.” There were moments I wished that in addition to closing my notebook with finality I had a hat to grab, because hats are often kept near a door.

“What will you do next?” she said.

“What I usually do. Ask nice people rude questions and chase my own tail until something occurs to me.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The comic store was the last shop standing in a plaza with FOR RENT signs in many of the windows. Devlin’s tastes were evolving, but he steadfastly loved the Flash, Wonder Woman, and Green Lantern, so I nabbed the latest installment of each series. The shopkeeper kibitzed as he bagged my selections and talked me into buying a back issue annual of The Warlord, a lamentably discontinued series I’d adored in adolescence and then forgotten. The Warlord starred an improbably brawny man among men who gallivanted across a Hollow Earth landscape smiting his enemies with a sword and rescuing bikini-clad women from the clutches of evil. What was not to love for a twelve-year-old kid, right? And forty-something kids.

Afterward, I sat in the car, skimming my itinerary, which included in-person interviews with locals who’d known Sean Pruitt. Although what I really wanted to do was ditch my obligations and spend the day reading comics.

I backed out of the parking space and nearly traded paint with a pickup that whipped around the corner. The driver dynamited his brakes and was likely yelling obscenities before he flung his door open. I didn’t have an opportunity to ask if he was okay. The driver, an older red-faced hick in a denim jacket and cowboy boots, rushed me with the stated intent to send my “brown ass back to my own country in a box.” Less shocking so much as depressing. The righteous racism craze was sweeping the nation.

As one might suspect, my thoughts jumped to the altercation I witnessed between the frat bros and the construction worker at the Kingston traffic light. The angel on my left shoulder encouraged me to reenact the melodrama, but with extra violence. My better angel reminded me of the emotional and legal consequences for resorting to casual brutality. Tough call. Not that I didn’t appreciate what my worse angel was laying down, but sort of like pushing aside that last piece of pie because it’s the honorable thing to do, I denied my base instincts to maul and maim and used an appropriate level of force. Mr. Denim’s punch glanced off my lowered head. Finger bones crunched. I kicked his legs out from under him and he thudded onto his back on the pavement. His breath whooshed. An expression of fear and comprehension surfaced, then was replaced by pain. It’s always bad to not realize you’re overmatched until after the fight is under way or, in his case, finished.