NineteenMinutes

NineteenMinutesNineteenMinutes

NineteenMinutes

PARTONE

Ifwedon’tchangethedirectionweareheaded,wewillendupwherewearegoing.

-CHINESEPROVERBBythetimeyoureadthis,Ihopetobedead.Youcan’tundosomethingthat’shappened;youcan’ttakebackawordthat’s

alreadybeensaidout loud.You’ll thinkaboutmeandwish thatyouhadbeenabletotalkmeoutofthis.You’lltrytofigureoutwhatwouldhavebeentheonerightthingtosay,todo.IguessIshouldtellyou,Don’tblameyourself;thisisn’tyourfault,butthatwouldbealie.WebothknowthatIdidn’tgetherebymyself.

You’llcry,atmyfuneral.You’llsayitdidn’thavetobethisway.Youwillactlikeeveryoneexpectsyouto.Butwillyoumissme?

Moreimportantly-willImissyou?Doeseitheroneofusreallywanttoheartheanswertothatquestion?March6,2007Innineteenminutes,youcanmowthe front lawn,coloryourhair,watcha

thirdofahockeygame.Innineteenminutes,youcanbakesconesorgetatoothfilledbyadentist;youcanfoldlaundryforafamilyoffive.

Nineteen minutes is how long it took the Tennessee Titans to sell out oftickets to theplay-offs. It’s the lengthofasitcom,minus thecommercials. It’sthe driving distance from the Vermont border to the town of Sterling, NewHampshire.

Innineteenminutes,youcanorderapizzaandgetitdelivered.Youcanreadastorytoachildorhaveyouroilchanged.Youcanwalkamile.Youcansewahem.

Innineteenminutes,youcanstoptheworld,oryoucanjustjumpoffit.Innineteenminutes,youcangetrevenge.Asusual,AlexCormierwasrunninglate.Ittookthirty-twominutestodrive

from her house in Sterling to the superior court in Grafton County, NewHampshire, and that was only if she speeded through Orford. She hurrieddownstairsinherstockings,carryingherheelsandthefilesshe’dbroughthomewith her over theweekend. She twisted her thick copper hair into a knot andanchoreditatthebaseofherneckwithbobbypins,transformingherselfintothepersonsheneededtobebeforesheleftherhouse.

Alex had been a superior court judge now for thirty-four days. She’dbelievedthat,havingprovedhermettleasadistrictcourtjudgeforthepastfive

years, this time around the appointmentmight be easier.But at forty, shewasstilltheyoungestjudgeinthestate.Shestillhadtofighttoestablishherselfasafairjustice-herhistoryasapublicdefenderprecededherintohercourtroom,andprosecutorsassumedshe’dsidewiththedefense.WhenAlexhadsubmittedhernameyearsagoforthebench,ithadbeenwiththesinceredesiretomakesurepeople in this legal system were innocent until proven guilty. She just neveranticipatedthat,asajudge,shemightnotbegiventhesamebenefitofthedoubt.

ThesmelloffreshlybrewedcoffeedrewAlexintothekitchen.Herdaughterwashunchedoverasteamingmugatthekitchentable,poringoveratextbook.Josie looked exhausted-her blue eyeswere bloodshot; her chestnut hairwas aknottyponytail.“Tellmeyouhaven’tbeenupallnight,”Alexsaid.

Josiedidn’tevenglanceup.“Ihaven’tbeenupallnight,”sheparroted.Alexpouredherselfacupofcoffeeandslidintothechairacrossfromher.

“Honestly?”“You askedme to tell you something,” Josie said. “You didn’t ask for the

truth.”Alexfrowned.“Youshouldn’tbedrinkingcoffee.”“Andyoushouldn’tbesmokingcigarettes.”Alexfeltherfaceheatup.“Idon’t-”“Mom,”Josiesighed,“evenwhenyouopenupthebathroomwindows,Ican

stillsmellitonthetowels.”Sheglancedup,daringAlextochallengeherothervices.

Alexherselfdidn’thaveanyothervices.Shedidn’thavetimeforanyvices.ShewouldhavelikedtosaythatsheknewwithauthoritythatJosiedidn’thaveanyvices,either,butshewouldonlybemaking thesame inference therestofthe world did when they met Josie: a pretty, popular, straight-A student whoknewbetterthanmosttheconsequencesoffallingoffthestraight-and-narrow.Agirlwhowasdestinedforgreat things.AyoungwomanwhowasexactlywhatAlexhadhopedherdaughterwouldgrowtobecome.

Josie had once been so proud to have a mother as a judge. Alex couldrememberJosiebroadcastinghercareertothetellersatthebank,thebaggersinthegrocerystore,theflightattendantsonplanes.She’daskAlexabouthercasesandherdecisions.Thathadallchangedthreeyearsago,whenJosieenteredhighschool, and the tunnel of communication between them slowly bricked shut.Alexdidn’tnecessarilythinkthatJosiewashidinganythingmorethananyotherteenager, but itwas different: a normal parentmightmetaphorically judge herchild’sfriends,whereasAlexcoulddoitlegally.

“What’sonthedockettoday?”Alexsaid.“Unittest.Whataboutyou?”

“Arraignments,”Alex replied.She squinted across the table, trying to readJosie’stextbookupsidedown.“Chemistry?”

“Catalysts.”Josierubbedhertemples.“Substancesthatspeedupareaction,butstayunchangedbyit.Likeifyou’vegotcarbonmonoxidegasandhydrogengasandyoutossinzincandchromiumoxide,and…what’sthematter?”

“Just having a little flashback of why I got a C in Orgo. Have you hadbreakfast?”

“Coffee,”Josiesaid.“Coffeedoesn’tcount.”“Itdoeswhenyou’reinarush,”Josiepointedout.Alexweighedthecostsofbeingevenfiveminutes later,orgettinganother

black mark against her in the cosmic good-parenting tally. Shouldn’t aseventeen-year-oldbeable to takecareofherself in themorning?Alexstartedpullingitemsoutoftherefrigerator:eggs,milk,bacon.“IoncepresidedoveraninvoluntaryemergencyadmissionatthestatementalhospitalforawomanwhothoughtshewasEmeril.Herhusbandhadhercommittedwhensheputapoundofbaconintheblenderandchasedhimaroundthekitchenwithaknife,yellingBam!”

Josieglancedupfromhertextbook.“Forreal?”“Oh,believeme,Ican’tmakethesethingsup.”Alexcrackedaneggintoa

skillet.“WhenIaskedherwhyshe’dputapoundofbaconin theblender,shelookedatmeandsaidthatsheandImustjustcookdifferently.”

Josie stood up and leaned against the counter, watching hermother cook.Domesticitywasn’tAlex’sstrongpoint-shedidn’tknowhowtomakeapotroastbutwasproudtohavememorizedthephonenumbersofeverypizzaplaceandChinese restaurant in Sterling that offered free delivery. “Relax,” Alex saiddryly.“IthinkIcandothiswithoutsettingthehouseonfire.”

ButJosietooktheskilletoutofherhandsandlaidthestripsofbaconinit,likesailorsbunkingtightlytogether.“Howcomeyoudresslikethat?”sheasked.

Alexglanceddownatherskirt,blouse,andheelsandfrowned.“Why?IsittooMargaretThatcher?”

“No,Imean…whydoyoubother?Nooneknowswhatyouhaveonunderyour robe.Youcouldwear, like,pajamapants.Or that sweateryouhave fromcollegethat’sgotholesintheelbows.”

“Whetherornotpeopleseeit,I’mstillexpectedtodress…well,judiciously.”AcloudpassedoverJosie’sface,andshebusiedherselfoverthestove,asif

Alex had somehow given the wrong answer. Alex stared at her daughter-thebitten half-moon fingernails, the freckle behind her ear, the zigzag part in herhair-and saw instead the toddler who’d wait at the babysitter’s window at

sundown, because she knew thatwaswhenAlex came to get her. “I’ve neverwornpajamas towork,”Alexadmitted, “but Ido sometimesclose thedoor tochambersandtakeanaponthefloor.”

A slow, surprised smile played over Josie’s face. She held her mother’sadmissionasifitwereabutterflylightingonherhandbyaccident:aneventsostartlingyoucouldnotcallattentiontoitwithoutriskingitsloss.Butthereweremilestodriveanddefendantstoarraignandchemicalequationstointerpret,andby the time Josie had set the bacon to drain on a pad of paper toweling, themomenthadwingedaway.

“Istilldon’tgetwhyIhavetoeatbreakfastifyoudon’t,”Josiemuttered.“Because you have to be a certain age to earn the right to ruin your own

life.” Alex pointed at the scrambled eggs Josie was mixing in the skillet.“Promisemeyou’llfinishthat?”

Josiemethergaze.“Promise.”“ThenI’mheadedout.”Alexgrabbedhertravelmugofcoffee.Bythetimeshebackedhercaroutof

thegarage,herheadwasalreadyfocusedon thedecisionshehad towrite thatafternoon; the number of arraignments the clerk would have stuffed onto herdocket;themotionsthatwouldhavefallenlikeshadowsacrossherdeskbetweenFridayafternoonandthismorning.Shewascaughtupinaworldfarawayfromhome,whereatthatverymomentherdaughterscrapedthescrambledeggsfromtheskilletintothetrashcanwithoutevertakingasinglebite.

Sometimes Josie thought of her life as a room with no doors and nowindows.Itwasasumptuousroom,sure-aroomhalf thekidsinSterlingHighwould have given their right arm to enter-but itwas also a room fromwhichtherereallywasn’tanescape.EitherJosiewassomeoneshedidn’twanttobe,orshewassomeonewhonobodywanted.

She lifted her face to the spray of the shower-water she’dmade so hot itraised redwelts, stole breath, steamedwindows. She counted to ten, and thenfinallyduckedawayfromthestreamtostandnakedanddrippinginfrontofthemirror.Herfacewasswollenandscarlet;herhairstucktohershouldersinthickropes.She turned sideways, scrutinizedher flat belly, and sucked it in a little.SheknewwhatMattsawwhenhelookedather,whatCourtneyandMaddieandBradyandHaleyandDrewallsaw-shejustwishedthatshecouldseeit,too.Theproblemwas,whenJosielookedinthemirror,shenoticedwhatwasunderneaththatrawskin,insteadofwhathadbeenpainteduponit.

Sheunderstoodhowshewassupposedtolookandsupposedtoact.Sheworeher dark hair long and straight; she dressed inAbercrombie&Fitch; shelistenedtoDashboardConfessionalandDeathCabforCutie.Shelikedfeeling

the eyes of other girls in the school when she sat in the cafeteria borrowingCourtney’smakeup.She liked theway teachersalreadyknewhernameon thefirstdayofclass.ShelikedhavingguysstareatherwhenshewalkeddownthehallwithMatt’sarmaroundher.

Buttherewasapartofherthatwonderedwhatwouldhappenifsheletthemallinonthesecret-thatsomemornings,itwashardtogetoutofbedandputonsomeoneelse’ssmile;thatshewasstandingonair,afakewholaughedatalltherightjokesandwhisperedalltherightgossipandattractedtherightguy,afakewhohadnearly forgottenwhat it felt like to be real…andwho,whenyougotrightdowntoit,didn’twanttoremember,becauseithurtevenmorethanthis.

Therewasn’tanyonetotalkto.Ifyouevendoubtedyourrighttobeoneofthe privileged, popular set, then you didn’t belong there.AndMatt-well, he’dfallen for the Josie on the surface, like everyone else. In fairy tales,when themaskcameoff,thehandsomeprincestilllovedthegirl,nomatterwhat-andthatalonewouldturnherintoaprincess.Buthighschooldidn’tworkthatway.Whatmade her a princess was hooking up with Matt. And in some weird circularlogic,whatmadeMatthookupwithherwastheveryfact thatshewasoneofSterlingHigh’sprincesses.

Shecouldn’tconfideinhermother,either.Youdon’tstopbeingajudgejustbecauseyoustepoutofthecourthouse,hermotherusedtosay.ItwaswhyAlexCormier never drank more than one glass of wine in public; it was why sheneveryelledorcried.Atrialwasastupidword,consideringthatanattemptwasnever good enough: you were supposed to toe the line, period. Many of theaccomplishments that Josie’s mother was most proud of-Josie’s grades, herlooks, her acceptance into the “right” crowd-had not been achieved becauseJosiewantedthemsobadlyherself,butmostlybecauseshewasafraidoffallingshortofperfect.

Josie wrapped a towel around herself and headed into her bedroom. Shepulledapairof jeansoutofher closet and then layered two long-sleeved teesthatshowedoffherchest.Sheglancedatherclock-ifshewasn’tgoingtobelate,she’dhavetogetmoving.

Beforeleavingherroom,though,shehesitated.ShesankdownontoherbedandrummagedunderneaththenightstandfortheZiplocsandwichbagthatshe’dtackedtothewoodenframe.InsidewasastashofAmbien-piratedonepillatatimefromhermother’sprescriptionforinsomnia,soshe’dnevernotice.Ithadtaken Josie nearly sixmonths to inconspicuously gather only fifteen pills, butshefiguredifshewashedthemdownwithafifthofvodka,itwoulddothetrick.Itwasn’tlikeshehadastrategy,really,tokillherselfnextTuesday,orwhenthesnowmelted, or anything concrete like that. It wasmore like a backup plan:

Whenthetruthcameout,andnoonewantedtobearoundheranymore,itstoodtoreasonJosiewouldn’twanttobearoundherselfeither.

Shetackedthepillsbackbeneathhernightstandandheadeddownstairs.Asshewalked into thekitchen to loadupher backpack, she foundher chemistrytextbookstillwideopen-andalong-stemmedredrosemarkingherplace.

Matt was leaning against the refrigerator in the corner; he must have lethimself in throughtheopengaragedoor.Likealways,hemadeherheadswimwithseasons-hishairwasallthecolorsofautumn;hiseyesthebrightblueofawintersky;hissmileaswideasanysummersun.Hewaswearingabaseballhatbackward,andaSterlingVarsityHockeyteeoverathermalshirtthatJosiehadoncestolenforafullmonthandhiddeninherunderweardrawer,sothatwhensheneededtoshecouldbreatheinthescentofhim.“Areyoustillpissedoff?”heasked.

Josiehesitated.“Iwasn’ttheonewhowasmad.”Mattpushedawayfromtherefrigerator,comingforwarduntilhecouldlink

hisarmsaroundJosie’swaist.“YouknowIcan’thelpit.”A dimple blossomed in his right cheek; Josie could already feel herself

softening.“Itwasn’tthatIdidn’twanttoseeyou.Ireallydidhavetostudy.”Mattpushedherhairoffherfaceandkissedher.Thiswasexactlywhyshe’d

told him not to come over last night-when shewaswith him, she felt herselfevaporating.Sometimes,whenhetouchedher,Josieimaginedherselfvanishinginapuffofsteam.

He tastedofmaple syrup, of apologies. “It’s all your fault, youknow,” hesaid.“Iwouldn’tactascrazyifIdidn’tloveyousomuch.”

Atthatmoment,Josiecouldnotrememberthepillsshewashoardinginherroom; she could not remember crying in the shower; she could not rememberanythingbutwhatitfeltliketobeadored.I’mlucky,shetoldherself,thewordstreaminglikeasilverribbonthroughhermind.Lucky,lucky,lucky.

PatrickDucharme, the sole detective on theSterling police force, sat on abenchon thefarsideof the lockerroom, listening to thepatrolofficerson themorning shift pick on a rookiewith a little extra padding around themiddle.“Hey,Fisher,”EddieOdenkirksaid,“areyoutheonewho’shavingthebaby,orisityourwife?”

As the rest of the guys laughed, Patrick took pity on the kid. “It’s early,Eddie,”hesaid.“Can’tyouatleastwaittostartinuntilwe’veallhadacupofcoffee?”

“Iwould,Captain,”Eddie laughed,“but it looks likeFisheralreadyateallthedonutsand-whatthehellisthat?”

Patrick followedEddie’sgazedownward, tohisownfeet.Hedidnot,asa

matter of course, change in the locker roomwith the patrol officers, but he’djoggedtothestationthismorninginsteadofdriving,toworkofftoomuchgoodcookingconsumedovertheweekend.He’dspentSaturdayandSundayinMainewith the girl who currently held his heart-his goddaughter, a five-and-a-half-year-old namedTaraFrost.Hermother,Nina,wasPatrick’s oldest friend, andthe one love he probably would never get over, although she managed to bedoing quite well without him. Over the course of the weekend, Patrick haddeliberately lost ten thousand games of Candy Land, had given countlesspiggyback rides,hadhadhishairdone, and-herewashis cardinalmistake-hadallowed Tara to put bright pink nail polish on his toes, which Patrick hadforgottentoremove.

He glanced down at his feet and curled his toes under. “Chicks think it’shot,” he said gruffly, as the seven men in the locker room struggled not tosnickeratsomeonewhowastechnicallytheirsuperior.Patrickyankedhisdresssockson,slippedintohis loafers,andwalkedout,stillholdinghis tie.One,hecounted.Two,three.Oncue,laughterspilledoutofthelockerroom,followinghimdownthehallway.

Inhisoffice,Patrickclosedthedoorandpeeredathimselfinthetinymirrorontheback.Hisblackhairwasstilldampfromhisshower;hisfacewasflushedfromhisrun.Heshimmiedtheknotofhistieuphisneck,fashioningthenoose,andthensatdownathisdesk.

Seventy-two emails had come in over the weekend-and usually anythingmorethanfiftymeanthewouldn’tgethomebefore8:00p.m.allweek.Hebegantoweedthroughthem,addingnotestoadevil’sToDolist-onethatnevergotanyshorter,nomatterhowhardheworked.

Today,Patrickhadtodrivedrugsdowntothestatelab-notabigdeal,exceptthatitwasafour-hourblockofhisdaythatvanishedrightthere.Hehadarapecase coming to fruition, the perp identified from a college face book and hisstatements transcribedand ready for theAG’soffice.Hehadacellphone thathadbeennabbedoutofacarbyahomelessguy.Hehadbloodresultscomebackfrom the lab as a match for a break-in at a jewelry store, and a suppressionhearinginsuperiorcourt,andalreadyonhisdeskwasthefirstnewcomplaintoftheday-atheftofwalletsinwhichthecreditcardshadbeenused,leavingatrailforPatricktotrace.

Beingasmall-towndetectiverequiredPatricktobefiringonallcylinders,allthetime.Unlikecopsheknewwhoworkedforcitydepartments,wheretheyhadtwenty-four hours to solve a case before itwas considered cold, Patrick’s jobwas to take everything that came across his desk-not to cherry-pick for theinterestingones.Itwashardtogetexcitedaboutabadcheckcase,oratheftthat

wouldnettheperpa$200finewhenitcostthetaxpayersfivetimesthattohavePatrickfocusonitforaweek.Buteverytimehestartedthinkingthathiscasesweren’tparticularlyimportant,he’dfindhimselfface-to-facewithavictim:thehystericalmotherwhosewallethadbeenstolen;themom-and-popjewelrystoreownerswho’dbeenrobbedoftheirretirementincome;therattledprofessorwhowas a victim of identity theft. Hope, Patrick knew,was the exactmeasure ofdistancebetweenhimselfandthepersonwho’dcomeforhelp.IfPatrickdidn’tgetinvolved,ifhedidn’tgiveahundredpercent,thenthatvictimwasgoingtobeavictimforever-whichwaswhy,sincePatrickhadjoinedtheSterlingpolice,hehadmanagedtosolveeverysinglecase.

Andyet.WhenPatrickwas lying in his bed alone and letting hismind sew a seam

across thehemofhis life,hedidnot remember theproven successes-only thepotentialfailures.Whenhewalkedaroundtheperimeterofavandalizedbarnorfound the stolen car stripped down and dumped in the woods or handed thetissueto thesobbinggirlwho’dbeendate-raped,Patrickcouldn’thelpbutfeelthathewastoolate.Hewasadetective,buthedidn’tdetectanything.Itfellintohislap,alreadybroken,everytime.

ItwasthefirstwarmdayofMarch,theonewhereyoustartedtobelievethatthesnowwouldmeltsoonerratherthanlater,andthatJunewastrulyjustaroundthe corner. Josie sat on the hood of Matt’s Saab in the student parking lot,thinkingthatitwasclosertosummerthanitwastothestartofthisschoolyear,that in a scant three months, she would officially be a member of the seniorclass.

Besideher,Mattleanedagainstthewindshield,hisfacetippeduptothesun.“Let’sditchschool,”hesaid.“It’stooniceouttobestuckinsideallday.”

“Ifyouditch,you’llbebenched.”Thestatechampionshiptournamentinhockeybeganthisafternoon,andMatt

playedrightwing.Sterlinghadwonlastyear,andtheyhadeveryexpectationofdoingitagain.“You’recomingtothegame,”Mattsaid,anditwasn’taquestion,butastatement.

“Areyougoingtoscore?”Matt smiledwickedlyand tuggedheron topofhim.“Don’t I always?”he

said,buthewasn’ttalkingabouthockeyanymore,andshefeltablushriseoverthecollarofherscarf.

SuddenlyJosiefeltarainofhailonherback.TheybothsatuptofindBradyPryce, a football player, walking by hand-in-hand with Haley Weaver, thehomecoming queen.Haley tossed a second shower of pennies-SterlingHigh’swayofwishinganathletegoodluck.“Kickasstoday,Royston,”Bradycalled.

Their math teacher was crossing the parking lot, too, with a worn blackleatherbriefcaseandathermosofcoffee.“Hey,Mr.McCabe,”Mattcalledout.“How’dIdoonlastFriday’stest?”

“Luckily,you’vegotothertalentstofallbackon,Mr.Royston,”theteachersaidashereachedintohispocket.HewinkedatJosieashepitched thecoins,penniesthatfellfromtheskyontohershoulderslikeconfetti,likestarscomingloose.

Itfigures,Alexthoughtasshestuffedthecontentsofherpursebackinside.Shehad switchedhandbags and left her pass key at home,which allowedherinto the employee entrance at the rear of the superior court. Although she’dpushedthebuzzeramilliontimes,nooneseemedtobearoundtoletherin.

“Goddamn,”shemutteredunderherbreath,hikingaroundtheslushpuddlessothatheralligatorheelswouldn’tgetruined-oneoftheperksofparkinginthebackwasnothaving todo this.Shecouldcut through theclerk’soffice toherchambers,and if theplanetswerealigned,maybeevenonto thebenchwithoutcausingadelayinthedocket.

Althoughthepublicentranceofthecourthadalinetwentypeoplelong,thecourt officers recognizedAlex because, unlike the district court circuit,whereyoubounced fromcourthouse tocourthouse, shewouldbeensconcedhere forsixmonths.The officerswaved her to the front of the line, but since shewascarryingkeysandastainlesssteeltravelthermosandGodonlyknewwhatelseinherpurse,shesetoffthemetaldetectors.

Thealarmwasaspotlight;everyeyeinthelobbyturnedtoseewho’dgottencaught.Duckingherhead,Alexhurriedacrossthepolishedtilefloorandnearlylostherfooting.Asshepitchedforward,asquatmanreachedforwardtosteadyher.“Hey,baby,”hesaid,leering.“Ilikeyourshoes.”

Withoutresponding,Alexyankedherselfoutofhisgraspandheadedtowardtheclerk’soffice.Noneoftheothersuperiorcourtjudgeshadtodealwiththis.JudgeWagnerwasaniceguy,butwithafacethatlookedlikeapumpkinlefttorotafterHalloween.JudgeGerhardt-afellowfemale-hadblousesthatwereolderthanAlex.WhenAlexhad firstcome to thebench, she’d thought thatbeingarelativelyyoung,moderatelyattractivewomanwasagoodthing-avoteagainsttypecasting-butonmorningslikethis,shewasn’tsosure.

She dumped her purse in chambers, shrugged into her robe, and took fiveminutestodrinkhercoffeeandreviewthedocket.Eachcasegotitsownfile,butcases for repeat offenderswere rubber-banded together, and sometimes judgeswrotePost-itnotestoeachotherinsideaboutthecase.Alexopenedoneandsawapictureofastick-figuremanwithbarsinfrontofhisface-asignalfromJudgeGerhardt that thiswastheoffender’slastchance,andthatnext time,heshould

gotojail.Sherangthebuzzertosignifytothecourtofficerthatshewasreadytostart,

and waited to hear her cue: “All rise, the Honorable Alexandra Cormierpresiding.” Walking into a courtroom, to Alex, always felt as if she weresteppingontoastageforthefirsttimeataBroadwayopening.Youknewtherewouldbepeople there,youknewtheirgazeswouldallbefocusedonyou,butthat didn’t prevent you from having a moment when you could not breathe,couldnotbelieveyouweretheonetheyhadcometosee.

Alex moved briskly behind the bench and sat down. There were seventyarraignments scheduled for thatmorning, and the courtroomwas packed. Thefirstdefendantwascalled,andheshuffledpastthebarwithhiseyesaverted.

“Mr.O’Reilly,”Alexsaid,andasthemanmethergazesherecognizedhimastheguyfromthelobby.Hewasclearlyuncomfortable,nowthatherealizedwhomhe’d been flirtingwith. “You’re the gentlemanwho assistedme earlier,aren’tyou?”

Heswallowed.“Yes,YourHonor.”“Ifyou’dknownIwasthejudge,Mr.O’Reilly,wouldyouhavesaid,‘Hey,

baby,Ilikeyourshoes’?”Thedefendantglanceddown,weighingimproprietyagainsthonesty.“Iguess

so,YourHonor,”hesaidafteramoment.“Thosearegreatshoes.”The entire courtroom went still, anticipating her reaction. Alex smiled

broadly.“Mr.O’Reilly,”shesaid,“Icouldn’tagreemore.”LacyHoughtonleanedoverthebedrailingandputherfacerightinfrontof

hersobbingpatient’s.“Youcandothis,”shesaidfirmly.“Youcandothis,andyouwill.”

Aftersixteenhoursof labor, theywereallexhausted-Lacy, thepatient,andthefather-to-be,whowasfacingzero-hourwiththedawningrealizationthathewassuperfluous, that rightnow,hiswifewantedhermidwifemuchmore thanshewantedhim.“IwantyoutogetbehindJanine,”Lacy toldhim,“andbraceherback.Janine,Iwantyoutolookatmeandgivemeanothergoodpush…”

Thewomangrittedherteethandboredown,losingallsenseofherselfintheeffort to create someone else. Lacy reached down to feel the baby’s head, toguideitpastthesealofskinandquicklyloopthecordoveritsheadwithouteverlosingeyecontactwithherpatient.“Forthenext twentyseconds,yourbabyisgoing to be the newest person on this planet,” Lacy said. “Would you like tomeether?”

Theanswerwasapressuredpush.Acrestofintention,aroarofpurpose,asluiceofslick,purpledbodythatLacyquicklyliftedintothemother’sarms,sothatwhentheinfantcriedforthefirsttimeinthislife,shewouldalreadybeina

positiontobecomforted.Herpatientstartedweepingagain-tearshadawholedifferentmelody,didn’t

they,without thepain threadedthroughthem?Thenewparentsbentover theirbaby,aclosedcircle.Lacysteppedbackandwatched.Therewasplentyofworkleft foramidwife todoevenafter themomentofbirth,but for rightnow,shewantedtomakeeyecontactwiththislittlebeing.Whereparentswouldnoticeachin that looked likeAuntMarge’s or a nose that resembledGrandpa’s, Lacywould see instead a gaze wide with wisdom and peace-eight pounds ofunadulteratedpossibility.NewbornsremindedheroftinyBuddhas,facesfullofdivinity.Itdidn’t last long, though.WhenLacysawthesesameinfantsaweeklaterat theirregularcheckups,theyhadturnedintoordinary-albeit tiny-people.That holiness, somehow, disappeared, and Lacy was always left wonderingwhereinthisworlditmightgo.

WhilehismotherwasacrosstowndeliveringthenewestresidentofSterling,NewHampshire,PeterHoughtonwaswakingup.Hisfatherknockedonthedooronhiswayout towork-Peter’s alarm clock.Downstairs, a bowl and a boxofcerealwouldbewaiting forhim-hismother remembered todo thatevenwhenshegotpagedattwointhemorning.Therewouldbeanotefromher,too,tellinghimtohaveagooddayatschool,asifitwerethatsimple.

Peterthrewbackhiscovers.Hemovedtohisdesk,stillwearinghispajamabottoms,satdown,andloggedontotheInternet.

Thewordsonthemessageboardwereblurry.Hereachedforhisglasses-hekeptthemnexttohiscomputer.Afterheslippedtheframeson,hedroppedthecaseontothekeyboard-andsuddenly,hewasseeingsomethinghe’dhopednevertoseeagain.

Peter reached out and hit CONTROL ALT DELETE, but he could stillpictureit,evenafterthescreenwentblank,evenafterheclosedhiseyes,evenafterhestartedtocry.

InatownthesizeofSterling,everyonekneweveryoneelse,andalwayshad.In some ways, this was comforting-like a great big extended family that yousometimeslovedandsometimesfelloutoffavorwith.Atothertimes,ithauntedJosie:likerightnow,whenshewasstandinginthecafeterialinebehindNatalieZlenko, a dyke of the first orderwho,way back in second grade, had invitedJosie over to play andhad convincedher to pee on the front lawn like a boy.Whatwereyouthinking,hermotherhadsaid,whenshe’dcometopickherupand saw them bare-bottomed and squatting over the daffodils. Even now, adecade later, Josie couldn’t look at Natalie Zlenkowith her buzz cut and herever-presentSLRcamerawithoutwondering ifNataliestill thoughtabout that,too.

On Josie’s other side was Courtney Ignatio, the alpha female of SterlingHigh.Withherhoney-blondhairhangingoverhershoulderslikeashawlmadeofsilkandher low-rise jeansmail-orderedfromFredSegal,she’dspawnedanentourageofclones.OnCourtney’straywasabottleofwaterandabanana.OnJosie’s was a platter of French fries. It was second period, and just like hermotherhadpredicted,shewasfamished.

“Hey,”Courtneysaid,loudenoughforNatalietooverhear.“Canyoutellthevagitariantoletuspass?”

Natalie’scheeksburnedwithcolor,andsheflattenedherselfupagainst thesneezeguardofthesaladbarsothatCourtneyandJosiecouldslipby.Theypaidfortheirfoodandwalkedacrossthecafeteria.

Whenever shecame into the cafeteria, Josie felt like anaturalist observingdifferent species in their natural, nonacademic habitat. There were the geeks,bentovertheirtextbooksandlaughingatmathjokesnobodyelseevenwantedtounderstand.Behindthemweretheartfreaks,whosmokedclovecigarettesontheropescoursebehindtheschoolanddrewmangacomicsinthemarginsoftheirnotes. Near the condiment bar were the skanks, who drank black coffee andwaitedforthebusthatwouldtakethemtothetechnicalhighschoolthreetownsover for their afternoon classes; and the druggies, already strung out by nineo’clock in the morning. There were misfits, too-kids like Natalie and AngelaPhlug,fringefriendsbydefault,becausenobodyelsewouldhavethem.

And then therewas Josie’s posse. They took over two tables, not becausethere were so many of them, but because they were larger than life: Emma,Maddie,Haley,John,Brady,Trey,Drew.Josiecouldrememberhow,whenshestarted hanging aroundwith this group, she’d get everyone’s names confused.Theywerethatinterchangeable.

They all sort of looked alike, too-the boys allwearing theirmaroon homehockeyjerseysandtheirhatsbackward,brightthatchesofhairstuckthroughtheloops at their foreheads like the start of a fire; the girls carbon copies ofCourtney, by studious design. Josie slipped inconspicuously into the heart ofthem,becauseshelookedlikeCourtney,too.Hertangleofhairhadbeenblownglass-straight;herheelswerethreeincheshigh,eventhoughtherewasstillsnowontheground.Ifsheappearedthesameontheoutside,itwasthatmucheasiertoignorethefactthatshedidn’treallyknowhowshefeltontheinside.

“Hey,”Maddiesaid,asCourtneysatdownbesideher.“Hey.”“DidyouhearaboutFionaKierland?”Courtney’seyeslitup;gossipwasasgoodacatalystasanychemical.“The

onewhoseboobsaretwodifferentsizes?”

“No,that’sFionathesophomore.I’mtalkingaboutFionathefreshman.”“Theonewhoalwayscarriesaboxoftissuesforherallergies?”Josiesaid,

slidingintoaseat.“Ornot,”Haleysaid.“Guesswhogotsenttorehabforsnortingcoke.”“Getout.”“That’snoteventhewholescandal,”Emmaadded.“Herdealerwasthehead

oftheBiblestudygroupthatmeetsafterschool.”“OhmyGod!”Courtneysaid.“Exactly.”“Hey.”MattslippedintothechairbesideJosie.“Whattookyousolong?”She turned to him. At this end of the table, the guys were rolling straw

wrappersintospitballsandtalkingabouttheendofspringskiing.“Howlongdoyou think the half-pipe will stay open at Sunapee?” John asked, lobbing aspitballtowardakidonetableawaywhohadfallenasleep.

Theboyhadbeen in Josie’sSignLanguageelective lastyear.Likeher,hewas a junior. His arms and legs were skinny and white and splayed like astickbug;hismouth,ashesnored,waswide-open.

“Youmissed, loser,”Drewsaid.“IfSunapeecloses,Killington’sstillgood.Theyhavesnowuntil,like,August.”Hisspitballlandedintheboy’shair.

Derek.Thekid’snamewasDerek.Matt glanced at Josie’s French fries. “You’re not going to eat those, are

you?”“I’mstarving.”Hepinchedthesideofherwaist,acaliperandacriticismallatonce.Josie

looked down at the fries. Ten seconds ago, they’d looked golden brown andsmelledlikeheaven;nowallshecouldseewasthegreasethatstainedthepaperplate.

Matt tookahandfulandpassed the rest toDrew,who threwaspitball thatlandedin thesleepingboy’smouth.Withachokeandasputter,Derekstartledawake.

“Sweet!”Drewhigh-fivedJohn.Derekspat intoanapkinandrubbedhismouthhard.Heglancedaroundto

seewho else had beenwatching. Josie suddenly remembered a sign from herASLelective, almost all ofwhich she’d forgotten themoment she’d taken thefinal.AclosedfistmovedinacircleovertheheartmeantI’msorry.

Mattleanedoverandkissedherneck.“Let’sgetoutofhere.”HedrewJosietoherfeetandthenturnedtohisfriends.“Later,”hesaid.

ThegymnasiumatSterlingHighSchoolwasonthesecondfloor,abovewhatwouldhavebeenaswimmingpoolifthebondissuehadpassedwhentheschool

was in its planning stages, and what instead became three classrooms thatcontinually resounded with the pounding of sneakered feet and bouncingbasketballs.MichaelBeachandhisbestfriend,JustinFriedman,twofreshmen,satonthesidelinesofthebasketballcourtwhiletheirPhysEdteacherwentoverthemechanicsofdribblingforthehundredthtime.Itwasawastedexercise-kidsinthisclasswereeitherlikeNoahJames,alreadyanexpert,orlikeMichaelandJustin,whowere fluent inElvish but defined home run aswhat you did afterschoolinordertoavoidgettinghunguponcoathooksbyyourunderwear.Theysat cross-legged and knob-kneed, listening to the rodent’s squeak of CoachSpears’swhitesneakersashehustledfromoneendofthecourttotheother.

“TenbuckssaysIgetpickedlastforateam,”Justinmurmured.“Iwishwecouldgetoutofclass,”Michaelcommiserated.“Maybethere’ll

beafiredrill.”Justingrinned.“Anearthquake.”“Amonsoon.”“Locusts!”“Aterroristattack!”Twosneakersstoppedinfrontofthem.CoachSpearsglareddown,hisarms

folded.“Youtwowanttotellmewhat’ssofunnyaboutbasketball?”Michael glanced at Justin, then up at the coach. “Absolutely nothing,” he

said.After showering, Lacy Houghton made herself a mug of green tea and

wanderedpeacefullythroughherhouse.Whenthekidshadbeentinyandshe’dbeenoverwhelmedbyworkandlife,Lewiswouldaskherwhathecoulddotomake things better. It had been a great irony for her, given Lewis’s job. AprofessoratSterlingCollege,hisspecialtywastheeconomicsofhappiness.Yes,itwasarealfieldofstudy,andyes,hewasanexpert.He’dtaughtseminarsandwrittenarticlesandhadbeeninterviewedonCNNaboutmeasuringtheeffectsofpleasureandgoodfortuneonamonetaryscale-andyethe’dbeenatalosswhenitcametofiguringoutwhatLacywouldenjoy.Didshewanttogoouttoanicedinner? Get a pedicure? Take a nap? When she told him what she craved,though,hecouldnot comprehend.She’dwanted tobe inherownhouse,withnobodyelseinit,andnothingpressingtodo.

SheopenedthedoortoPeter’sroomandsethermugonthedressersothatshecouldmakehisbed.What’sthepoint,Peterwouldsaywhenshedoggedhimtodoithimself.Ijusthavetomessitupagaininafewhours.

Forthemostpart,shedidn’tenterPeter’sroomunlesshewasinit.Maybethatwaswhy,atfirst,shefelttherewassomethingwrongaboutthespace,asifan integralpartweremissing.At first sheassumed that itwasPeter’sabsence

thatmade the room seem a little empty, then she realized that the computer-asteadyhum,anever-readygreenscreen-hadbeenturnedoff.

She tugged the sheets up and tucked in the edges; shedrew thequilt overthemandfluffedthepillows.AtthethresholdofPeter’sbedroomshepausedandsmiled:theroomlookedperfect.

ZoePattersonwaswonderingwhatitwasliketokissaguywhohadbraces.Not that itwasa remotepossibility forheranytime in thenear future,but shefigured it was something she ought to consider before the moment actuallycaughtheroffguard.Infact,shewonderedwhatitwouldbeliketokissaguy,period-evenonewhowasn’torthodonticallychallenged,likeher.Andhonestly,wasthereanyplacebetterthanastupidmathclasstoletyourmindwander?

Mr.McCabe,whothoughthewastheChrisRockofalgebra,wasdoinghisdaily stand-up routine. “So, two kids are in the lunch line,when the first kidturns to his friend and says, ‘I have no money!What should I do?’ And hisbuddysays,‘2x+5!’”

Zoelookedupattheclock.Shecountedalongwiththesecondhanduntilitwas9:50onthedotandthenpoppedoutofherseattohandMr.McCabeapass.“Ah, orthodontia,” he read out loud. “Well, make sure he doesn’t wire yourmouth shut,Ms. Patterson. So, the buddy says, ‘2x + 5.’ A binomial. Get it?Buy-no-meal?!”

Zoeheftedherbackpackontohershouldersandwalkedoutoftheclassroom.Shehadtomeethermominfrontoftheschoolatteno’clock-parkingwaskiller,soitwouldbeadrive-bypickup.Mid-class,thehallswerehollowandresonant;it felt like trudging through the belly of awhale. Zoe detoured into themainoffice to signouton thesecretary’sclipboard,and thennearlymoweddownakidinherhurrytogetoutside.

It was warm enough to unzip her jacket and think of summer and soccercampandwhatitwouldbelikewhenherpalateexpanderwasfinallyremoved.Ifyoukissedaguywhodidn’thavebraces,andyoupressedtoohard,couldyoucuthisgums?Something toldZoe that ifyoumadeaguybleed,youprobablywouldn’t be hooking upwith him again.What if he had braces, too, like thatblondkidfromChicagowho’djusttransferredandsatinfrontofherinEnglish(notthatshelikedhimoranything,althoughhehadturnedaroundtohandherbackherhomeworkpaperandheldontoitjustasmidgentoolong…)?Wouldtheygetstucktogetherlikejammedgearsandhavetobetakentotheemergencyroomatthehospital,andhowtotallyhumiliatingwouldthatbe?

Zoeranhertonguealongtheraggedmetalfencepostsinhermouth.Maybeshecouldtemporarilyjoinaconvent.

Shesighedandpeereddowntheblocktoseewhethershecouldmakeouther

mom’sgreenExplorerfromthecongalineofpassingcars.Andjustaboutthen,somethingexploded.

Patricksatataredlightinhisunmarkedpolicecar,waitingtoturnontothehighway. Beside him, on the passenger seat, was a paper bag with a vial ofcocaineinsideit.Thedealerthey’dbustedatthehighschoolhadadmitteditwascocaine,andyetPatrickhadtowastehalfhisdaytakingittothestatelabsothatsomeoneinawhitecoatcouldtellhimwhathealreadyknew.Hefiddledwiththevolumebuttonofthedispatchradiojustintimetohearthefiredepartmentbeing sent to thehigh school for anexplosion.Probably theboiler; the schoolwasoldenoughforitsinternalstructuretobefallingapart.HetriedtorememberwheretheboilerwaslocatedinSterlingHigh,andwonderedifthey’dbeluckyenoughtocomeoutofthatkindofsituationwithoutanyonebeinghurt.

Shotsfired…The light turnedgreen,butPatrickdidn’tmove.Thedischargeofagun in

Sterlingwas rare enough tohavehimnarrowhis attention to thevoiceon thedispatchradio,waitingforanexplanation.

Atthehighschool…SterlingHigh…Thedispatcher’svoicewasgettingfaster,moreintense.Patrickwheeledthe

car in a U-turn and started toward the school with his lights flashing. Othervoicesbegantotransmitinstaticbursts:officersstatingtheirpositionsintown;theon-dutysupervisortryingtocoordinatemanpowerandcallingformutualaidfrom Hanover and Lebanon. Their voices knotted and tangled, blocking oneanothersothateverythingandnothingwasbeingsaidatonce.

Signal1000,thedispatchersaid.Signal1000.InPatrick’sentirecareerasadetective,he’donlyheardthatcalltwice.Once

wasinMaine,whenadeadbeatdadhadtakenanofficerhostage.OncewasinSterling, during a potential bank robbery that turned out to be a false alarm.Signal1000meantthateveryone,immediately,wastogetofftheradioandleaveit free fordispatch. Itmeant thatwhat theyweredealingwithwasnot routinepolicebusiness.

Itmeantlifeordeath.Chaos was a constellation of students, running out of the school and

tramplingtheinjured.Aboyholdingahandmadesigninanupstairswindowthatread help us. Two girls hugging each other and sobbing. Chaos was bloodmeltingpinkonthesnow;itwasthedripofparentsthatturnedintoastreamandthen a raging river, screaming out the names of theirmissing children.ChaoswasaTVcamerainyourface,notenoughambulances,notenoughofficers,andnoplanforhowtoreactwhentheworldasyouknewitwenttopieces.

Patrick pulled halfway onto the sidewalk and grabbed his bulletproof vest

from the back of the car.Already, adrenaline pulsed through him,making theedgesofhisvisionswimandhissensesmoreacute.HefoundChiefO’Rourkestandingwith amegaphone in themiddleof themelee. “Wedon’tknowwhatwe’redealingwithyet,”thechiefsaid.“SOU’sonitsway.”

Patrickdidn’t give adamnabout theSpecialOperationsUnit.By the timetheSWATteamgothere,ahundredmoreshotsmightbefired;akidmightbekilled.Hedrewhisgun.“I’mgoingin.”

“Thehellyouare.That’snotprotocol.”“There is no fuckingprotocol for this,”Patrick snapped. “Youcan fireme

later.”Asheracedup thesteps to theschool,hewasvaguelyawareof twoother

patrolofficersbuckingthechief’scommandsandjoininghiminthefray.Patrickdirected them each down a different hallway, and then he himself pushedthroughthedoubledoors,paststudentswhowereshovingeachotherinanefforttogetoutside.FirealarmsblaredsoloudlythatPatrickhadtostraintohearthegunshots. He grabbed the coat of a boy streaking past him. “Who is it?” heyelled.“Who’sshooting?”

The kid shook his head, speechless, and wrenched away. Patrick watchedhim run crazily down the hallway, open the door, burst into a rectangle ofsunlight.

Students funneled around him, as if he were a stone in a river. Smokebillowed and burned his eyes. Patrick heard another staccato of gunshots, andhadtorestrainhimselffromrunningtowardthemblindly.“Howmanyofthem?”hecriedasagirlranby.

“I…Idon’tknow…”The boy beside her turned around and looked at Patrick, torn between

offeringknowledgeandgettingthehelloutof there.“It’sakid…he’sshootingeveryone…”

That was enough. Patrick pushed against the tide, a salmon swimmingupstream. Homework papers were scattered on the floor; shell casings rolledbeneath theheelsofhis shoes.Ceiling tileshadbeenshotoff, anda finegraydustcoatedthebrokenbodiesthatlaytwistedonthefloor.Patrickignoredallofthis,goingagainstmostofhistraining-runningpastdoorsthatmighthideaperp,disregardingroomsthatshouldhavebeensearched-insteaddrivingforwardwithhisweapondrawnandhisheartbeatingthrougheveryinchofhisskin.Later,hewouldrememberothersightsthathedidn’thavetimetoregisterrightaway:theheatingductcoversthathadbeenpriedloosesothatstudentscouldhideinthecrawlspace;theshoesleftbehindbykidswholiterallyranoutofthem;theeerieprescienceofcrime-sceneoutlinesontheflooroutsidethebiologyclassrooms,

where students had been tracing their own bodies on butcher paper for anassignment.

Heranthroughhallwaysthatseemedtocircleinoneachother.“Where?”hewouldbiteouteverytimehepassedafleeingstudent-hisonlytoolofnavigation.He’dseespraysofblood,andstudentscrumpledontheground,andhedidnotlethimselflooktwice.Hepoundedupthemainstairwell,andjustashereachedthe top, a door cracked open. Patrick whirled, pointing his gun, as a youngfemaleteacherfelltoherkneeswithherhandsraised.Behindthewhiteovalofher face were twelve others, featureless and frightened. Patrick could smellurine.

He lowered his gun and beckoned her toward the staircase. “Go,” hecommanded,buthedidnotstaylongenoughtoseeiftheydid.

Turninga corner,Patrick slippedonbloodandheardanothergunshot, thisone loud enough to ring his ears.He swept into the open double doors of thegymnasium and scanned the handful of sprawled bodies, the basketball cartoverturnedandtheglobesrestingagainstthefarwall-butnoshooter.Heknew,fromtheovertimedetailhe’dtakenonFridaynightstomonitorhighschoolballgames, that he’d reached the far end of Sterling High.Whichmeant that theshooterwaseitherhidingsomewherehereorhaddoubledbackpasthimwhenPatrickhadn’tnoticed…andcouldevennowhavecorneredhiminthisgym.

Patrickspunaroundtotheentranceagaintoseeifthatwasthecase,andthenheardanother shot.He ran toadoor that ledout from thegym,onehehadn’tnoticed in his first quickvisual sweepof the area. Itwas a locker room, tiledwhite on the walls and the floor. He glanced down, saw the fanned spray ofbloodathisfeet,andedgedhisgunaroundthecornerwall.

Twobodieslayunmovingatoneendofthelockerroom.Attheother,closertoPatrick,aslightboycrouchedbesideabankoflockers.Heworewire-rimmedglasses,crookedonhisthinface.Hewasshiveringhard.

“Areyouokay?”Patrickwhispered.Hedidnotwanttospeakoutloudandgiveawayhispositiontotheshooter.

Theboyonlyblinkedathim.“Whereishe?”Patrickmouthed.The boy pulled a pistol from beneath his thigh and held it up to his own

head.A new rush of heat surged through Patrick. “Don’t fucking move,” he

shouted,drawingabeadontheboy.“DropthegunorIwillshootyou.”Sweatbrokeoutdownhisbackandonhisforehead,andhecouldfeelhiscuppedhandsshifting on the butt of the gun as he aimed, determined to lace the kid withbulletsifhehadto.

Patrick let his forefinger brush gently against the trigger just as the boyopenedhisfingerswideasastarfish.Thepistolfelltothefloor,skitteringacrossthetile.

Immediately, he pounced. One of the other officers-whom Patrick hadn’tevennoticedfollowinghim-retrievedtheboy’sweapon.Patrickdroppedthekidonto his stomach and cuffed him, pressing his knee hard into the boy’s spine.“Areyoualone?Who’swithyou?”

“Justme,”theboygroundout.Patrick’sheadwasspinningandhispulsewasamilitarytattoo,buthecould

vaguely hear the other officer calling this information in over the radio:“Sterling,wehaveoneincustody;wedon’thaveknowledgeofanyoneelse.”

Justasseamlesslyasithadstarted,itwasover-atleastasmuchassomethinglikethiscouldbeconsideredover.Patrickdidn’tknowiftherewereboobytrapsor bombs in the school; he didn’t know howmany casualties there were; hedidn’t know how many wounded Dartmouth-Hitchcock Medical Center andAlicePeckDayHospitalcouldtake;hedidn’tknowhowtogoaboutprocessinga crime scene this massive. The target had been taken out, but at whatirreplaceable cost? Patrick’s entire body began to shake, knowing that for somanystudentsandparentsandcitizenstoday,hehadonceagainbeentoolate.

He took a few steps and sank down to his knees,mostly because his legssimplygaveoutfromunderneaththem,andpretendedthatthiswasintentional,thathewantedtocheckoutthetwobodiesattheotherendoftheroom.Hewasvaguelyawareoftheshooterbeingpushedoutofthelockerroombytheotherofficer, to a waiting cruiser downstairs. He didn’t turn to watch the kid go;insteadhefocusedonthebodydirectlyinfrontofhim.

Aboy,dressedinahockeyjersey.Therewasapuddleofbloodunderneathhis side, andagunshotwound throughhis forehead.Patrick reachedout for abaseball cap that had fallen a few feet away, with the words STERLINGHOCKEY embroidered across it. He turned the brim around in his hands, animperfectcircle.

Thegirllyingnexttohimwasfacedown,bloodspreadingfrombeneathhertemple.Shewasbarefoot,andonhertoenailswasbrightpinkpolish-justlikethestuff Tara had put on Patrick. It made his heart catch. This girl, just like hisgoddaughterandherbrotherandamillionotherkidsinthiscountry,hadgottenuptodayandgonetoschoolneverimaginingshewouldbeindanger.Shetrustedallthegrown-upsandteachersandprincipalstokeephersafe.Itwaswhytheseschools,post-9/11,hadteacherswearingIDallthetimeanddoorslockedduringtheday-theenemywasalwayssupposedtobeanoutsider,notthekidwhowassittingrightnexttoyou.

Suddenly,thegirlshifted.“Help…me…”Patrickkneltbesideher.“I’mhere,”hesaid,histouchgentleasheassessed

her condition. “Everything’s all right.” He turned her enough to see that theblood was coming from a cut on her scalp, not a gunshot wound, as he’dassumed.Heranhishandsoverherlimbs.Hekeptmurmuringtoher,wordsthatdidnotalwaysmakesense,butthatletherknowthatshewasn’taloneanymore.“What’syourname,sweetheart?”

“Josie…”Thegirlstartedtothrash,tryingtositup.Patrickputthebulkofhisbodystrategicallybetweenherand theboy’s-she’dbe inshockalready;hedidn’tneedhertogoovertheedge.Shetouchedherhandtoherforehead,andwhenitcameawayoilywithblood,shepanicked.“What…happened?”

Heshouldhavestayedthereandwaitedforthemedicstocomegether.Heshouldhaveradioedforhelp.Butshouldhardlyseemedtoapplyanymore,andsoPatrickliftedJosieintohisarms.Hecarriedheroutofthelockerroomwhereshe’dnearlybeenkilled,hurrieddownthestairs,andpushedthroughthefrontdooroftheschool,asifhemightbeabletosavethemboth.

SeventeenYearsBeforeTherewerefourteenpeoplesittinginfrontofLacy,ifyoucountedthefact

thateachofthesevenwomenattendingthisprenatalclasswaspregnant.Someof them had come equippedwith notebooks and pens, and had spent the pasthourandahalfwritingdownrecommendeddosagesoffolicacid,thenamesofteratogens,andsuggesteddietsforamother-to-be.Twohadturnedgreeninthemiddleofthediscussionofanormalbirthandhadrushedtothebathroomwithmorningsickness-which,ofcourse,stretchedaslongasthewholeday,andwaslikesayingsummertimewhenyoureallymeantallfourseasonsoftheyear.

Shewastired.Onlyaweekbackintoworkafterherownmaternityleave,itseemedpatentlyunfairthatifshewasn’tupallnightwithherownbaby,shehadto be awake delivering someone else’s. Her breasts ached, an uncomfortablereminder that she had to go pump again, so that she’d havemilk to leave thesittertomorrowforPeter.

And yet, she loved her job toomuch to give it up entirely. She’d had thegradestogetintomedicalschool,andhadconsideredbeinganOB/GYN,untilsherealizedthatshehadaprofoundinabilitytositbedsidebyapatientandnotfeel her pain. Doctors put a wall up between themselves and their patients;nursesbroke itdown.Sheswitched intoaprogram thatwouldcertifyherasanurse-midwife,thatencouragedhertotapintotheemotionalhealthofamother-to-be insteadof justhersymptomology.Maybe itmadesomeof thedoctorsatthehospitalconsiderheraflake,butLacytrulybelievedthatwhenyouaskedapatientHowdoyoufeel?,whatwaswrongwasn’tnearlyas importantaswhat

wasright.She reached past the plasticmodel of the growing fetus and lifted a best-

sellingpregnancyguidebookintotheair.“Howmanyofyouhaveseenthisbookbefore?”

Sevenhandslifted.“Okay.Donotbuythisbook.Donotread thisbook. If it’salreadyatyour

house,throwitout.Thisbookwillconvinceyouthatyouaregoingtobleedout,have seizures,dropdead,or anyof ahundredother things thatdonothappenwithnormalpregnancies.Believeme, the rangeofnormal ismuchwider thananythingtheseauthorswilltellyou.”

Sheglanced in theback,whereawomanwasholdingherside.Cramping?Lacythought.Ectopicpregnancy?

Thewomanwasdressedinablacksuit,herhairpulledbackintoaneat,lowponytail.Lacywatchedherpinchherwaist once again, this timepullingoff asmallbeeperattachedtoherskirt.Shegottoherfeet.“I…um,I’msorry.Ihavetogo.”

“Canitwaitafewminutes?”Lacyasked.“We’rejustabouttogoonatourofthebirthingpavilion.”

Thewoman handed her the paperwork she’d been asked to fill out duringthis visit. “I have something more pressing to deal with,” she said, and shehurriedoff.

“Well,”Lacysaid.“Maybethisisagoodtimeforabathroombreak.”Asthesixremainingwomenfiledoutoftheroom,sheglanceddownattheformsinherhand.AlexandraCormier,sheread.Andshethought:I’mgoingtohavetowatchthisone.

The last time Alex had defended Loomis Bronchetti, he had broken intothreehomesandstolenelectronicsequipment,whichhe then tried to fenceonthe streets of Enfield, New Hampshire. Although Loomis was enterprisingenoughtodreamupthisscheme,hefailedtorealizethatinatownassmallasEnfield,hotstereoequipmentmightraisearedflag.

Apparently,Loomishadescalatedhiscriminalrésumélastnightwhenheandtwofriendsdecidedtogoafteradrugdealerwhodidn’tbringthemenoughpot.Theygothigh,hog-tiedtheguy,andthrewhiminthetrunk.Loomiswhacked the dealer over the head with a baseball bat, cracking his skull andsending him into convulsions. When he started choking on his own blood,Loomisturnedhimoversothathecouldbreathe.

“Ican’tbelievethey’rechargingmewithassault,”LoomistoldAlexthroughthebarsoftheholdingcell.“Isavedtheguy’slife.”

“Well,”Alexsaid.“Wemighthavebeenabletousethat-ifyouhadn’tbeen

theonewhoinflictedtheinjuryinthefirstplace.”“Yougottapleadmeoutforlessthanayear.Idon’twanttogetsentdownto

theprisoninConcord…”“Youcouldhavebeenchargedwithattemptedmurder,youknow.”Loomisscowled.“Iwasdoingthecopsafavor,gettingalowlifelikethatoff

thestreets.”The same, Alex knew, could be said for Loomis Bronchetti, if he was

convictedandsenttothestateprison.ButherjobwasnotaboutjudgingLoomis.Itwasaboutworkinghard,inspiteofherpersonalopinionsaboutaclient.Itwasabout showingone face toLoomis, andknowing shehadanotheronemaskedaway.ItwasaboutnotlettingherfeelingsinterferewithherabilitytogetLoomisBronchettiacquitted.

“LetmeseewhatIcando,”shesaid.Lacyunderstoodthatallinfantsweredifferent-tinylittlecreatureswiththeir

ownquirksandhabitsandpeevesanddesires.Butsomehow,she’dexpectedthatthis second foray intomotherhoodwouldproducea child likeher first-Joey, agoldenboywhowouldmakepassersbyturntheirheads,stopherasshepushedthestrollertotellherwhatabeautifulchildshehad.Peterwasjustasbeautiful,buthewasdefinitelyamorechallengingbaby.He’dcry,colicky,andhavetobesoothedbyputtinghiscarseatonthevibratingclothesdryer.He’dbenursing,andsuddenlyarchawayfromher.

Itwastwointhemorning,andLacywastryingtogetPetertosettlebacktosleep.UnlikeJoey,whofellintoslumberliketakingagiantstepoffacliff,Peterfought it every step of theway. She patted his back and rubbed small circlesbetweenhistinyshoulderbladesashehiccupedandwailed.Frankly,shefeltlikedoingthat, too.Forthepasttwohours,she’dwatchedthesameinfomercialonGinsuknives.Shehadcountedthetickingstripesontheelephantinearmofthesofauntiltheyblurred.Shewassoexhaustedthateverythingached.“What’sthematter,littleman,”shesighed.“WhatcanIdotomakeyouhappy?”

Happiness was relative, according to her husband. Although most peoplelaughedwhenLacytoldthemherhusband’sjobinvolvedputtingapriceonjoy,itwassimplywhateconomistsdid-findvaluefortheintangiblesinlife.Lewis’scolleagues at Sterling College had presented papers on the relative push aneducation could provide, or universal health care, or job satisfaction. Lewis’sdisciplinewasnolessimportant,ifunorthodox.ItmadehimapopularguestonNPR,onLarryKing,atcorporateseminars-somehow,numbercrunchingseemedsexierwhenyoubegantalkingaboutthedollaramountabellylaughwasworth,oradumbblondejoke,forthatmatter.Regularsex,forexample,wasequivalent(happinesswise) to getting a $50,000 raise. However, getting a $50,000 raise

wouldn’tbenearlyasexcitingifeveryoneelsewasgettinga$50,000raise,too.Bythesametoken,whatmadeyouhappyoncemightnotmakeyouhappynow.Fiveyearsago,Lacywouldhavegivenanythingforadozenrosesbroughthomebyherhusband;now,ifheofferedherthechancetotakeaten-minutenap,shewouldfalltothegroundinparoxysmsofdelight.

Statistics aside, Lewis would go down in history as being the economistwho’dconceivedamathematicalformulaforhappiness:R/E,or,Realitydividedby Expectations. There were two ways to be happy: improve your reality, orloweryourexpectations.Once,ataneighborhooddinnerparty,Lacyhadaskedhimwhathappenedifyouhadnoexpectations.Youcouldn’tdividebyzero.Didthatmeanifyoujustletyourselfrollwithalloflife’spunches,youcouldneverbehappy?In thecar later thatnight,Lewishadaccusedherof trying tomakehimlookbad.

Lacydidn’tliketoletherselfconsiderwhetherLewisandtheirfamilyweretruly happy. You’d think the man who designed the formula would havehappiness figuredout,but somehow, itdidn’twork thatway.Sometimesshe’drecallthatoldadage-theshoemaker’ssonsgobarefoot-andshe’dwonder,Whatabout thechildrenof themanwhoknows thevalueofhappiness?Thesedays,whenLewiswaslateattheoffice,workingonanotherpublicationdeadline,andLacywassoexhaustedshecouldfallasleepstandingupinthehospitalelevator,she tried toconvinceherself itwas simplyaphase theywere stuck in: ababybootcampthatwouldsurelytransformonedayintocontentmentandsatisfactionand togetherness and all the other parameters Lewis plotted on his computerprograms.Afterall,shehadahusbandwholovedherandtwohealthyboysandafulfillingcareer.Wasn’tgettingwhatyouwantedallalongtheverydefinitionofbeinghappy?

Sherealizedthat-miracleofmiracles-Peterhadfallenasleeponhershoulder,the sweet peach of his cheek pressed against her bare skin. Tiptoeing up thestairs,shegentlysettledhimintohiscribandthenglancedacrosstheroomatthebedwhereJoey lay.Themoonfawnedoverhimlikeadisciple.ShewonderedwhatPeterwouldbelikewhenhewasJoey’sage.Shewonderedifyoucouldgetthatluckytwice.

Alex Cormier was younger than Lacy had thought. Twenty-four, but shecarriedherselfwithenoughconfidencetomakepeople thinkshewasadecadeolder.“So,”Lacysaid, introducingherself. “Howdid thatpressingmatter turnout?”

Alex blinked at her, then remembered: the birthing pavilion tour she hadslippedawayfromaweekago.“Itwaspleabargained.”

“You’realawyer,then?”Lacysaid,glancingupfromhernotes.

“Apublicdefender.”Alex’s chin cameupanotch, as if shewas ready forLacytomakeadeprecatingcommentaboutheraffiliationwiththebadguys.

“Thatmustbeawfullydemandingwork,”Lacysaid.“Doesyourofficeknowyou’repregnant?”

Alexshookherhead.“It’snotanissue,”shesaidflatly.“Iwon’tbetakingamaternityleave.”

“Youmightchangeyourmindas-”“I’mnotkeepingthisbaby,”Alexannounced.Lacysatbackinherchair.“Allright.”Itwasnotherplacetojudgeamother

forthedecisiontogiveupachild.“Wecantalkaboutdifferentoptions, then,”Lacy said. At eleven weeks, Alex could still terminate the pregnancy if shewished.

“Iwasgoingtohaveanabortion,”Alexsaid,asifshe’dreadLacy’smind.“ButImissedmyappointment.”Sheglancedup.“Twice.”

Lacyknewyoucouldbesolidlypro-choicebutunwillingorunabletomakethatdecisionforyourself-that’sexactlywherethechoicepartkickedin.“Well,then,” she said, “I can give you information about adoption, if you haven’talreadycontactedanyagenciesyourself.”Shereachedintoadrawerandpulledoutfolders-adoptionagenciesaffiliatedwithavarietyofreligions,attorneyswhospecialized inprivateadoptions.Alex took thepamphletsandheld themlikeahand of playing cards. “For now, though, we can just focus on you and howyou’redoing.”

“I’m great,” Alex answered smoothly. “I’m not sick, I’m not tired.” Shelookedatherwatch.“Iam,however,goingtobelateforanappointment.”

Lacy could tell thatAlexwas a coper-someonewhowas used to being incontrol inallfacetsofher life.“It’sokaytoslowdownwhenyou’repregnant.Yourbodymightneedthat.”

“Iknowhowtotakecareofmyself.”“Whataboutlettingsomeoneelsedoitonceinawhile?”A shadow of irritation crossed over Alex’s face. “Look, I don’t need a

therapysession.Honestly.Iappreciatetheconcern,but-”“Doesyourpartnersupportyourdecisiontogivethebabyup?”Lacyasked.Alex turnedher faceaway foramoment.BeforeLacycould find the right

wordstodrawherback,however,Alexdiditherself.“Thereisnopartner,”shesaidcoolly.

ThelasttimeAlex’sbodyhadtakenover,haddonewhathermindtoldhernottodo,shehadconceivedthisbaby.Ithadstartedinnocentlyenough-LoganRourke,hertrialadvocacyprofessor,callingherintohisofficetotellherthatshecommandedthecourtroomwithcompetence;Logansayingthatnojurorwould

be able to take his eyes off her-and that neither could he. Alex had thoughtLogan was Clarence Darrow and F. Lee Bailey and God rolled up into one.Prestigeandpowercouldmakeamansoattractiveittookone’sbreathaway;itturnedLoganintowhatshe’dbeenlookingforherwholelife.

Shebelievedhimwhenhetoldherhehadn’tseenastudentwithasquickamindasAlexinhistenyearsofteaching.Shebelievedhimwhenhetoldherthathismarriagewasoverinallbutname.Andshebelievedhimthenighthedroveherhomefromthecampus,framedherfacebetweenhishands,andtoldhershewasthereasonhegotupinthemorning.

Lawwasastudyofdetailandfact,notemotion.Alex’scardinalmistakehadbeen forgetting thiswhen shebecame involvedwithLogan.She foundherselfpostponing plans, waiting for his call, which sometimes came and sometimesdidn’t. She pretended that she did not see him flirtingwith the first-year lawstudentswholookedathimthewaysheusedto.Andwhenshegotpregnant,sheconvincedherselfthattheyweremeanttospendtherestoftheirlivestogether.

Logan had told her to get rid of it. She’d scheduled an abortion, only toforgettowritethedateandtimeonhercalendar.Sherescheduled,butrealizedtoolatethatherappointmentconflictedwithafinalexam.Afterthat,she’dgonetoLogan.It’sasign,she’dsaid.

Maybe,hetoldher,butitdoesn’tmeanwhatyou’rethinking.Bereasonable,Logan had said.A singlemotherwill nevermake it as a trial attorney. She’dhavetochoosebetweenhercareerandthisbaby.

Whathereallymeantwasthatshe’dhavetochoosebetweenhavingthebabyandhavinghim.

Thewomanlookedfamiliarfrombehind,inthatwaythatpeoplesometimesdowhenyouseethemoutofcontext:yourgroceryclerkstandinginlineatthebank,yourpostmansittingacrosstheaisleofthemovietheater.Alexstaredforanothersecond,andthenrealizeditwastheinfantthrowingheroff.Shestrodeacross the hallway of the courthouse toward the town clerk, where LacyHoughtonstoodpayingaparkingticket.

“Needalawyer?”Alexasked.Lacylookedup,thebabycarrierbalancedinthecrookofherarm.Ittooka

moment to place the face-she hadn’t seenAlex since her initial visit nearly amonthago.“Oh,hello!”shesaid,smiling.

“Whatbringsyoutomyneckofthewoods?”“Oh, I’mpostingbail formyex…”Lacywaited forAlex’seyes towiden,

andthenlaughed.“Justkidding.Igotaparkingticket.”Alexfoundherself staringdownat the faceofLacy’sson.Heworeablue

cap that tiedunderneathhis chin, andhis cheeks spilledover the edgesof the

fleece. He had a runny nose, and when he noticed Alex looking at him, heofferedheracavernoussmile.

“Wouldyouliketograbacupofcoffee?”Lacysaid.Sheslappedtendollarsdownontopofherparkingticketandfeditthrough

the open mouth of the payment window, then hefted the baby bucket a littlehigher into the crook of her arm and walked out of the court building to aDunkin’Donutsacrossthestreet.Lacystoppedtogiveaten-dollarbilltoabumsittingoutsidethecourthouse,andAlexrolledhereyes-she’dactuallyseenthisparticularfellowheadingovertotheclosestbaryesterdaywhensheleftwork.

Inthecoffeeshop,AlexwatchedLacyeffortlesslyunpeellayersofclothingfromherbabyandlifthimoutofhisseatontoherlap.Asshetalked,shedrapedablanketoverhershoulderandstartedtonursePeter.“Isithard?”Alexblurtedout.

“Nursing?”“Notjustthat,”Alexsaid.“Everything.”“It’sdefinitelyanacquiredskill.”Lacyliftedthebabyontohershoulder.His

bootedfeetkickedagainstherchest,asifhewasalreadytryingtoputdistancebetween them.“Compared toyourday job,motherhood isprobablyapieceofcake.”

ItmadeAlexthink,immediately,ofLoganRourke,whohadlaughedatherwhenshesaidshewastakingajobwiththepublicdefender’soffice.Youwon’tlastaweek,he’dtoldher.You’retoosoftforthat.

ShesometimeswonderedifshewasagoodpublicdefenderbecauseofskillorbecauseshehadbeensodeterminedtoshowLoganthathewaswrong.Inanycase, Alex had cultivated a persona on the job, one that was there to giveoffendersanequalvoiceinthelegalsystem,withoutlettingclientsgetunderherskin.

She’dalreadymadethatmistakewithLogan.“Didyougetachancetocontactanyoftheadoptionagencies?”Lacyasked.Alexhadnoteventakenthepamphletsshe’dbeengiven.Forallsheknew,

theywerestillsittingonthecounteroftheexaminationroom.“Iputinafewcalls,”Alexlied.ShehaditonherToDolistatwork.Itwas

justthatsomethingelsealwaysgotintheway.“CanIaskyouapersonalquestion?”Lacysaid,andAlexnoddedslowly-she

didnotlikepersonalquestions.“Whatmadeyoudecidetogivethebabyup?”Hadsheeverreallymadethatdecision?Orhaditbeenmadeforher?“Thisisn’tagoodtime,”Alexsaid.Lacylaughed.“Idon’tknowifit’severagoodtimetohaveababy.Yourlife

certainlygetsturnedupsidedown.”

Alexstaredather.“Ilikemyliferightsideup.”Lacyfussedwithherbaby’sshirtforamoment.“Inaway,whatyouandIdo

isn’treallyallthatdifferent.”“Therecidivismrateisprobablyaboutthesame,”Alexsaid.“No…Imeantthatwebothseepeoplewhenthey’reattheirmostraw.That’s

what I loveaboutmidwifery.Youseehowstrongsomeone is, in the faceofareallypainful situation.”Sheglancedup atAlex. “Isn’t it amazinghow,whenyoustripawayeverything,peoplearesomuchalike?”

Alex thought of the defendants that had paraded through her professionallife.Theyallblurredtogetherinhermind.Butwasthatbecause,asLacysaid,wewereallsimilar?OrwasitbecauseAlexhadbecomeanexpertatnotlookingtooclosely?

ShewatchedLacysettlethebabyonherknee.Hishandssmackedthetable,andhemadelittlegurglingnoises.SuddenlyLacystoodup, thrustingthebabytowardAlex so that she had to hold him or risk having him tumble onto thefloor.“Here,hangontoPeter.Ijusthavetorunintothebathroom.”

Alexpanicked.Wait,shethought.Idon’tknowwhatI’mdoing.Thebaby’slegskicked,likeacartooncharacterwho’drunoffacliff.

Awkwardly,Alexsathimdownonherlap.Hewasheavierthanshewouldhave imagined, and his skin felt like damp velvet. “Peter,” she said formally.“I’mAlex.”

Thebabyreachedforhercoffeecup,andshelurchedforwardtopushitoutofreach.Peter’sfacepinchedtightasalime,andhestartedtocry.

Thescreamswereshattering,decibel-rich,cataclysmic.“Stop,”Alexbegged,aspeoplearoundherstartedtostare.Shestoodup,pattingPeter’sbackthewayLacyhad,wishinghewouldrunoutofsteamorcontractlaryngitisorjustsimplyhavemercy on her utter inexperience.Alex-who always had the perfectwittycomeback,who could be thrown into a hellish legal situation and land on herfeeteverytimewithoutevenbreakingasweat-foundherselfcompletelyataloss.

She sat down and held Peter beneath his armpits. By now, he’d turnedtomato-red, his skin so angry and dark that his soft fuzz of hair glowed likeplatinum.“Listen,”shesaid.“Imaynotbewhatyouwantrightnow,butI’mallyou’vegot.”

Onafinalhiccup,thebabyquieted.HestaredintoAlex’seyes,asifhewastryingtoplaceher.

Relieved,Alexsettledhimintotheslingofherarmandsatalittletaller.Sheglanceddownatthetopofthebaby’shead,atthetranslucentpulsebeneathhisfontanelle.

Whensherelaxedhergriponthebaby,herelaxed,too.Wasitthateasy?

Alex traced her finger over the soft spot on Peter’s head. She knew thebiology behind it: the plates of the skull shifted enough tomake giving birtheasier; they fused together by the time the baby was a toddler. It was avulnerability we were all born with, one that literally grew into an adult’shardheadedness.

“Sorry,”Lacysaid,breezingbacktothetable.“Thanksforthat.”Alexthrustthebabyouttowardherasifshewerebeingburned.The patient had been transferred from a thirty-hour home birth. A firm

believer in natural medicine, she’d had limited prenatal care, no amnio, nosonograms,andyetnewbornshadawayofgettingwhattheywantedandneededwhen itcame time toarrive in theworld.Lacy laidherhandson thewoman’stremblingbellylikeafaithhealer.Sixpounds,shethought,bottomuphere,headdownhere.Adoctorpokedhisheadthroughthedoor.“How’sitgoinginhere?”

“Tell the intensive-care nurserywe’re at thirty-fiveweeks,” she said, “buteverything seems to be fine.” As the doctor backed away, she settled herselfbetweenthewoman’slegs.“Iknowthishasbeengoingonforwhatseemslikeforever,”shesaid.“Butifyoucanworkwithmeforjustonemorehour,you’llhavethisbaby.”

As she directed thewoman’s husband to get behind his wife, holding heruprightasshebegantopush,Lacyfeltherpagervibrateatthewaistlineofhersea-bluescrubs.Whothehellcoulditbe?Shewasalreadyoncall;hersecretaryknewshewasassistingatabirth.

“Willyouexcuseme?”shesaid,leavingthelabornurseintheroomtofillinwhileshewalkedtothenurses’deskandborrowedatelephone.“What’sgoingon?”Lacyaskedwhenhersecretarypickedup.

“Oneofyourpatients,insistingtoseeyou.”“I’malittlebusy,”Lacysaidpointedly.“Shesaidshe’llwait.Forhoweverlongittakes.”“Whoisit?”“AlexCormier,”thesecretaryreplied.Normally,Lacywouldhavetoldhersecretarytohavethepatientseeoneof

theothermidwives in thepractice.But therewasstill somethingelusiveaboutAlexCormier, somethingshecouldn’tputher fingeron-something thatwasn’tquiteright.“Allright,”Lacysaid.“Buttellheritmightbehours.”

Shehungup thephoneandhurriedback into thebirthingroom,whereshereached between the patient’s legs to check her dilation. “Apparently, all youneededwasformetoleave,”shejoked.“You’retencentimeters.Thenexttimeyoufeellikepushing…gototown.”

Tenminutes later, Lacy delivered a three-pound baby girl. As the parents

marveledoverher,Lacyturnedtothelabornurse,silentlycommunicatingwithhereyes.Somethinghadgoneterriblywrong.

“She’ssotiny,”thefathersaid.“Isthere…issheokay?”Lacy hesitated, because she didn’t really know the answer.A fibroid? she

wondered.All she knew for certainwas that therewas a lotmore inside thatwoman than a three-pound infant.And that anymoment now, her patientwasgoingtostarttobleed.

ButwhenLacyreacheduptograbthepatient’sbellyandpressdownonheruterus,shefroze.“Didanyonetellyouyouwerehavingtwins?”

Thefatherwentashen.“There’stwointhere?”Lacy grinned. Twins, she could handle. Twins-well, thatwas a bonus, not

somehorriblemedicaldisaster.“Well.Onlyonenow.”Themancroucheddownbesidehiswifeandkissedherforehead,delighted.

“Didyouhearthat,Terri?Twins.”Hiswifedidnottakehereyesoffhertinynewborndaughter.“That’snice,”

shesaidcalmly.“ButI’mnotpushingasecondoneout.”Lacylaughed.“Oh,IthinkImightbeabletogetyoutochangeyourmind.”Fortyminuteslater,Lacyleftthehappyfamily-withtheirtwindaughters-and

headeddownthehallwaytothestaffrestroom,whereshesplashedwateronherface and changed into a fresh pair of scrubs. She took the stairs up to themidwiferyofficeandglancedatthecollectionofwomen,sittingwiththeirarmsbalanced on bellies of all sizes, likemoons in different stages.One rose, red-eyed and unsteady, as if she’d been pulled upright magnetically by Lacy’sarrival.“Alex,”shesaid,rememberingonlyinthatinstantthatshehadanotherpatientwaiting.“Whydon’tyoucomewithme.”

SheledAlexintoanemptyexaminationroomandsatdownacrossfromherinachair.AtthatmomentLacynoticedthatAlex’ssweaterwasonbackward.Itwas a pale blue crewneck-you could barely even tell, except that the tag hadflapped out along the curve of her neck. And it was certainly something thatmight happen to anyone in a rush, anyone upset…but probably not AlexCormier.

“There’s been bleeding,” Alex said, her voice even. “Not a lot, but. Um.Some.”

Taking a cue fromAlex herself, Lacy kept her own response calm. “Whydon’twecheckanyway?”

LacyledAlexdownthehallwaytofetalultrasound.Shecharmedatechintolettingthemcutthepatientline,andonceshehadAlexlyingdownonthetable,sheturnedonthemachine.ShemovedthetransduceracrossAlex’sabdomen.Atsixteenweeks,thefetuslookedlikeababy-tiny,skeletal,butstartlinglyperfect.

“Doyouseethat?”Lacyasked,pointingtoablinkingcursor,atinyblack-and-whitedrumbeat.“That’sthebaby’sheart.”

Alexturnedherfaceaway,butnotbeforeLacysawatearstreakdownhercheek. “The baby’s fine,” she said. “And it’s perfectly normal to have somestainingorspotting.It’snotanythingyoudidthatcausedit;there’snothingyoucandotomakeitstop.”

“IthoughtIwashavingamiscarriage.”“Onceyouseeanormalbaby,likewejustdid,thechanceofmiscarryingis

less than one percent. Letme put that anotherway-your chance of carrying anormalbabytotermisninety-ninepercent.”

Alexnodded,wipingathereyeswithhersleeve.“Good.”Lacyhesitated.“It’snotmyplace tosay this, really.But for someonewho

doesn’twantthisbaby,Alex,youseemawfullyrelievedtoknowshe’sallright.”“Idon’t-Ican’t-”Lacy glanced at the ultrasound screen,whereAlex’s babywas frozen in a

momentoftime.“Justthinkaboutit,”shesaid.Ialreadyhaveafamily,LoganRourkesaidlaterthatdaywhenAlextoldhim

sheplannedtokeepthebaby.Idon’tneedanotherone.Thatnight,Alexhadanexorcismofsorts.ShefilledupherWebergrillwith

charcoaland lita fire, then roastedeveryassignmentshe’d turned in toLoganRourke.Shehadnophotosofthetwoofthem,nosweetnotes-inretrospect,sherealizedhowcarefulhe’dbeen,howeasilyhecouldbeerasedfromherlife.

Thisbaby,shedecided,wouldbehersalone.Shesat,watching theflames,and thoughtof thespace itwould takeup insideher.She imaginedherorgansmovingaside,skinstretching.Shepicturedherheartshrinking,tinyasabeachstone,tomakeroom.Shedidnotconsiderwhethershewashavingthisbabytoprovethatshehadn’timaginedherrelationshipwithLoganRourke,ortoupsethimasmuchashehadupsether.Asanyskilledtrialattorneyknows,youneveraskthewitnessaquestiontowhichyoudonotknowtheanswer.

Fiveweekslater,LacywasnolongerjustAlex’smidwife.Shewasalsoherconfidante,herbestfriend,hersoundingboard.AlthoughLacydidn’tnormallysocializewithherclients,forAlexshe’dbrokentherules.ShetoldherselfitwasbecauseAlex-whohadnowdecided tokeep this baby-reallyneeded a supportsystem,andtherewasn’tanyoneelseshefeltcomfortablewith.

It was the only reason, Lacy decided, she’d agreed to go out with Alex’scolleaguesthisevening.EventheprospectofaGirls’NightOut,withoutbabies,lostitslusterinthiscompany.Lacyshouldhaverealizedtwoback-to-backrootcanalswouldhavebeenpreferabletodinnerwithabunchoflawyers.Theyallliked to hear themselves talk, that was clear. She let the conversation flow

aroundher,asifshewereastoneinariver,andshekeptrefillingherwineglasswithCokefromapitcher.

The restaurantwas some Italian placewith very bad red sauce and a chefwhowentheavyon thegarlic.Shewondered if, in Italy, therewereAmericanrestaurants.

Alexwasinthemiddleofaheateddiscussionaboutsometrialthathadgonetojury.Lacyheardtermsbeingtossedandfieldedaroundthetable:FLSA,Singhv.Jutla,incentives.AfloridwomansittingtoLacy’srightshookherhead.“It’ssending amessage,” she said. “If you award damages for work that’s illegal,you’resanctioningacompanytobeabovethelaw.”

Alexlaughed.“Sita,I’mjustgoingto takethismoment toremindyouthatyou’retheonlyprosecutoratthetableandthere’snowayinhellyou’regoingtowinthisone.”

“We’re all biased. We need an objective observer.” Sita smiled at Lacy.“What’syouropiniononaliens?”

Maybesheshouldhavepaidmoreattentiontotheconversation-apparentlyithad takena turn for the interestingwhileLacywaswoolgathering. “Well, I’mcertainlynotanexpert,butIdidfinishabookalittlewhileagoaboutArea51and the cover-up by the government. It went into specific detail about cattlemutilation-IfinditverysuspiciouswhenacowinNevadawindsupmissingitskidneysandtheincisiondoesn’tshowanytraumatotissueorbloodloss.IhadacatoncethatIthinkwasabductedbyaliens.Shewentmissingforexactlyfourweeks-totheminute-andwhenshecameback,shehadtrianglepatternsburnedout on the fur on her back, sort of like a crop circle.” Lacy hesitated. “Butwithoutthewheat.”

Everyone at the table stared at her, silent. A woman with a pinhole of amouth and a sleek blond bob blinked at Lacy. “Wewere talking about illegalaliens.”

Lacyfeltheatcreepupherneck.“Oh,”shesaid.“Right.”“Well, if you askme,” Alex said, drawing attention in her own direction,

“LacyoughttobeheadinguptheDepartmentofLaborinsteadofElaineChao.She’scertainlygotmoreexperience…”

Everyonebrokeupinlaughter,asLacywatched.Alex,sherealized,couldfitanywhere.Here,orwithLacy’sfamilyatdinner,orinacourtroom,orprobablyatteawiththequeen.Shewasachameleon.

ItstruckLacythatshedidn’treallyknowwhatcolorachameleonwasbeforeitstartedchanging.

TherewasamomentateachprenatalexamwhenLacychanneledherinnerfaithhealer: layingherhandson thepatient’sbellyanddivining, just fromthe

layoftheland,inwhichdirectionthebabylay.ItalwaysremindedherofthoseHalloween funhouses she took Joey to visit-you’d stick your hand behind acurtainandfeelabowlofcoldspaghettiintestines,oragelatinbrain.Itwasn’tanexactscience,butbasically,thereweretwohardpartsonafetus:theheadandthebottom.Ifyourockedthebaby’shead,itwouldtwistonthestemofitsspine.If you rocked the baby’s bottom, it swayed.Moving the headmovedonly thehead;movingthebottommovedthewholebaby.

SheletherhandstrailovertheislandofAlex’sbellyandhelpedhersitup.“Thegoodnewsisthatthebaby’sdoingfine,”Lacysaid.“Thebadnewsisthatrightnow,she’supsidedown.Breech.”

Alexfroze.“I’mgoingtoneedaC-section?”“We’vegoteightweeksbeforeitcomestothat.There’salotwecandototry

toturnthebabybeforehand.”“Likewhat?”“Moxibustion.”ShesatdownacrossfromLacy.“I’llgiveyouthenameof

anacupuncturist.She’lltakealittlestickofmugwortandholdituptoyourlittlepinky. She’ll do the same thing on the other side. It won’t hurt, but it’ll beuncomfortablywarm.Once you learn how to do it at home, if you start nowchancesarefairlygoodthatthebabywillturninonetotwoweeks’time.”

“Pokingmyselfwithastickisgoingtomakeitflip?”“Well,notnecessarily.That’swhyIalsowantyoutosetanironingboardup

against thecouch, tomakeaninclinedplane.Youshouldlieonit,headdown,threetimesadayforfifteenminutes.”

“Jeez,Lacy.Areyousureyoudon’twantmetowearacrystal,too?”“Believeme,anyofthoseareconsiderablymorecomfortablethanhavinga

doctordoaversiontoturnthebaby…orrecuperatingfromaC-section.”Alexfoldedherhandsoverherbelly.“Idon’tholdmuchfaithinoldwives’

tales.”Lacyshrugged.“Luckily,you’renottheonewho’sbreech.”You weren’t supposed to give your clients rides to court, but in Nadya

Saranoff’scase,Alexhadmadeanexception.Nadya’shusbandhadbeenabusiveandhadleftherforanotherwoman.Hewouldn’tpaychildsupportfortheirtwoboys,althoughhewasmakingadecentlivingandNadya’sjobatSubwaypaid$5.25 an hour. She’d complained to the state, but justiceworked too slow, soshe’dgonetoWal-Martandshopliftedapairofpantsandawhiteshirtforherfive-year-old, who was starting school the following week and who hadoutgrownallofhisclothing.

Nadyahadpledguilty.Becauseshecouldn’taffordafine,shewasgivenathirty-day jail sentence deferred-which, as Alex was explaining to her now,

meant that shewouldn’thave togo forayear.“Ifyougo to jail,” shesaid,astheystoodoutside the ladies’ room in thecourthouse,“yourboysaregoing tosuffer greatly. I knowyou felt desperate, but there’s always another option.Achurch.OraSalvationArmy.”

Nadyawipedhereyes.“Icouldn’tgettothechurchortheSalvationArmy.Ihaven’tgotacar.”

Right.ItwaswhyAlexhadbroughthertocourtinthefirstplace.Alex steeledherself against sympathyasNadyaducked into thebathroom.

HerjobhadbeentogetNadyaagooddeal,whichshehad,consideringthiswasthewoman’ssecondshopliftingoffense.Thefirstonehadbeenatadrugstore;she’dpinchedsomeChildren’sTylenol.

Shethoughtofherownbaby,theonewhohadherlyingupsidedownonanironingboardandsticking torturous littledaggersagainstherpinky toeseverynight, in the hopes that it would change position. What sort of disadvantagewoulditbetocomeintothisworldbackward?

WhentenminuteshadpassedandNadyahadnotcomeoutofthebathroom,Alexknockedonthedoor.“Nadya?”Shefoundherclientinfrontofthesinks,sobbing.“Nadya,what’swrong?”

Her client ducked her head, mortified. “I just got my period, and I can’taffordatampon.”

Alexreachedforherpurse,rummagingforaquartertofeedtothedispenseron the wall. But as the cardboard tube rolled out of the machine, somethinginsidehersnapped,andsheunderstoodthatalthoughthiscasehadbeensettled,itwasn’toveryet.“Meetmeoutfront,”sheordered.“I’mgettingthecar.”

She drove Nadya to Wal-Mart-the scene of her crime-and tossed threesupersizedTampaxboxesintoacart.“Whatelsedoyouneed?”

“Underwear,”Nadyawhispered.“Thatwasmylastpair.”Alexwheeledupanddowntheaisles,buyingT-shirtsandsocksandpanties

andpajamasforNadya;pantsandcoatsandhatsandglovesforherboys;boxesofGoldfish crackers and saltines and canned soup and pasta andDevilDogs.Desperate,shedidwhatshehad todoat thatmoment,although itwasexactlywhat the public defender’s office counseled their lawyers not to; but shewasentirely rational andaware that shehadneverdone this for a client andneverwould do it again. She spent eight hundred dollars in the very store that hadpressedchargesagainstNadya,becauseitwaseasiertofixwhatwaswrongthantopictureherownchildarrivingintoaworldAlexherselfcouldsometimesnotstomach.

ThecatharsisendedthemomentAlexhandedthecashierhercreditcardandheardLoganRourke’svoiceinhermind.Bleedingheart,he’dcalledher.

Well.Heshouldknow.He’dbeenthefirsttoripittopieces.Allright,Alexthoughtcalmly.Thisiswhatit’sliketodie.Anothercontractionrippedthroughher,bulletsstrafingmetal.Twoweeks ago, at her thirty-seven-week visit, Alex and Lacy had talked

about painmedication.What are your feelings about it? Lacy had asked, andAlexhadmade a joke: I think it shouldbe imported fromCanada.She’d toldLacyshedidn’tplantousepainmedication,thatshewantedanaturalchildbirth,thatitcouldn’tpossiblyhurtthatmuch.

Itdid.ShethoughtbacktoallthosebirthingclassesLacyhadforcedhertotake-the

ones where she’d been partnered with Lacy, because everyone else had ahusbandorboyfriendassistingthem.They’dshownpicturesofwomeninlabor,women with their rubbery faces and gritted teeth, women making prehistoricnoises. Alex had scoffed at this. They are showing the worst-case scenarios,she’dtoldherself.Differentpeoplehavedifferenttoleranceforpain.

The next contraction twisted down her spine like a cobra, wrapped itselfaroundherbelly,andsankitsfangs.Alexfellhardonherkneesonthekitchenfloor.

Inher classes, she’d learned thatprelabor couldgoon for twelvehoursormore.

Bythen,ifshewasn’tdead,she’dshootherself.When Lacy had been a midwife in training, she’d spent months walking

aroundwithalittlecentimeterruler,measuring.Now,afteryearsonthejob,shecouldeyeballacoffeecupandknowthatitwasninecentimetersacross,thattheorangebeside thephoneat thenurses’ stationwas an eight.ShewithdrewherfingersfrombetweenAlex’slegsandsnappedoff thelatexglove.“You’retwocentimeters,”shesaid,andAlexburstintotears.

“Onlytwo?Ican’tdothis,”Alexpanted,twistingherspinetogetawayfromthepain.Shehad tried tohide thediscomfort behind themaskof competencethat she usually wore, only to realize that in her hurry, she must have left itbehindsomewhere.

“Iknowyou’redisappointed,”Lacysaid.“Buthere’sthething-you’redoingfine.Weknowthatwhenpeoplearefineattwocentimeterstheywillbefineateight,too.Let’stakeitonecontractionatatime.”

Laborwashardforeveryone,Lacyknew,butespeciallyhardforthewomenwho had expectations and lists and plans, because it was never the way youthoughtitwouldbe.Inordertolaborwell,youhadtoletyourbodytakeover,insteadof yourmind.You revealedyourself, even theparts youhad forgotten

about.ForsomeonelikeAlex,whowassousedtobeingincontrol,thiscouldbedevastating.Successwouldcomeonlyat theexpenseof losinghercool,at theriskofturningintosomeoneshedidnotwanttobe.

LacyhelpedAlexoffthebedandguidedhertowardthewhirlpoolroom.Shedimmed the lights, flicked on the instrumentalmusic, and untiedAlex’s robe.Alexwaspastthepointofmodesty;atthismoment,Lacyfiguredshe’ddisrobein frontof anentiremaleprisonpopulation if itmeant thecontractionswouldstop.

“In you go,” Lacy said, letting Alex lean on her as she sank into thewhirlpool. There was a Pavlovian response to warm water; sometimes juststeppingintothetubcouldbringdownaperson’sheartrate.

“Lacy,”Alexgasped,“youhavetopromise…”“Promisewhat?”“Youwon’ttellher.Thebaby.”LacyreachedforAlex’shand.“Tellherwhat?”Alexclosedhereyesandpressedhercheekagainstthelipofthetub.“That

atfirstIdidn’twanther.”Before she could even answer, Lacy watched tension grip Alex. “Breathe

throughthisone,”shesaid.Blowthepainawayfromyou,blowitbetweenyourhands, picture it as the color red. Come up on your hands and knees. Pouryourself inward, like sand in an hourglass.Go to the beach,Alex. Lie on thesandandseehowwarmthesunis.

Lietoyourselfuntilit’strue.Whenyou’rehurtingdeeply,yougoinward.Lacyhadseenthisathousand

times.Endorphinskickin-thebody’snaturalmorphine-andcarryyousomewherefaraway,wherethepaincan’tfindyou.Once,aclientwho’dbeenabusedhaddissociatedsomassivelythatLacywasworriedshewouldnotbeabletoreachheragainandbringherbackintimetopush.ShehadwoundupsingingtothewomaninSpanish,alullaby.

For three hours now, Alex had regained her composure, thanks to theanesthesiologist who’d given her an epidural. She’d slept for a while; she’dplayedheartswithLacy.Butnowthebabyhaddropped,andshewasstartingtobeardown.“Whyisithurtingagain?”sheasked,hervoiceescalating.

“That’showanepiduralworks.Ifwedoseitup,youcan’tpush.”“Ican’thaveababy,”Alexblurtedout.“I’mnotready.”“Well,”Lacysaid.“Maybeweoughttotalkaboutthat.”“What was I thinking? Logan was right; I don’t know what the hell I’m

doing.I’mnotamother,I’malawyer.Idon’thaveaboyfriend,Idon’thaveadog…Idon’tevenhaveahouseplantIhaven’tkilled.I’mnotevensurehowto

putonadiaper.”“The little cartoon characters goon the front,”Lacy said.She tookAlex’s

handandbroughtitdownbetweenherlegs,towherethebabywascrowning.Alexjerkedherhandaway.“Isthat…”“Yeah.”“It’scoming?”“Readyornot.”Another contraction started. “Oh, Alex, I can see the eyebrows…” Lacy

eased the baby out of the birth canal, keeping the head flexed. “I know howmuch itburns…there’sherchin…beautiful…”Lacywipedoff thebaby’s face,suctionedthemouth.Sheflippedthecordoverthebaby’sneckandlookedupatherfriend.“Alex,”shesaid,“let’sdothistogether.”

LacyguidedAlex’sshakinghands tocupthe infant’shead.“Stay like that;I’mgoingtopushdowntogettheshoulder…”

AsthebabysluicedintoAlex’shands,Lacyletgo.Sobbing,relieved,Alexbroughtthesmall,squirmingbodyagainstherchest.Asalways,Lacywastakenbyhowavailableanewbornis-howpresent.Sherubbedthesmallofthebaby’sback and watched the newborn’s hazy blue eyes focus first on her mother.“Alex,”Lacysaid.“She’sallyours.”

Nobody wants to admit to this, but bad things will keep on happening.Maybethat’sbecauseit’sallachain,andalongtimeagosomeonedidthefirstbad thing, and that led someone else to do another bad thing, and so on.Youknow,likethatgamewhereyouwhisperasentenceintosomeone’sear,andthatpersonwhispersittosomeoneelse,anditallcomesoutwrongintheend.

Butthenagain,maybebadthingshappenbecauseit’stheonlywaywecankeeprememberingwhatgoodissupposedtolooklike.

HoursAfterOnce,atabar,Patrick’sbest friend,Nina,hadaskedwhat theworst thing

he’deverseenwas.He’dansweredtruthfully-backwhenhewasinMaine,andaguy had committed suicide by tying himselfwithwire to the train tracks; thetrain had literally cleaved him in two. There had been blood and body partseverywhere;seasonedofficersreachedthecrimesceneandstartedthrowingupin the scrubbrush.Patrickhadwalkedaway togainhis composureand foundhimself staring down at theman’s severed head, themouth still roundwith asilentscream.

ThatwasnolongertheworstthingPatrickhadeverseen.Therewerestill students streamingoutofSterlingHighas teamsofEMTs

begancanvassingthebuildingtotakecareofthewounded.Dozensofkidshadminor cuts andbruises from themass exodus, scoreswere hyperventilatingor

hysterical,andevenmorewereinshock.ButPatrick’sfirstprioritywastakingcareoftheshootingvictims,wholaysprawledonthefloorfromthecafeteriatothegymnasium,abloodytrailthatchronicledtheshooter’smovements.

The fire alarms were still ringing, and the safety sprinklers had created arunning river in the hallway. Beneath the spray, two EMTs bent over a girlwho’dbeenshotintherightshoulder.“Let’sgetheronasled,”themedicsaid.

Patrick knew her, he realized, and a shudder went through his body. Sheworkedatthevideostoreintown.Lastweekend,whenhe’drentedDirtyHarry,she’dtoldhimthathestillhadalatechargeof$3.40.HesawhereveryFridaynight when he rented a DVD, but he’d never asked her name.Why the hellhadn’theasked?

As thegirlwhimpered, themedic took theSharpiemarkerhewasholdingandwrote“9”onherforehead.“Wedon’thaveIDsonallofthewounded,”hetold Patrick. “So we’ve started numbering them.” As the student was shiftedontoabackboard,Patrickreachedacrossherforayellowplasticshockblanket-one every officer carried in the backof his cruiser.He ripped it into quarters,glancedatthenumberonthegirl’sforehead,andwroteamatching“9”ononeofthesquares.“Leavethisinherplace,”heinstructed.“Thatwaywecanfigureoutwhosheislater,andwhereshewasfound.”

AnEMTstuckhisheadaroundthecorner.“Hitchcocksaysallthebedsaretaken.We’ve got kids lined up on the front lawnwaiting, but the ambulanceshavenowheretogo.”

“WhataboutAPD?”“They’refull,too.”“Then call Concord and tell them we’ve got buses coming in,” Patrick

ordered. From the corner of his eye he saw an EMT he knew-an old-timerplanningtoretireinthreemonths-walkawayfromabodyandsinkintoacrouch,sobbing. Patrick grabbed the sleeve of a passing officer. “Jarvis, I need yourhelp…”

“Butyoujustassignedmetothegym,Captain.”Patrickhaddivideduptherespondingofficersandthemajorcrimesunitof

the state police so that each part of the high school had its own team of firstresponders. Now he handed Jarvis the remaining pieces of the plastic shockblanketandablackmarker.“Forget thegym.Iwantyou todoacircuitof thewhole school and check in with the EMTs. Anyone who’s numbered gets anumberedblanketleftinplacewhenthey’retransported.”

“Ihaveonebleedingoutinthegirls’room,”avoicecalled.“I’monit,”anEMTsaid,pickingupabagofsuppliesandhurryingaway.Makesureyouhaven’tforgottenanything,Patricktoldhimself.Youonlyget

todothisonce.Hisheadfeltlikeitwasmadeofglass,tooheavyandtoothin-walledtohandletheweightofsomuchinformation.Hecouldnotbeeverywhereatonce;he couldnot talk fast enoughor thinkquickly enough todispatchhismen where they needed to be. He had no fucking idea how to process anightmarethismassive,andyethehadtopretendthathedid,becauseeveryoneelsewaslookingtohimtobeincharge.

Thedoubledoorsofthecafeteriaswungshutbehindhim.Bynow,theteamworking this room had assessed and transported the injured; only the bodiesremainedbehind.Thecinder-blockwallswerechippedwherebulletshadpiercedor grazed them. A vending machine-glass shattered, bottles pierced-dribbledSpriteandCokeandDasaniontothelinoleumfloor.Oneofthecrimetechswasphotographing evidence: abandoned bookbags and purses and textbooks. Hesnapped each item close-up, then at a distance with a little yellow tentedevidence marker to record its placement in relation to the rest of the scene.Another officer examined blood-spatter patterns. A third and a fourth werepointingtoaspotintheupperrightcorneroftheceiling.“Captain,”oneofthemsaid,“lookslikewe’vegotavideo.”

“Where’stherecorder?”Theofficershrugged.“Principal’soffice?”“Gofindout,”Patricksaid.Hewalkeddownthemainaisleofthecafeteria.Itlooked,atfirstglance,like

asciencefictionmovie:everyonehadbeeninthemiddleofeatingandchattingandjokingaroundwithfriends,andthenintheblinkofaneye,allthehumanswere abducted by aliens, leaving only the artifacts behind. What would ananthropologist say about the student body of Sterling High, based on theWonder-breadsandwichesscarredbyonlyonebite;thetubofCherryBomblipgloss with a fingerprint still skimming the surface; the salt-and-peppercompositionnotebooksfilledwithstudysheetsonAzteccivilizationandmarginnotesaboutthecurrentone:IluvZachS!!!Mr.KeiferisaNazi!!!

Patrick’s knee bumped one of the tables, and a loose handful of grapesscatteredlikegasps.Onebouncedagainsttheshoulderofaboyslumpedoverhisbinder,hisbloodsoakingintothecollege-ruledpaper.Theboy’shandstillheldtighttohiseyeglasses.HadhebeencleaningthemwhenPeterHoughtonarrivedforhisrampage?Hadhetakenthemoffbecausehedidn’twanttosee?

Patricksteppedover thebodiesof twogirlswho laysprawledon the floorlikemirrortwins,theirminiskirtshikedhighontheirthighsandtheireyesstillopen.Walkingintothekitchenarea,hesurveyedthetroughsofgrayingpeasandcarrotsand therunnyslopofchickenpotpie; theexplosionofsaltandpepperpackets that dotted the floor like confetti. The shiny metallic helmets of the

Yoplaityogurts-strawberryandmixedberryandkeylimeandpeach-whichwerestillmiraculouslyalignedinfourneatrowsnearthecashregister,anunflinching,tinyarmy.Onewornplastictray,withadishofJell-Oandanapkinonit,waitingtobeservedtherestofthemeal.

Suddenly,Patrick heard a noise.Could he havebeenwrong-could they allhave missed a second shooter? Could his team be canvassing the school forsurvivors…andstillbeatriskthemselves?

Hedrewhis gun and crept into the bowels of the kitchen, past rackswithmonstrous cansof tomato sauce andgreenbeans andprocessednacho cheese,past massive rolls of plastic wrap and Sysco tinfoil, to the refrigerated roomwheremeatsandproducewerestored.Patrickkickedopenthedoor,andcoldairspilledoverhislegs.“Freeze,”heyelled,andforthebriefestmoment,beforeherememberedeverythingelse,henearlysmiled.

Amiddle-agedLatina lunch lady,wearing a hair net that crawledover herforeheadlikeaspiderweb,inchedoutfrombehindarackofprepackagedbagsofsaladmix.Herhandswereraised;shewasshivering.“Nometire,”shesobbed.

Patrick lowered his weapon and took off his jacket, sliding it over thewoman’sshoulders.“It’sover,”hesoothed,althoughheknewthiswasnotreallytrue.Forhim,forPeterHoughton,forallofSterling…itwasonlyjustbeginning.

“Letmegetthisstraight,Mrs.Calloway,”Alexsaid.“Youarechargedwithdrivingrecklesslyandcausingseriousbodilyinjurywhilereachingdowntoaidafish?”

Thedefendant,afifty-four-year-oldwomansportingabadpermandanevenworsepantsuit,nodded.“That’scorrect,YourHonor.”

Alexleanedherelbowsonthebench.“I’vegottohearthis.”Thewomanlookedatherattorney.“Mrs.Callowaywascominghomefrom

thepetstorewithasilverarowana,”thelawyersaid.“That’safifty-five-dollartropicalfish,Judge,”thedefendantinterjected.“The plastic bag rolled off the passenger seat and popped.Mrs. Calloway

reacheddownforthefishandthat’swhen…theunfortunateincidentoccurred.”“By unfortunate incident,” Alex clarified, looking at her file, “you mean

hittingapedestrian.”“Yes,YourHonor.”Alexturnedtothedefendant.“How’sthefish?”Mrs.Callowaysmiled.“Wonderful,”shesaid.“InameditCrash.”From the corner of her eye, Alex saw a bailiff enter the courtroom and

whispertotheclerk,wholookedatAlexandnodded.Hescrawledsomethingonapieceofpaper,andthebailiffwalkedituptothebench.

ShotsfiredatSterlingHigh,sheread.

Alexwentstillasstone.Josie.“Court’sadjourned,”shewhispered,andthensheran.

JohnEberhard gritted his teeth and concentrated onmoving just onemoreinchforward.Hecouldnotsee,withallthebloodrunningdownhisface,andhisleftsidewascompletelyuseless.Hecouldn’thear,either-hisearsstillrangwiththeblast of thegun.Still, hehadmanaged to crawl from theupstairs hallwaywherePeterHoughtonhadshothimintoanartsupplyroom.

HethoughtaboutthepracticeswhereCoachmadethemskatefromgoallinetogoalline,fasterandthenfasterstill,untiltheplayersweregaspingforbreathandspittingontotheice.Hethoughtabouthow,whenyoufeltyouhadnothingleft to give, you’d find just one iota more. He dragged himself another foot,digginghiselbowagainstthefloor.

WhenJohnreachedthemetalshelvingthatheldclayandpaintandbeadsandwire, he tried to push himself upright, but a blinding pain speared his head.Minutes later-orwas ithours?-he regainedconsciousness.Hedidn’tknow if itwassafetocheckoutsidetheclosetyet.Hewasflatonhisback,andsomethingcoldwasdriftingacrosshis face.Wind.Comingthroughacrack in thesealofthewindow.

Awindow.JohnthoughtofCourtneyIgnatio:howshe’dbeensittingacrossfromhimat

thecafeteriatablewhentheglasswallbehindherburst;howsuddenlytherehadbeenaflowerbloominginthemiddleofherchest,brightasapoppy.Hethoughtof how a hundred screams, all at once, had braided into a rope of sound.Heremembered teachers poking their heads out of their classrooms like gophers,andthelooksontheirfaceswhentheyheardtheshots.

Johnpulledhimselfupon theshelves,one-handed,fighting theblackbuzzthat toldhimhewasgoing to faintagain.By the timehewasupright, leaningagainstthemetalframe,hewasshuddering.Hisvisionwassoblurredthatwhenhetookacanofpaintandhurledit,hehadtochoosebetweentwowindows.

The glass shattered. Jackknifed on the ledge, he could see fire trucks andambulances.Reporters andparents pushing at police tape.Clusters of sobbingstudents.Brokenbodies, spaced like railroad ties on the snow.EMTsbringingoutmoreofthem.

Help, John Eberhard tried to scream, but he couldn’t form the word. Hecouldn’tformanywords-notLook,notStop,notevenhisownname.

“Hey,”someonecalled.“There’sakidupthere!”Sobbingbynow,Johntriedtowave,buthisarmwouldn’twork.Peoplewerestartingtopoint.“Stayput,”afiremanyelled,andJohntriedto

nod.Buthisbodynolongerbelongedtohim,andbeforeherealizedwhathad

happened, that small movement pitched him out the window to land on theconcretetwostoriesbelow.

DianaLeven,whohadleftherjobasanassistantattorneygeneralinBostontwoyearsago to joinadepartment thatwasa littlekinderandgentler,walkedintotheSterlingHighgymandstoppedbesidethebodyofaboywhohadfallendirectly on the three-point line after being shot in the neck. The shoes of thecrimescenetechssqueakedontheshellackedfloorastheytookphotographsandpickedupshellcasings,zippingthemintoplasticevidencebags.DirectingthemwasPatrickDucharme.

Dianalookedaroundat thesheervolumeofevidence-clothing,guns,bloodspatter,spentrounds,droppedbookbags,lostsneakers-andrealizedthatshewasnottheonlyonewithamassivejobaheadofher.“Whatdoyouknowsofar?”

“Wethinkit’sasoleshooter.He’sincustody,”Patricksaid.“Wedon’tknowforsurewhetheranyoneelsewasinvolved.Thebuilding’ssecure.”

“Howmanydead?”“Tenconfirmed.”Diananodded.“Wounded?”“Don’tknowyet.We’vegot every ambulance innorthernNewHampshire

here.”“WhatcanIdo?”Patrickturnedtoher.“Putonashowandgetridofthecameras.”Shestartedtowalkoff,butPatrickgrabbedherarm.“Youwantmetotalkto

him?”“Theshooter?”Patricknodded.“Itmaybetheonlychancewehavetogettohimbeforehehasalawyer.If

you think you can get away from here, do it.” Diana hurried out of thegymnasiumanddownstairs, careful to skirt theworkof thepolicemenand themedics.Theminute shewalkedoutside, themediaattached themselves toher,theirquestionsstinginglikebees.Howmanyvictims?Whatarethenamesofthedead?Whoistheshooter?

Why?Diana took a deep breath and smoothed her dark hair back fromher face.

Thiswasher least favoritepart of the job-being the spokeswomanon camera.Althoughmorevanswouldarriveasthedaywenton,rightnowitwasonlylocalNewHampshiremedia-affiliatesforCBSandABCandFOX.Shemightaswellenjoythehometownadvantagewhileshecould.“MynameisDianaLeven,andI’m with the attorney general’s office.We can’t release any information nowbecausethere’saninvestigationstillpending,butwepromisetogiveyoudetails

assoonaswecan.WhatIcantellyourightnowisthatthismorning,therewasaschool shooting at Sterling High. It’s unclear as to who the perpetrator orperpetrators were. One person has been remanded into custody. There are noformalchargesyet.”

A reporter pushed her way to the front of the pack. “Howmany kids aredead?”

“Wedon’thavethatinformationyet.”“Howmanywerehit?”“We don’t have that information yet,” Diana repeated. “We’ll keep you

posted.”“Whenarechargesgoingtobefiled?”anotherjournalistshouted.“Whatcanyoutelltheparentswhowanttoknowiftheirkidsareokay?”Dianapressedhermouth into a firm line andprepared to run thegauntlet.

“Thankyouverymuch,”shesaid,notanansweratall.Lacyhadtoparksixblocksawayfromtheschool;that’showcrowdedithad

become. She took off at a dead run, holding the blankets that the local radioannouncershadurgedpeopletobringfortheshockvictims.I’vealreadylostoneson,shethought.Ican’tloseanother.

ThelastconversationshehadhadwithPeterhadbeenanargument.Itwasbefore he went to bed the previous night, before she’d been called into adelivery. I askedyou to takeout the trash, shehad said.Yesterday.Don’t youhearmewhenItalktoyou,Peter?

Peterhadglancedupatheroverhiscomputerscreen.What?Whatifthatturnedouttobethefinalexchangebetweenthem?Nothing Lacy had seen in nursing school or in her work at a hospital

preparedherforthesightshefacedwhensheturnedthecorner.Sheprocesseditin pieces: shattered glass, fire engines, smoke. Blood, sobbing, sirens. Shedropped the blankets near an ambulance and swam into a sea of confusion,bobbingalongwith theotherparents in thehope that shemight catchher lostchilddriftingbeforebeingoverwhelmedbythetide.

Therewerechildrenrunningacrossthemuddycourtyard.Noneofthemhadcoatson.Lacywatchedoneluckymotherfindherdaughter,andshescannedthecrowdwildly, looking forPeter,aware that shedidn’tevenknowwhathewaswearingtoday.

Snippetsofsoundfloatedtowardher:…didn’tseehim……Mr.McCabegotshot……haven’tfoundheryet……IthoughtI’dnever…

…lostmycellphonewhen……PeterHoughtonwas…Lacyspunaround,hereyesfocusingon thegirlwhowasspeaking-theone

who’dbeen reunitedwithhermother.“Excuseme,”Lacysaid.“Myson…I’mtryingtofindhim.Iheardyoumentionhisname-PeterHoughton?”

Thegirl’seyesrounded,andshesidledcloser tohermother.“He’s theonewho’sshooting.”

EverythingaroundLacyslowed-thepulseoftheambulances,thepaceoftherunningstudents,theroundsoundsthatfellfromthelipsofthisgirl.Maybeshehadmisheard.

Sheglancedupatthegirlagain,andimmediatelywishedshehadn’t.Thegirlwassobbing.OverhershoulderhermotherstaredatLacywithhorror,andthencarefullypivotedtoshieldherdaughterfromview,asifLacywereabasilisk-asifherverystarecouldturnyoutostone.

Theremustbesomemistake,pleaselettherebeamistake,shethought,evenasshelookedaroundatthecarnageandfeltPeter’snameswelllikeasobinherthroat.

Woodenly,sheapproachedtheclosestpoliceman.“I’mlookingformyson,”Lacysaid.

“Lady,you’renottheonlyone.We’redoingourbestto-”Lacytookadeepbreath,awarethatfromthismomenton,everythingwould

bedifferent.“Hisname,”shesaid,“isPeterHoughton.”Alex’shighheeltwistedinacrackinthesidewalk,andshewentdownhard

ononeknee.Strugglinguprightagain,shegrabbedatthearmofamotherwhowasrunningpasther.“Thenamesofthewounded…wherearethey?”

“Postedatthehockeyrink.”Alexhurriedacross thestreet,whichhadbeenblockedoff tocarsandwas

nowa triage area for themedical personnel loading students into ambulances.Whenhershoesslowedherdown-theyweredesignedforanindoorcourthouse,notrunningaroundoutside-shereacheddownandsteppedoutofthem,runninginherstockingsdownthewetpavement.

Thehockeyrink,whichwassharedbyboth theSterlingHighSchool teamandthecollegeplayers,wasafive-minutewalkfromtheschool.Alexreacheditintwominutesandfoundherselfbeingpushedforwardbyathrongofparentsalldetermined to see thehandwritten lists thathadbeen taped to thedoorpanels,listsofthechildrenwho’dbeentakentoareahospitals.Therewasnoindicationof how badly they’d been hurt…or worse. Alex read the first three names:WhitakerObermeyer.KaitlynHarvey.MatthewRoyston.

Matt?

“No,”awomanbesidehersaid.Shewaspetite,withthedarkdartingeyesofa bird and a froth of red hair. “No,” she repeated, but this time, the tears hadalreadybegun.

Alex stared at her, unable to offer comfort, out of fear that griefmight becontagious.Shewassuddenlyshovedhardfromtheleftandfoundherselfnowstanding in front of the list of wounded who’d been taken to Dartmouth-HitchcockMedicalCenter.

Alexis,Emma.Horuka,Min.Pryce,Brady.Cormier,Josephine.Alexwouldhavefallenifnotforthepressofanxiousparentsoneitherside

of her. “Excuse me,” she murmured, giving up her place to another franticmother. She struggled through the growing crowd. “Excuse me,” Alex saidagain,wordsthatwerenolongerpolitediscourse,butapleaforabsolution.

“Captain,”adesksergeantsaidasPatrickwalkedintothestation,andheslidhiseyestowardthewomanwhowaswaitingacrosstheroom,coiledtightwithpurpose.“That’sher.”

Patrick turned. PeterHoughton’smotherwas tiny and looked nothing likeherson.Shehadapileofdarkcurlstwistedontopofherheadandsecuredwithapen.SheworescrubsandapairofMerrellclogs.Hewondered,briefly,ifshewasadoctor.Hethoughtabouttheironyofthat:First,donoharm.

She didn’t look like a person who’d created a monster, although Patrickrealizedshemighthavebeencaughtjustasunawarebyherson’sactionsastherestofthecommunity.“Mrs.Houghton?”

“Iwanttoseemyson.”“Unfortunately,youcan’t,”Patrickreplied.“He’sbeingheldincustody.”“Hehasalawyer.”“Your son is seventeen-legally, an adult. Thatmeans that Peter’s going to

havetoinvokehisrighttoanattorneyhimself.”“But he might not know…” she said, her voice breaking. “He might not

knowthat’swhatheneedstodo.”Patrickknewthat,inadifferentway,thiswomanwasavictimofherson’s

actions,too.Hehadinterrogatedenoughparentsofminorstoknowthatthelastthingyoueverwantedtodowasburnabridge.“Ma’am,we’redoingourbesttounderstandwhathappenedtoday.Andhonestly,Ihopeyou’llbewillingtotalktome later-to helpme figure outwhat Peterwas thinking.”He hesitated, andthenadded,“I’mverysorry.”

Helethimselfintotheinnersanctumofthepolicestationwithhiskeysand

jogged up the stairs to the booking room with its adjacent lockup. PeterHoughtonsatonthefloorwithhisbacktothebars,rockingslowly.

“Peter,”Patricksaid.“Youallright?”Slowly,theboyturnedhishead.HestaredatPatrick.“Yourememberme?”Peternodded.“How’dyoulikeacupofcoffeeorsomething?”Ahesitation,andthenPeternoddedagain.Patrick summoned the sergeant to open Peter’s cell and led him to the

kitchen.He’dalreadyarrangedtohaveacamcorderrunning,so that if itcamedowntoit,hecouldgetPeter’sverbalconsenttohisrightsontapeandthengethim to talk. Inside, he invitedPeter to take a seat at the scarred table, and hepouredtwocupsofcoffee.Hedidn’taskPeterhowhelikedit-justaddedsugarandmilkandsetitinfrontoftheboy.

Patrick sat down, too. He hadn’t gotten a good look at the boy before-adrenalinewill do that to your vision-but now he stared. PeterHoughtonwasslight,pale,withwire-rimmedglassesand freckles.Oneofhis front teethwascrooked,andhisAdam’sapplelookedfist-sized.Hisknuckleswereknottyandchapped. He was crying quietly, and it might have been enough to engendersympathyhadhenotbeenwearingaT-shirt splatteredwith thebloodofotherstudents.

“Youfeelallright,Peter?”Patrickasked.“Youhungry?”Theboyshookhishead.“CanIgetyouanythingelse?”Peterputhisheaddownonthetable.“Iwantmymom,”hewhispered.Patricklookedatthepartintheboy’shair.Hadhebrusheditthatmorning,

thinking,Today’sthedayI’mgoingtokill tenstudents?“I’dliketotalkaboutwhathappenedtoday.Wouldyoubewillingtodothat?”

Peterdidn’tanswer.“Ifyouexplainittome,”Patrickurged,“maybeIcanexplainittoeveryone

else.”Peterliftedhisface,cryinginearnestnow.Patrickknewthiswasn’tgoingto

goanywhere;hesighed,pushingawayfromthetable.“Allright,”hesaid.“Let’sgo.”

Patrick led Peter back to the holding cell andwatched him curl up on theflooronhisside,facingthecementwall.Hekneltbehindtheboy,onelast-ditchattempt. “Help me help you,” he said, but Peter just shook his head andcontinuedtocry.

Itwasn’tuntilPatrickhadsteppedoutof thecellandturnedthekeyinthe

lockthatheheardPeterspeakagain.“Theystartedit,”hewhispered.Dr.GuentherFrankensteinhadworkedasthestatemedicalexaminerforsix

years,whichwasexactlyhowlonghe’dheldtheMr.Universetitleintheearly1970s,beforehetradedinhisbarbellsforascalpel-orashelikedtoputit,wentfrom building bodies to taking them apart. Hismuscleswere still formidable,andvisibleenoughbeneathhisjackettostoptheonslaughtofanymonsterjokesincurredbyhis lastname.Patrick likedGuenther-howcouldyounot admireaguy who could lift three times his body weight and yet also know, just byeyeballingaliver,roughlyhowmanygramsitwouldweigh?

EverynowandthenPatrickandGuentherwouldgrabafewbeerstogether,consuming enough alcohol for the former bodybuilder to tell him stories ofwomen offering to oil him up before a competition or good anecdotes aboutArnold, before hebecamepolitical.Today, however,Patrick andGuenther didnotjokearound,andtheydidnottalkaboutthepast.Theywereoverwhelmedbythepresentastheymovedsilentlythroughthehalls,cataloguingthedead.

Patrickmet Guenther at the school after his abortive interviewwith PeterHoughton.TheprosecutorhadonlyshruggedwhenPatricktoldherPeterhadn’tbeenwillingorabletotalk.“Wehavehundredsofwitnessessayinghekilledtenpeople,”Dianahadsaid.“Arresthim.”

Guenthercroucheddownbesidethebodyofthesixthcasualty.Shehadbeenshotinthegirls’bathroom,andherbodywassprawledfacedowninfrontofthesinks. Patrick turned to the principal, Arthur McAllister, who’d agreed toaccompany them for identification. “Kaitlyn Harvey,” the principal said, hisvoicehaunted.“Special-needskid…sweetgirl.”

GuentherandPatricklookedateachother.Theprincipaldidnotjustidentifythebodies;healsogavea littleone-or two-sentenceeulogyeach time.Patricksupposed that the man couldn’t help himself-unlike Patrick and Guenther, hewasn’tusedtodealingwithtragedyinthecourseofhisnormaloccupation.

Patrickhad tried to retracePeter’s footsteps, from the front hallway to thecafeteria(Victims1and2:CourtneyIgnatioandMaddieShaw),tothestairwelloutsideit(Victim3:WhitObermeyer),totheboys’bathroom(Victim4:TopherMcPhee), throughanotherhallway (Victim5:GraceMurtaugh), into thegirls’bathroom(Victim6:KaitlynHarvey).Now,asheledtheteamupstairs,hetookaleft into the firstclassroom, trailingasmeared lineofblood toa spotnear thechalkboard where the body of the only adult victim lay…and beside him, ayoungmanwithhishandpressedtightoverthebulletwoundintheman’sbelly.“Ben?”McAllistersaid.“Whatareyoustilldoinghere?”

Patrickturnedtotheboy.“You’renotanEMT?”“I…no…”

“YoutoldmeyouwereanEMT!”“IsaidI’dhadmedicaltraining!”“Ben’sanEagleScout,”theprincipalsaid.“I couldn’t leaveMr.McCabe. I…applied pressure, and it’sworking, see?

Theblood’sstopped.”Guenthergentlyremovedtheboy’sbloodyhandfromhisteacher’sstomach.

“That’sbecausehe’sgone,son.”Ben’sfacecrumpled.“ButI…I…”“Youdidthebestyoucould,”Guentherassuredhim.Patrickturnedtotheprincipal.“Whydon’tyoutakeBenoutside…maybelet

oneofthedoctorstakealookathim?”Shock,hemouthedovertheboy’shead.As they left the classroom, Ben grasped the principal’s sleeve, leaving a

brightredhandprintbehind.“Jesus,”Patricksaid,runningahanddownhisface.Guentherstoodup.“Comeon.Let’sjustgetthisoverwith.”Theywalkedtowardthegymnasium,whereGuenthercertifiedthedeathsof

twomore students-ablackboyandawhiteone-and then into the locker roomwherePatrickhadultimatelycorneredPeterHoughton.GuentherexaminedthebodyoftheboyPatrickhadseenearlier,thekidinthehockeyjerseywhosecaphad been blown off his head by a bullet.Meanwhile, Patrickwalked into theabutting shower room and glanced out the window. The reporters were stillthere,butmostofthewoundedhadbeendealtwith.Therewasonlyonewaitingambulance,insteadofseven.

Ithadstartedtorain.Bythenextmorning,thebloodstainsonthepavementoutsidetheschoolwouldbepale;thisdaymightneverhavehappened.

“Thisisinteresting,”Guenthersaid.Patrickclosedthewindowagainsttheweather.“Why?Ishedeaderthanthe

restofthem?”“Yeah.He’stheonlyvictimthat’sbeenshottwice.Onceinthegut,oncein

the head.” Guenther looked at him. “How many guns did you find on theshooter?”

“Oneinhishand,oneonthefloorhere,twoinhisbackpack.”“Nothinglikealittlebackupplan.”“Tellmeaboutit,”Patricksaid.“Canyoutellwhichbulletwasfiredfirst?”“No.Myeducatedguess,though,wouldbetheoneinthebelly…sinceitwas

theslugtothebrainthatkilledhim.”Guentherkneltbesidethebody.“Maybehehatedthiskidmostofall.”

Thedoorofthelockerroomflewopen,revealingastreetcopsoakedbythesudden downpour. “Captain?” he said. “We just found themakings of anotherpipebombinPeterHoughton’scar.”

WhenJosiewasyounger,Alexhadarecurringnightmareaboutbeingonaplane when it went into a nosedive. She could feel the spin of gravity, thepressurethatheldherbackinherchair;shesawpursesandcoatsandcarry-onluggageburstoutoftheoverheadcompartmentstofall intotheaisle.Ihavetogettomycellphone,Alexhadthought,intentonleavingJosieamessageontheansweringmachine thatshecouldcarryaroundforever,digitalproof thatAlexlovedherandwasthinkingofherat theend.ButevenafterAlexhadgrabbedherphonefromherpurseandturnediton,ittooktoolong.She’dhitthegroundwhenthephonewasstillsearchingforasignal.

She’d awaken shaking and sweaty, even as she dismissed the dream: sherarely traveled apart from Josie; she certainly didn’t take flights for her job.She’dthrowbackthecoversandheadtothebathroomandsplashwateronherface,butitdidn’tstopherfromthinking:Iwastoolate.

Now,asshesatinthequietdarkofahospitalroomwhereherdaughterwassleepingofftheeffectsofasedativegiventoherbytheadmittingdoctor,Alexfeltthesameway.

This is what Alex had managed to learn: Josie had fainted during theshooting.Shehadacutonherforeheaddecoratedwithabutterflybandage,andamildconcussion.Thedoctorswantedtokeepherovernightforobservation,tobesafe.

Safehadawholenewdefinitionnow.Alexhadalso learned,fromtheunendingnewscoverage, thenamesof the

dead.OneofwhomwasMatthewRoyston.Matt.WhatifJosiehadbeenwithherboyfriendwhenhewasshot?Josie had been unconscious the whole timeAlex had been here. She was

smallandstillunderthefadedhospitalsheets;thetieattheneckofherhospitaljohnnyhadcomeunraveled.From time to time,her righthand twitched.Alexreachedoutnowandgraspedit.Wakeup,shethought.Provetomeyou’reokay.

WhatifAlexhadn’tbeenlatetoworkthatmorning?MightshehavestayedatthekitchentablewithJosie,talkingaboutthethingssheimaginedmothersanddaughtersdiscussedbutthatsheneverseemedtohavethetimeto?Whatifshe’dtakenabetterlookatJosiewhenshehurrieddownstairs,toldhertogobacktobedandgetsomerest?

What ifshe’d takenJosieonaspur-of-the-moment trip toPuntaCana,SanDiego,Fiji-all theplacesAlexdream-surfedonhercomputer inchambersandthoughtaboutvisiting,butneverdid?

What if she’d been a prescient enoughmother to keep her daughter homefromschooltoday?

There were, of course, hundreds of other parents who’d made the samehonestmistake she had. But that was shallow comfort to Alex: none of theirchildrenwereJosie.Noneofthem,surely,hadasmuchtoloseasshedid.

Whenthisisover,Alexpromisedsilently,wewillgototherainforest,orthepyramids,orabeachaswhiteasbone.Wewilleatgrapesfromthevine,wewillswimwithseaturtles,wewillwalkmilesoncobblestonestreets.Wewilllaughandtalkandconfess.Wewill.

At the same time, a small voice in her headwas scheduling this paradise.After,itsaid.Becausefirst,thistrialwillcometoyourcourtroom.

Itwastrue:acaselikethiswouldbefast-trackedtothedocket.AlexwasthesuperiorcourtjudgeforGraftonCounty,andwouldbeforthenexteightmonths.Although Josie had been at the scene of the crime, she wasn’t technically avictimoftheshooter.HadJosiebeenwounded,Alexwouldhaveautomaticallybeenremovedfromthecase.Butasitstood,therewasnolegalconflictinAlex’ssittingasjudge,aslongasshecouldseparateherpersonalfeelingsasthemotherofahighschoolstudentfromherprofessionalfeelingsasajustice.Thiswouldbeherfirstbigtrialasasuperiorcourtjudge,theonethatsetatonefortherestofhertenureonthebench.

Notthatshewasreallythinkingaboutthatnow.Suddenly, Josie stirred.Alexwatched consciousness pour into her, reach a

high-watermark.“WhereamI?”Alexcombedherfingersthroughherdaughter’shair.“Inthehospital.”“Why?”Herhandstilled.“Doyourememberanythingabouttoday?”“Matt came over before school,” Josie said, and then she pushed herself

upright.“Wasthere,like,acaraccident?”Alexhesitated,unsureofwhatshewassupposedtosay.Wasn’tJosiebetter

offnotknowingthetruth?Whatifthiswasthewayhermindwasprotectingherfromwhatevershe’dwitnessed?

“You’refine,”Alexsaidcarefully.“Youweren’thurt.”Josieturnedtoher,relieved.“WhataboutMatt?”Lewiswasgettingalawyer.Lacyheldthatnuggetofinformationtoherchest

likeahotstoneassherockedbackandforthonPeter’sbedandwaitedforhimtocomehome.It’sgoingtobeallright,Lewishadpromised,althoughshedidnot understand how he couldmake so specious a statement. Clearly this is amistake,Lewishadsaid,buthehadn’tbeendownatthehighschool.Hehadn’tseenthefacesofthestudents,kidswhowouldneverreallybekidsagain.

TherewasapartofLacythatwantedsobadlytobelieveLewis-tothinkthatsomehow, this broken thingmight be fixed.But therewas another part of her

thatrememberedhimwakingPeteratfourinthemorningtogooutandsitinaduck blind. Lewis had taught his son how to hunt, never expecting that Petermightfindadifferentkindofprey.Lacyunderstoodhuntingasbothasportandanevolutionary claim; she evenknewhow tomakean excellent venison stewandteriyakigooseandenjoyedwhatevermealLewis’shobbyputon the table.Butrightnow,shethought,Itishisfault,becausethenitcouldn’tbehers.

Howcouldyouchangeaboy’sbeddingeveryweekandfeedhimbreakfastanddrivehimtotheorthodontistandnotknowhimatall?She’dassumedthatifPeter’s answers were monosyllabic, it was just because of his age; that anymother would have made the same assumption. Lacy combed through hermemories for some red flag, some conversation she might have misread,something overlooked, but all she could recall were a thousand ordinarymoments.

A thousand ordinarymoments that somemotherswould never get to haveagainwiththeirownchildren.

Tearssprangtohereyes;shewipedthemwith thebackofherhand.Don’tthink about them, she silently scolded. Right now you have to worry aboutyourself.

HadPeterbeenthinkingthat,too?Swallowing,Lacywalked intoher son’s room. Itwasdark, thebedneatly

madejustasLacyhadleftitthismorning,butnowshesawtheposterofabandcalledDeathWishonthewallandwonderedwhyaboymighthangitup.Sheopenedtheclosetandsawtheemptybottlesandelectricaltapeandtornragsandeverythingelseshehadmissedthefirsttimearound.

Suddenly, Lacy stopped. She could fix this herself. She could fix this forboth of them. She ran downstairs to the kitchen and ripped three large blackthirty-three-gallontrashbagsfreefromtheircoilbeforehurryingbacktoPeter’sroom.Shestartedinthecloset,shovingpackagesofshoelaces,sugar,potassiumnitrate fertilizer,and-myGod,were thesepipes?-into the firstbag.Shedidnothaveaplan aboutwhat shewoulddowith all these things, but shewouldgetthemoutofherhouse.

Whenthedoorbellrang,Lacysighedwithrelief,expectingLewis-although,if she’dbeen thinkingclearly, shewouldhave realized thatLewiswouldhavesimply let himself in. She abandoned her haul andwent downstairs to find apolicemanholdingaslimbluefolder.“Mrs.Houghton?”theofficersaid.

Whatcouldtheypossiblywant?Theyalreadyhadherson.“We’vegotasearchwarrant.”Hehandedherthepaperworkandpushedpast

her,followedbyfiveotherpolicemen.“JacksonandWalhorne,youheaduptotheboy’sroom.Rodriguez,thebasement.TewesandGilchrist,startwiththefirst

floor,andeveryone, let’smakesureyoucover theansweringmachinesandallcomputer equipment…” Then he noticed Lacy still standing there, stricken.“Mrs.Houghton,you’llhavetoleavethepremises.”

Thepolicemanescortedhertoherownfronthallway.Numb,Lacyfollowed.What would they think when they reached Peter’s room and found that trashbag?WouldtheyblamePeter?OrLacy,forenablinghim?

Didtheyalready?ArushofcoldairhitLacy in the faceas the frontdooropened.“Forhow

long?”Theofficer shrugged.“Tillwe’redone,”hesaid,andhe leftherout in the

cold.Jordan McAfee had been an attorney for nearly twenty years and truly

believedhehadseenandhearditall,untilnow,whenheandhiswife,Selena,stood in front of the television set watching CNN’s coverage of the schoolshootingatSterlingHigh.“It’slikeColumbine,”Selenasaid.“Inourbackyard.”

“Exceptrightnow,”Jordanmurmured,“there’ssomeonetoblamewho’sstillalive.” He glanced down at the baby in his wife’s arms, a blue-eyed, coffee-coloredmixtureofhisownWASPgenes andSelena’snever-ending limbsandebonyskin,andhereachedfortheremotetoturndownthevolume,justincasehissonwastakinganyofthisinsubconsciously.

JordanknewSterlingHigh.Itwasjustdownthestreetfromhisbarberandtwoblocksawayfromtheroomoverthebankherentedashislawoffice.Hehadrepresented a few students who’d been busted with pot in their glovecompartments or who got caught drinking underage at the college in town.Selena,whowasnotonlyhiswifebut alsohis investigator, hadgone into theschooltotalktokidsfromtimetotimeaboutacase.

They hadn’t lived here very long.His sonThomas-the only good thing tocomeoutofhislousyfirstmarriage-graduatedfromhighschoolinSalemFallsandwasnowasophomoreatYale,whereJordanspent$40,000ayear tohearthathehadnarroweddownhis careerplans tobecomingeither aperformanceartist,anarthistorian,oraprofessionalclown.JordanhadfinallyaskedSelenatomarryhim,andaftershe’dgottenpregnant,they’dmovedtoSterling-becausetheschooldistricthadsuchagoodreputation.

Gofigure.WhenthetelephonerangandJordan-whodidn’twanttowatchthecoverage

but couldn’t tear his eyes away from it either-made no motion to answer it,Selena dumped the baby in his arms and reached for the receiver. “Hey,” shesaid.“How’sitgoing?”

Jordanglancedupandraisedhisbrows.

Thomas,Selenamouthed.“Yeah,hangon,he’srighthere.”HetookthephonefromSelena.“Whatthehellisgoingon?”Thomasasked.

“SterlingHigh’salloverMSNBC.com.”“Idon’tknowanymorethanyoudo,”Jordansaid.“It’spandemonium.”“Iknowsomekidsthere.Wecompetedagainstthemintrackandfield.It’s

just-it’snotreal.”Jordancouldstillhearambulancesirensinthedistance.“It’sreal,”hesaid.

Therewasaclickontheline-call-waiting.“Hangon,Ihavetotakethis.”“IsthisMr.McAfee?”“Yes…”“I, um, understand that you’re an attorney. I got your name from Stuart

McBrideoveratSterlingCollege…”Onthetelevision,alistofthenamesoftheknowndeadbegantoscroll,with

yearbookpictures.“Youknow,I’montheotherline,”Jordansaid.“CouldItakedownyournameandnumber,andgetbacktoyou?”

“Iwaswonderingifyou’drepresentmyson,”thecallersaid.“He’stheboywho…theonefromthehighschoolwho…”Thevoicestumbled,andthenbroke.“Theysaymyson’stheonewhodidit.”

Jordanthoughtofthelasttimehe’drepresentedateenageboy.Likethisone,ChrisHartehadbeenfoundholdingasmokinggun.

“Willyou…willyoutakehiscase?”JordanforgotaboutThomas,waiting.HeforgotaboutChrisHarteandhow

thecasehadnearly turnedhim insideout. Insteadhe lookedatSelenaand thebaby inher arms.Sam twisted,grabbingather earring.Thisboy-theonewhohad walked into Sterling High this morning and committed a massacre-wassomeone’sson.Andinspiteofatownthatwouldbereelingforyears,andmediacoveragethathadalreadyreachedthepointofsaturation,hedeservedafairtrial.

“Yes,”Jordansaid.“Iwill.”Finally-after the bomb squad had dismantled the pipe bomb in Peter

Houghton’s car; after one hundred and sixteen shell casings had been foundscattered in the school from fired bullets; after the accident recon guys hadbeguntomeasuretheevidenceandthelocationofthebodiessothattheycouldproduceascalediagramofthescene;afterthecrimetechshadtakenthefirstofhundreds of snapshots that they would put into indexed photo-books-Patrickcalledeveryonetogetherintotheauditoriumoftheschoolandstoodonthestagein theneardarkness. “Whatwehave is amassive amountof information,”hetoldthecrowdassembledbeforehim.“There’sgoingtobealotofpressureonustodothisfast,andtodothisright.Iwanteveryonebackhereintwenty-fourhours,sothatwecanseewherewe’reat.”

Peoplebegan todisperse.At thenextmeeting,Patrickwouldbegiven thecompleted photo-books, all evidence not being sent to the lab, and all labsubmissions. In twenty-four hours, he’d be buried so far underneath theavalanchehewouldn’tknowwhichwaywasup.

Whiletheothersheadedbacktovariouspartsofthebuildingtocompletetheworkthatwouldtakethemallnightandthenextday,Patrickwalkedouttohiscar.Ithadstoppedraining.PatrickplannedtogobacktothestationtoreviewtheevidencethathadbeenseizedfromtheHoughtons’home,andhewantedtotalkto theparents, if theywere stillwilling.Buthe foundhimselfpointinghiscarinsteadtowardthemedicalcenter,andhepulledintotheparkinglot.Hewalkedintotheemergencyentranceandflashedhisbadge.“Look,”hesaidtothenurse,“Iknowyouhadalotofkidscomethroughheretoday.ButoneofthefirstwasagirlnamedJosie.I’mtryingtofindher.”

Thenurseflutteredherhandsoverhercomputerkeyboard.“Josiewho?”“That’sthething,”Patrickadmitted.“Idon’tknow.”The screen swam with a flurry of information, and the nurse tapped her

fingeragainsttheglass.“Cormier.She’suponthefourthfloor,Room422.”Patrick thanked her and took the elevator upstairs. Cormier. The name

sounded familiar, but he couldn’t quite place it. It was common enough, hefigured-maybe he’d read it in the paper or seen it on a television show. Heslippedpastthenurses’deskandfollowedthenumbersdownthehall.ThedoortoJosie’sroomwasajar.Thegirlsatupinbed,wrappedinshadows,talkingtoafigurethatstoodbesideher.

Patrick knocked softly and stepped into the room. Josie stared at himblankly;thewomanbesideherturnedaround.

Cormier,Patrickrealized.AsinJudgeCormier.He’dbeencalledtotestifyinhercourtroomafewtimesbeforeshebecameasuperiorcourtjudge;he’dgonetoher forwarrantsasa last resort-afterall, shecamefromapublicdefender’sbackground, which in Patrick’s mind meant that even if she now wasscrupulouslyfair,shestillhadonceplayedfortheotherside.

“Your Honor,” he said. “I didn’t realize Josie was your daughter.” Heapproachedthebed.“Howareyoudoing?”

Josiestaredathim.“DoIknowyou?”“I’mtheonewhocarriedyouout-”Hestoppedasthejudgeputherhandon

hisarmanddrewhimoutofJosie’srangeofhearing.“Shedoesn’trememberanythingthathappened,”thejudgewhispered.“She

thinksforsomereasonthatshewasinacaraccident…andI…”Hervoicetrailedoff.“Ihaven’tbeenabletotellherthetruth.”

Patrickunderstood-whenyoulovedsomeone,youdidn’twanttobetheone

whobroughttheirworldcrashingdown.“Wouldyoulikemetodoit?”The judge hesitated, and then noddedgratefully. Patrick faced Josie again.

“Youallright?”“My head hurts. The doctors said I have a concussion and have to stay

overnight.” She looked up at him. “I guess I ought to thank you for rescuingme.” Suddenly, a flicker of intention crossed her face. “Do you know whathappenedtoMatt?Theguywhowasinthecarwithme?”

Patrick sat down on the edge of the hospital bed. “Josie,” he said gently,“youweren’t inacaraccident.Therewasan incidentatyourschool-astudentcameinandstartedshootingpeople.”

Josieshookherhead,tryingtodislodgethewords.“Mattwasoneofthevictims.”Hereyesfilledwithtears.“Isheokay?”Patricklookeddownat thesoftwaffleweaveof theblanketbetweenthem.

“I’msorry.”“No,” Josie said. “No. You’re lying to me.” She struck out at Patrick,

clippinghimacrossthefaceandchest.Thejudgerushedforward,tryingtoholdher daughter back, but Josiewaswild-shrieking, crying, clawing, drawing theattentionofthenursingstaffdownthehall.Twoofthemflewintotheroomonwhitewings,shooingoutPatrickandJudgeCormier,whiletheyadministeredasedativetoJosie.

In the hallway, Patrick leaned against the wall and closed his eyes. JesusChrist.Wasthiswhathe’dhavetoputeveryoneofhiswitnessesthrough?HewasabouttoapologizetothejudgeforupsettingJosiewhensheturnedonhimjustlikeherdaughterhad.“Whatthehelldoyouthinkyou’redoing,tellingheraboutMatt!”

“Youaskedmeto,”Patrickbristled.“To tell her about the school,” the judge qualified. “Not to tell her her

boyfriend’sdead!”“YouknowdamnwellJosiewouldhavefoundoutsooneror-”“Later,”thejudgeinterrupted.“Muchlater.”The nurses appeared in the doorway. “She’s sleeping now,” one of them

whispered.“We’llbebackintocheckonher.”Theybothwaiteduntilthenurseswereoutofhearingrange.“Look,”Patrick

saidtightly.“TodayIsawkidswho’dbeenshotinthehead,kidswhowillneverwalkagain,kidswhodiedbecause theywere in thewrongplaceat thewrongtime.Yourdaughter…she’sinshock…butshe’soneoftheluckyones.”

Hiswordshither,asolidslap.Forjustamoment,whenPatricklookedatthejudge, she no longer seemed furious. Her gray eyes were heavy with all the

scenariosthat,thankfully,hadnotcometopass;hermouthsoftenedwithrelief.Andthen,justassuddenly,herfeaturessmoothed,impassive.“I’msorry.I’mnotusuallylikethis.It’sjust…beenareallyawfulday.”

Patrick tried, but he could see no trace left of the emotion that had, for amoment,brokenher.Seamless.That’swhatshewas.

“Iknowyouwereonlytryingtodoyourjob,”thejudgesaid.“IwouldliketotalktoJosie…butthat’snotwhyIcame.I’mherebecause

shewasthefirstone…well,Ijustneededtoknowshewasallright.”HeofferedJudgeCormierthesmallestofsmiles,thekindthatcanstartahearttobreaking.“Takecareofher,”Patricksaid,andthenheturnedandwalkeddownthehall,awareoftheheatofhergazeonhisback,andhowmuchitfeltlikethetouchofahand.

TwelveYearsBeforeOnhisfirstdayofkindergarten,PeterHoughtonwokeupat4:32a.m.He

paddedintohisparents’roomandaskedifitwastimeyettotaketheschoolbus.Foraslongashecouldremember,he’dwatchedhisbrotherJoeygetonthebus,and itwas amystery of dynamic proportion: theway the sun bounced off itssnub yellownose, the door that hinged like the jawof a dragon, the dramaticsighwhenitcametoastop.PeterhadaMatchboxcarthatlookedjustlikethebusJoeyrodeontwiceaday-thesamebusthatnowhewasgoingtogettorideon,too.

Hismothertoldhimtogobacktosleepuntilitwasmorning,buthecouldn’t.Instead,hegotdressedinthespecialclotheshismotherhadboughtforhisfirstday of school and he lay back down in bed to wait. He was the first onedownstairs for breakfast, and his mother made chocolate chip pancakes-hisfavorite. She kissed himon the cheek and took a picture of him sitting at thebreakfast table,and thenanotheronewhenhewasdressed inhiscoatandhadhis emptyknapsackonhis back, like the shell of a turtle. “I can’t believemybabyisgoingtoschool,”hismothersaid.

Joey,whowasinfirstgradethisyear,toldhimtostopactingstupid.“It’sjustschool,”hesaid.“Bigdeal.”

Peter’smother finishedbuttoninghis coat. “Itwas abigdeal to youonce,too,”shesaid.ThenshetoldPetershehadasurpriseforhim.Shewentintothekitchen and reappeared with a Superman lunch box. Superman was reachingforward,asifheweretryingtobreakoutofthemetal.Hiswholebodystuckoutfromthebackgroundthetiniestbit, likethelettersonbooksblindpeopleread.Peterlikedthinkingthatevenifhecouldn’tsee,hewouldbeabletotellthatthiswashislunchbox.Hetookitfromhismotherandhuggedher.Heheardthethudofapieceoffruitrolling,thecrinkleofwaxpaper,andheimaginedtheinsides

ofhislunch,likemysteriousorgans.Theywaitedattheendofthedriveway,andjustasPeterhaddreamedover

andover,theyellowbusroseoverthecrestofthehill.“Onemore!”hismothercalled, and she took a picture ofPeterwith the bus groaning to a stopbehindhim.“Joey,”sheinstructed,“takecareofyourbrother.”ThenshekissedPeterontheforehead.“Mybigboy,”shesaid,andhermouthpinchedtight,thewayitdidwhenshewastryingnottocry.

SuddenlyPeterfelthisstomachturntoice.Whatifkindergartenwasnotasgreat as he’d imagined?What if his teacher looked like thewitch on thatTVprogramthatgavehimnightmaressometimes?WhatifheforgotwhichdirectiontheletterEwentandeveryonemadefunofhim?

Withhesitation,heclimbedthestepsoftheschoolbus.Thedriverworeanarmyjacketandhadtwoteethmissinginthefront.“There’sseatsinback,”hesaid,andPeterheadeddowntheaisle,lookingforJoey.

HisbrotherwassittingnexttoaboyPeterdidn’tknow.Joeyglancedathimashewalkedby,butdidn’tsayanything.

“Peter!”HeturnedandsawJosiepattingtheemptyseatnexttoher.Shehadherdark

hairinpigtailsandwaswearingaskirt,eventhoughshehatedskirts.“Isaveditforyou,”Josiesaid.

Hesatdownnext toher,feelingbetteralready.Hewasridinginsideabus.Andhewassittingnexttohisbestfriendinthewholeworld.“Coollunchbox,”Josiesaid.

Hehelditup,toshowherthewaythatyoucouldmakeSupermanlooklikehewasmovingifyouwiggledit,andjustthenahandreachedacrosstheaisle.Aboywith apearmsandabackwardbaseball capgrabbed the lunchboxoutofPeter’sgrasp.“Hey,freak,”hesaid,“youwanttoseeSupermanfly?”

BeforePeterunderstoodwhattheolderboywasdoing,heopenedawindowandhurledPeter’slunchboxoutofit.Peterstoodup,craninghisneckaroundtoseeout the rearemergencydoor.His lunchboxburstopenon theasphalt.Hisapplerolledacrossthedottedyellowlineoftheroadandvanishedbeneaththetireofanoncomingcar.

“Sitdown!”thebusdriveryelled.Petersankbackintohisseat.Hisfacefeltcold,buthisearswereburning.He

couldheartheboyandhisfriendslaughing,asloudasifitwerehappeninginhisownhead.ThenhefeltJosie’shandslideintohis.“I’vegotpeanutbutter,”shewhispered.“Wecanshare.”

Alex sat in the conference room at the jail, across fromher newest client,Linus Froom. Thismorning, at 4:00 a.m., he’d dressed in black, pulled a ski

mask over his head, and robbed an Irving gas station convenience store atgunpoint.WhenthepolicewerecalledinafterLinusranoff, theyfoundacellphoneontheground.Itrangwhilethedetectivewassittingathisdesk.“Dude,”thecallersaid.“Thisismycellphone.Doyouhaveit?”Thedetectivesaidyes,andaskedwherehe’dlostit.“AttheIrvingstation,man.Iwasthere,like,ahalfhourago.”ThedetectivesuggestedthattheymeetatthecornerofRoute10andRoute25A;he’dbringthecellphone.

Needlesstosay,LinusFroomshowedup,andwasarrestedforrobbery.Alex lookedatherclientacross thescarred table.Herdaughterwasat this

moment having juice and cookies or story time or Advanced Crayoning orwhateverelsethefirstdayofkindergartenconsistedof,andshewasstuckinaconferenceroomatthecountyjailwithacriminaltoostupidtoevenbegoodathis craft. “It says here,”Alex said, perusing the police report, “that therewassomecontentionwhenDetectiveChisholmreadyouyourrights?”

Linusliftedhisgaze.Hewasakid-onlynineteen-withacneandaunibrow.“HethoughtIwasdumbasshit.”

“Hesaidthistoyou?”“HeaskedmeifIcouldread.”All cops did; they were supposed to have the perp follow along with the

Miranda rights. “Andyour response, apparently,was, ‘Hello, fucko, do I looklikeamoron?’”

Linusshrugged.“WhatwasIsupposedtosay?”Alexpinchedthebridgeofhernose.Herdaysinthepublicdefender’soffice

wereanexhaustingblurofmomentslikethis:agreatamountofenergyandtimeexpendedonbehalfofsomeonewho-aweek,amonth,ayearlater-wouldwindup sitting across from her again.And yet,what elsewas she qualified to do?Thiswastheworldshehadchosentoinhabit.

Herbeeperwentoff.Glancingatthenumber,shesilencedit.“Linus,Ithinkwe’regoingtohavetopleadthisoneout.”

SheleftLinusinthehandsofadetentionofficerandduckedintotheofficeofasecretaryatthejailinordertoborrowherphone.“ThankGod,”Alexsaidwhenthepersonpickedupontheotherend.“Yousavedmefromjumpingoutasecond-storywindowatthejail.”

“You forgot, there are bars,”Whit Hobart said, laughing. “I used to thinkmaybe they’d been installed not to keep the prisoners in, but to prevent theirpublicdefendersfromrunningawaywhentheyrealizehowbadtheircasesare.”

Whit had been Alex’s boss when she’d joined the NH public defender’soffice,buthehadretiredninemonthsago.Alegendinhisownright,Whithadbecomethefathershe’dneverhad-onewho,unlikeherown,hadpraiseforher

insteadof criticism.ShewishedWhitwerehere,now, insteadof in somegolfcommunityontheseacoast.He’dtakeherout to lunchandtellherstories thatmade her realize every public defender had clients-and cases-like Linus. Andthenhe’d somehow leaveherwith the bill and a reneweddrive to get up andfightalloveragain.

“Whatareyoudoingup?”Alexsaid.“Earlyteetime?”“Nah,damngardenerwokemewiththeleafblower.WhatamImissing?”“Nothing, really. Except the office isn’t the same without you. There’s a

certain…energymissing.”“Energy?You’renotbecomingsomeNewAgecrystal-readinghack,areyou,

Al?”Alexgrinned.“No-”“Good.Becausethat’swhyI’mcalling:I’vegotajobforyou.”“Ialreadyhaveajob.Infact,Ihaveenoughworkfortwojobs.”“ThreedistrictcourtsintheareaarepostingavacancyintheBarNews.You

reallyoughttoputyournamein,Alex.”“Tobea judge?”She started to laugh. “Whit,what areyou smoking these

days?”“You’d be good at it, Alex. You’re a fine decision maker. You’re even-

tempered.Youdon’t letyouremotionsget in thewayofyourwork.Youhavethedefenseperspective,soyouunderstandthelitigants.Andyou’vealwaysbeenan excellent trial attorney.” He hesitated. “Plus, it’s not too often that NewHampshirehasaDemocraticfemalegovernorpickingajudge.”

“Thanks for thevoteof confidence,”Alex said, “but I am sonot the rightpersonforthatjob.”

She knew, too, because her father had been a superior court justice. Alexcould remember swinging around in his swivel chair, counting paper clips,runningherthumbnailalongthegreenfeltsurfaceofhisspotlessblottertomakeahatch-markedgrid.She’dpickup thephone and talk to thedial tone.She’dpretend. And then inevitably her father would come in and berate her fordisturbingapencilorafileor-Godforbid-himself.

Onherbelt,herbeeperbegantovibrateagain.“Listen,Ihavetogettocourt.Maybewecandolunchnextweek.”

“Judges’ hours are regular,”Whit added. “What time does Josie get homefromschool?”

“Whit-”“Thinkaboutit,”hesaid,andthenhehungup.“Peter,” his mother sighed, “how could you possibly lose it again?” She

skirtedaroundhis father,whowaspouringhimselfacupofcoffee,andfished

throughthedarkbowelsofthepantryforabrownpaperlunchsack.Peter hated those sacks. The banana never could quite fit in, and the

sandwichalwaysgotcrushed.Butwhatelsewashesupposedtodo?“Whatdidhelose?”hisfatherasked.“Hislunchbox.Forthethirdtimethismonth.”Hismotherbegantofillthe

brown bag-fruit and juice pack on the bottom, sandwich floating on top. Sheglanced at Peter, who was not eating his breakfast, but vivisecting his papernapkin with a knife. He had, so far, made the letters H and T. “If youprocrastinate,you’regoingtomissthebus.”

“You’vegottostartbeingresponsible,”hisfathersaid.Whenhis father spoke,Peterpictured thewords like smoke.Theyclouded

uptheroomforamoment,butbeforeyouknewit,they’dbegone.“ForGod’ssake,Lewis,he’sfive.”“I don’t remember Joey losing his lunch box three times during the first

monthofschool.”PetersometimeswatchedhisfatherplayingsoccerinthebackyardwithJoey.

Theirlegspumpedlikecrazypistonsandgears-forward,backward,forward-asiftheyweredoingadancetogetherwiththeballcaughtbetweenthem.WhenPetertriedtojointhem,hegot tangledupinhisownfrustration.Thelast time,he’dscoredagainsthimselfbyaccident.

Helookedoverhisshoulderathisparents.“I’mnotJoey,”hesaid,andeventhoughnobodyanswered,hecouldhearthereply:Weknow.

“Attorney Cormier?” Alex glanced up to find a former client standing infrontofherdesk,beamingfromeartoear.

It took her a moment to place him. Teddy MacDougal or MacDonald,something like that. She remembered the charge: simple assault domesticviolence.Heandhiswifehadgottendrunkandgoneaftereachother.Alexhadgottenhimacquitted.

“Igotsomethin’forya,”Teddysaid.“I hope youdidn’t buyme anything,” she answered, and shemeant it-this

wasamanfromtheNorthCountrywhowassopoorthatthefloorofhishousewasliterallydirtandhestockedhisfreezerwiththespoilsofhisownhunting.Alexwasnotafanofhunting,butsheunderstoodthatforsomeofherclients-like Teddy-it was not about sport, but survival. Which was exactly why aconvictionforhimwouldhavebeensodevastating:itwouldhavecosthimhisfirearms.

“Ididn’tbuyit.Promise.”Teddygrinned.“It’sinmytruck.Comeonout.”“Can’tyoubringitinhere?”“Oh,no.No,can’tdothat.”

Oh,excellent,Alexthought.Whatcouldhepossiblyhaveinhistruckthathecan’tbringin?ShefollowedTeddyouttotheparkinglotandinthebackofhispickuptrucksawahuge,deadbear.

“Thisisforyourfreeza’,”hesaid.“Teddy,thisisenormous.Youcouldeatitallwinter.”“Damnright.ButIthoughtayou.”“Thankyousomuch.Ireallyappreciateit.ButIdon’t,um,eatmeat.AndI

wouldn’twantittogotowaste.”Shetouchedhisarm.“Ireallywantyoutohaveit.”

Teddysquintedintothesun.“Allright.”HenoddedatAlex,climbedintothecabofhistruck,andbouncedoutoftheparkinglotasthebearthumpedagainstthewallsofthepickupbed.

“Alex!”Sheturnedtofindhersecretarystandinginthedoorway.“Acallfromyourdaughter’sschooljustcamein,”thesecretarysaid.“Josie

gotsenttotheprincipal’soffice.”Josie?Introubleatschool?“Forwhat?”Alexasked.“Shebeatthecrapoutofaboyontheplayground.”Alexstartedtowardhercar.“TellthemI’monmyway.”Ontheridehome,Alexstoleglancesatherdaughterintherearviewmirror.

Josiehadgonetoschoolthismorninginawhitecardiganandkhakipants;nowthat cardiganwas streakedwith dirt. Therewere twigs in her hair,which hadfallenfromitsponytail.Theelbowofhersweaterhadahole in it;her lipwasstill bleeding. And-here was the amazing thing-apparently, she’d fared betterthanthelittleboyshe’dgoneafter.

“Come on,” Alex said, leading Josie upstairs to the bathroom. There, shepeeled off her daughter’s shirt, washed her cuts, and covered them withNeosporinandBand-Aids.She satdown in frontof Josie,on thebathmat thatlookedlikeitwasmadeofCookieMonsterskin.“Youwanttotalkaboutit?”

Josie’slowerlipquivered,andshestartedtocry.“It’sPeter,”shesaid.“DrewpicksonhimallthetimeandPetergetshurt,sotodayIwantedittobetheotherwayaround.”

“Aren’tthereteachersontheplayground?”“Aides.”“Well,youshouldhavetoldthemthatPeterwasgettingteased.Beatingup

Drewonlymakesyoujustasbadashiminthefirstplace.”“Wewent to the aides,” Josie complained. “They toldDrew and the other

kidstoleavePeteralone,buttheyneverlisten.”“So,”Alexsaid,“youdidwhatyouthoughtwasthebestthingatthetime?”

“Yeah.ForPeter.”“Imagine if you always did that. Let’s say you decided that you liked

someoneelse’scoatbetterthanyours,soyoutookit.”“Thatwouldbestealing,”Josiesaid.“Exactly. That’s why there are rules. You can’t break the rules, not even

whenitseemslikeeveryoneelseisdoingit.Becauseifyoudo-ifwealldo-thenthewholeworld becomes a very scary place.Onewhere coats get stolen andpeople get beat up on the playground. Instead of doing the best thing, wesometimeshavetosettlefortherightestthing.”

“What’sthedifference?”“Thebestthingiswhatyouthinkshouldbedone.Therightestthingiswhat

needstobedone-whenyouthinknotjustofyouandhowyoufeel,butalsotheextrastuff-whoelseisinvolved,andwhat’shappenedbefore,andwhattherulessay.”SheglancedatJosie.“Whydidn’tPeterfight?”

“Hethoughthe’dgetintrouble.”“Irestmycase,”Alexsaid.Josie’seyelasheswerespikedwithtears.“Areyoumadatme?”Alexhesitated.“I’mangryat theaides fornotpayingattentionwhenPeter

wasgettingteased.AndI’mnotthrilledthatyoupunchedaboyinthenose.ButI’mproud of you forwanting to defend your friend.”She kissed Josie on theforehead.“Gogetsomeclothesthatdon’thaveholesinthem,WonderWoman.”

When Josie scrambled off into her bedroom,Alex remained sitting on thebathroomfloor.Itstruckherthatdispensingjusticewasreallymoreaboutbeingpresentandengagedthananythingelse-unlikethoseaidesontheplayground,forexample.Youcouldbefirmwithoutbeingbossy;youcouldmakeitapoint toknowtherules;youcouldtakeallevidenceintoconsiderationbeforecomingtoaconclusion.

Being a good judge,Alex realized,was not all that different frombeing agoodmother.

Shestoodup,wentdownstairs,andpickedupthephone.Whitansweredonthethirdring.“Okay,”shesaid.“TellmewhatIhavetodo.”

ThechairwastoosmallbeneathLacy’sbottom;herkneesdidnotfitunderthe desk; the colors on thewallswere too bright. The teacherwho sat acrossfromherwas soyoung thatLacywondered if shecouldgohomeanddrinkaglassofwinewithoutbreakinganylaws.“Mrs.Houghton,”theteachersaid,“IwishIcouldgiveyouabetterexplanation,butthefactis,somekidsaresimplymagnetsforteasing.Otherchildrenseeaweakness,andtheyexploitit.”

“What’sPeter’sweakness?”sheasked.The teacher smiled. “I don’t see it as aweakness.He’s sensitive, and he’s

sweet.But thatmeans he’s far less likely to be running aroundwith the otherboysplayingpolicechase thanhe is tobecoloring inacornerwithJosie.Theotherchildrenintheclassnotice.”

Lacy remembered being in elementary school, not that much older thanPeter,andraisingchicksfromanincubator.Thesixeggshadhatched,butoneofthechickswasbornwithagnarledleg.Itwasalwaysthelasttothefeedtrayandthewatertrough,anditwasscrawnierandmoretentativethanitssiblings.Oneday,whiletheclasswatchedinhorror,themaimedchickwaspeckedtodeathbytheothers.

“Thebehavioroftheseotherboysisnotbeingtolerated,”theteacherassuredLacy. “Whenwe see it, we immediately send the child to the principal.” Sheopenedhermouthasifshewasabouttosaysomething,andthensnappeditshut.

“What?”The teacher looked down at the desk. “It’s just that, unfortunately, that

response can have the opposite effect. The boys identify Peter as the reasonthey’reintrouble,andthatperpetuatesthecycleofviolence.”

Lacy felt her face growing hot. “What are you doing, personally, tomakesurethisdoesn’thappenagain?”

Sheexpected the teacher to talkabouta time-outchair,orsomeretributivepunishmentthatwouldbehandedoutifPeterwasagaintauntedbytheincrowd.But instead, the youngwoman said, “I’m showing Peter how to stand up forhimself.Ifsomeonecutshiminthelunchline,orifhe’steased,tosaysomethinginreturninsteadofjustacceptingit.”

Lacy blinked at her. “I…I can’t believe I’m hearing this. So if he getsshoved,he’ssupposedtoshoveback?Whenhisfoodgetsknockedonthefloor,heshouldreciprocate?”

“Ofcoursenot-”“You’retellingmethatforPetertofeelsafeinschool,he’sgoingtohaveto

startactingliketheboyswhodothistohim?”“No,I’mtellingyouabouttherealityofgradeschool,”theteachercorrected.

“Look,Mrs.Houghton.Icantellyouwhatyouwanttohear.IcansaythatPeteris a wonderful child, which he is. I can tell you that the school will teachtolerance and will discipline the boys who’ve been making Peter’s life somiserable,andthatthiswillbeenoughtostopit.ButthesadfactisthatifPeterwantsittoend,he’sgoingtohavetobepartofthesolution.”

Lacy lookeddownatherhands.They lookedgargantuanon thesurfaceofthe tiny pupil’s desk. “Thank you. For your honesty.” She stood up carefully,becausethatishowit’sbesttomoveinaworldwhereyounolongerfit.

She let herself out of the kindergarten classroom. Peter was waiting on a

smallwoodenbenchbeneath the cubbies in the hall. Itwas her job asPeter’smothertosmooththeroadinfrontofhimsothathewouldn’tfalter.Butwhatifshe couldn’t bulldoze on his behalf all the time? Is thatwhat the teacher hadbeentryingtotellher?

ShesquatteddowninfrontofPeterandreachedforhishands.“YouknowIloveyou,right?”Lacysaid.

Peternodded.“YouknowIonlywantwhat’sbestforyou.”“Yes,”Petersaid.“Iknowabout the lunchboxes. Iknowwhat’sbeengoingonwithDrew. I

heard about Josie punching him. I know the kinds of things he says to you.”Lacyfelthereyesfillwithtears.“Thenexttimeithappens,youhavetostickupforyourself.Youhaveto,Peter,orI…I’mgoingtohavetopunishyou.”

Lifewasn’tfair.Lacyhadbeenpassedoverforpromotions,nomatterhowhard she’d worked. She’d seen mothers who’d taken meticulous care ofthemselvesdeliverstillborns,whilecrackaddictshadhealthyinfants.She’dseenfourteen-year-olds dying of ovarian cancer before they ever got a chance toreallylive.Youcouldn’tfighttheinjusticeoffate;youcouldonlysufferitandhopethatonedayitmightbedifferent.Butsomehow,itwasevenmoredifficulttostomachonbehalfofyourchild. It toreLacyapart tohave tobe theone topullbackthatcurtainofinnocence,sothatPeterwouldseethatnomatterhowmuch she loved him-no matter how much she had wanted this world to beperfectforhim-itwouldalwaysfallshort.

Swallowing,shestaredatPeter,tryingtothinkofwhatshecoulddotospurhim to self-defense, which punishmentwouldmake him change his behavior,evenasitbrokeherhearttomakehimdojustthat.“Ifthishappensagain…noplaydateswithJosieforamonth.”

Sheclosedhereyesattheultimatum.Itwasnotthewayshelikedtoparent,butapparentlyherusualadvice-bekind,bepolite,bewhatyouwantothers tobe-haddonePeternogood.IfathreatmightmakePeterroar,soloudthatDrewandallthoseotherawfulchildrenslunkawaywiththeirtailsbetweentheirlegs,thenLacywoulddoit.

She brushed Peter’s hair back from his face, watching the play of doubtcloudhis features-andwhy shouldn’t it?Hismotherhadcertainlynevergivenhimadirectivelikethisbefore.“He’sabully.Ajerk,inatinypackage.Buthe’llgrowup to be a bigger jerk, andyou-you’re going to growup to be someoneincredible.”Lacysmiledwidelyatherson.“Oneday,Peter,everyone’sgoingtoknowyourname.”

Therewere two swings out on the playground, and sometimes you had to

waityourturnforthem.Whenthathappened,Peterwouldcrosshisfingersandhope thathegot theone thathadn’tbeen swungaround the topbarbya fifthgrader,makingitsothattheseatwasincrediblyhighoffthegroundandhardtoget into.Hewas afraid hewould fall off, trying to get on the swing, or, evenmoreembarrassing,notevenbeabletohikehimselfupinthefirstplace.

WhenhewaitedwithJosie,shealways tookthatswing.Shepretendedshelikedit,butPeterrealizedshewasonlypretendingshedidn’tknowhowmuchhedislikedit.

Today at recess, theyweren’t swinging. Instead, they’d twisted the chainsroundandrounduntil theywereasknottedasa throat,and then they’d liftuptheir feet and go spinning. Peter would sometimes look back at the sky andimaginethathewasflying.

When theystopped,hisswingandJosie’sstaggeredagainsteachotherandtheirfeetgotalltangled.Shelaughed,andlightlylockedtheiranklestogethersothattheywereconnected,ahumanchainlink.

Heturnedtoher.“Iwantpeopletolikeme,”heblurtedout.Josietiltedherhead.“Peopledolikeyou.”Petersplithisfeet,disengagingthem.“Imeantpeople,”hesaid,“whoaren’t

you.”TheapplicationtobecomeajudgetookAlextwofulldaystocomplete,and

as she filled it out, a remarkable thing happened: she realized that she didactuallywanttobeajudge.Inspiteofwhatshe’dsaidtoWhit,inspiteofherearlierreservations,shewasmakingtherightdecisionfortherightreasons.

WhentheJudicialSelectionCommissioncalledforaninterview,theymadeitclearthatsuchinvitationswerenotextendedtojustanybody.ThatifAlexwasbeinginterviewed,shewasbeingseriouslyconsideredfortheposition.Thejobof thecommissionwas togive thegovernora short listofcandidates. Judicialcommission interviewswereconductedat theoldgovernor’smansion,BridgesHouse, inEastConcord.Theywere staggered, andcandidates entered throughoneentranceandleftthroughanother,presumablysothatnooneknewwhoelsewasupforthejob.

Thetwelvemembersofthecommissionwerelawyers,policemen,executivedirectors of victim’s advocacy organizations. They stared so hard atAlex thatsheexpectedher face toburst into flames. It didnothelp, either, that shehadbeenuphalfthenightwithJosie,who’dawakenedfromanightmareaboutaboaconstrictor and refused to go back to sleep. Alex didn’t know who the othercandidateswereforthisposition,butshe’dwagerthattheyweren’tsinglemomswho’dhadtopoketheradiatorventswithayardstickat3:00a.m.toprovethatthereweren’tanysnakeshidinginthedarktunnels.

“I like the pace,” she said carefully, replying to a question. There wereanswersshewasexpectedtogive,sheknew.Thetrickwastosomehowimbuethestockphrasesandanticipatedresponseswithpartofherpersonality.“I likethepressureofmakingaquickdecision.I’mstrongontherulesofevidence.I’vebeenincourtroomswithjusticeswhodon’tdotheirhomeworkinadvance,andIknowIwon’tfunctionthatway.”Shehesitated,lookingaroundatthemenandwomen, wondering if she should cultivate a persona like most of the otherpeoplewhoappliedforjudicialpositions-andwho’dcomethroughthehallowedranks of the prosecutorial office-or if she should be herself and allow thepetticoathemofherpublicdefenderbackgroundtopeekout.

Oh,hell.“Iguess the reasonI reallywant tobea judge isbecause I love thewaya

courtroomisanequalopportunityenvironment.Whenyoucomeintoit,forthatbrief amount of time, your case is the most important thing in the world, toeveryoneinthatroom.Thesystemworksforyou.Itdoesn’tmatterwhoyouare,orwhereyou’refrom-yourtreatmentwilldependontheletterofthelaw,notonanysocioeconomicvariables.”

Oneof thecommissionmembers lookeddownathernotes. “Whatdoyouthinkmakesagoodjudge,Ms.Cormier?”

Alex felt a bead of sweat run down between her shoulder blades. “Beingpatientbutfirm.Beingincontrolbutnotbeingarrogant.Knowingtherulesofevidenceandtherulesofacourtroom.”Shepaused.“Thisisprobablynotwhatyou’reusedtohearing,butIthinkagoodjudgeprobablyisawhizattangrams.”

An older woman from a victim’s advocacy group blinked. “I beg yourpardon?”

“Tangrams.I’mamom.Mylittlegirl,she’sfive.Andthere’sthisgameshehaswhereyou’regivenageometricoutlineofafigure-aboat,atrain,abird-andyou somehow construct it from a set of puzzle pieces: triangles andparallelograms-somebiggerthanothers.It’seasyforapersonwithgoodspatialrelations skills,becauseyou reallyhave to thinkoutside thebox.Andbeingajudgeislikethat.You’vegotallofthesecompetingfactors-thepartiesinvolved,thevictims,lawenforcement,society,evenprecedent-andyousomehowhavetousethemtosolvetheproblemwithinagivenframework.”

Intheuncomfortablesilencethatfollowed,Alexturnedherheadandcaughta glimpse through a window of the next interviewee arriving through theentrancevestibule.Sheblinked,certainshe’dseenwrong,butyoudidnotforgetthesilveredcurlsthatyou’doncerunyourfingersthrough;youdidnotputoutofyourmindthegeographyofcheekbonesandjawyou’dtracedwithyourownlips. LoganRourke-her trial advocacy professor; her old lover; her daughter’s

father-headedintothebuildingandclosedthedoor.Apparently,hewasajudicialcandidateaswell.Alexdrewinherbreath,evenmoredeterminedtowinthispositionthanshe

hadbeenamomentago.“Ms.Cormier?”theolderwomansaidagain,andAlexrealizedshe’dmissedherquestionthefirsttimearound.

“Yes.Sorry?”“Iaskedhowsuccessfulyouarewhenyouplaytangrams.”Alexmethergaze.“Ma’am,”shesaid,lettingabroadsmileescape,“I’mthe

NewHampshireStateChampion.”Atfirst,thenumbersjustlookedfatter.Butthentheystartedtotwistalittle,

andPeterhadtoeithersquinchuphisfaceorgetclosertoseeifitwasa3oran8.Histeachersenthimtothenurse,whosmelledliketeabagsandfeet,andshemadehimlookatachartonthewall.

His new eyeglasses were light as a feather and had special lenses thatwouldn’tscratchevenifhefelldownandtheywentflyingacrossasandbox.Theframesweremade out ofwire, too thin, in his opinion, to hold up the curvedpiecesofglassthatmadehiseyeslooklikeanowl’s:oversized,bright,soblue.

WhenPetergothisglasseshewasamazed.Suddenly,theblurinthedistancecoagulatedintoafarmwithsilosandfieldsandspotsofcows.ThelettersontheredsignsaidSTOP.Thereweretinylines,likethecreasesonhisknuckles,atthecorners of his mother’s eyes. All superheroes had accessories-Batman’s belt,Superman’scape-thiswashis,anditgavehimX-rayvision.Hewassoexcitedabouthavinghisnewglassesthathesleptwiththem.

It wasn’t until he got to school the next day that he understood that withbettervisioncameperfecthearing:Four-eyes;blindasabat.Hisglasseswerenolonger a mark of distinction but only a scar, something else that made himdifferentfromeveryoneelse.Andthatwasn’teventheworstofit.

Astheworldcameintofocus,Peterrealizedhowpeoplelookedwhentheyglancedathim.Asifhewerethepunchlinetoajoke.

And Peter, with his 20/20 vision, cast his eyes downward, so that hewouldn’tsee.

“Wearesubversiveparents,”AlexwhisperedtoLacyastheysatwiththeirkneesbenthighasagrasshopper’s atoneof theundersize tablesduringOpenSchool Day. She took the Cuisenaire rods used for math-bright colored unitstripsoftwos,threes,fours,fives-andfashionedthemtospellacurseword.

“It’sallfunandgamesuntilsomeoneturnsouttobeajudge,”Lacychided,andshescatteredthewordwithherhand.

“Afraid I’m going to get you kicked out of kindergarten?” Alex laughed.“Andasforthejudgething,that’saboutasmuchofalongshotasmewinning

thelottery.”“We’llsee,”Lacysaid.The teacher leaned down between them and handed each woman a small

pieceofpaper.“TodayI’minvitingalltheparentstowritedownonewordthatbestdescribestheirchild.Later,we’llmakealovecollageoutofthem.”

AlexglancedatLacy.“Alovecollage?”“Stopbeinganti-kindergarten.”“I’m not. In fact, I think everything you need to know about the law you

learninkindergarten.Youknow:Don’thit.Don’t takewhat’snotyours.Don’tkillpeople.Don’trapethem.”

“Oh,yeah,Irememberthatlesson.Rightaftersnacktime,”Lacysaid.“YouknowwhatImean.It’sasocialcontract.”“What if youwound up on the bench and had to uphold a lawyou didn’t

believein?”“Firstoff,that’sabigif.Andsecond,I’ddoit.I’dfeelhorribleaboutit,but

I’ddo it,”Alexsaid.“Youdon’twanta judgewithapersonalagenda,believeme.”

Lacytore theedgeofherpaper intoafringe.“Ifyoubecomethe job, thenwhendoyougettobeyou?”

Alexgrinnedandpushed theCuisenaire rods intoanother four-letterword.“Atkindergartenopenhouses,Iguess.”

Suddenly Josie appeared, rosy-cheeked and flushed. “Mommy,” she said,tuggingonAlex’shandasPeterclimbedontoLacy’slap.“We’realldone.”

Theyhadbeenintheblockcorner,creatingasurprise.LacyandAlexstoodup,lettingthemselvesbeledpastthebookrackandthestacksoftinycarpetsandthe science table with its rotting pumpkin experiment whose pitted skin andsunkenfleshremindedAlexof thefaceofaprosecutorsheknew.“This isourhouse,” Josie announced, pushing open a block that served as the front door.“We’remarried.”

LacynudgedAlex.“Ialwayswantedtogetalongwithmyin-laws.”Peterstoodatawoodenstove,mixingimaginaryfoodinaplasticpot.Josie

putonanoversizelabcoat.“Timetogotowork.I’llbehomefordinner.”“Okay,”Petersaid.“We’rehavingmeatballs.”“What’syourjob?”AlexaskedJosie.“I’majudge.IsendpeopletojailalldaylongandthenIcomehomeandeat

pisghetti.” Shewalked around the perimeter of the block house and reenteredthroughthefrontdoor.

“Sitdown,”Petersaid.“You’relateagain.”Lacy closed her eyes. “Is it just me, or is this like looking into a really

unflatteringmirror?”TheywatchedJosieandPeterputasidetheirplatesandthenmovetoanother

part of their block house, a smaller square within the square. They lay downinsideit.“Thisisthebed,”Josieexplained.

TheteachercameupbehindAlexandLacy.“Theyplayhouseallthetime,”shesaid.“Isn’titsweet?”

AlexwatchedPetercurluponhisside.Josiespoonedagainsthim,wrappingherarmaroundhiswaist.Shewonderedhowherdaughterhadeverformedanimage of a couple like this in hermind, given that she’d never even seen hermothergooutonadate.

ShewatchedLacyleanagainsttheblockcubbyandwrite,onhersmallslipof paper, tender.That did describePeter-hewas tender, almost to the point ofbeing raw. It tooksomeone likeJosie-curledaroundhim likeashell-toprotecthim.

Alex reached for apencil and smoothedout thepieceofpaper.Adjectivestumbledthroughhermind-thereweresomanyforherdaughter:dynamic,loyal,bright,breathtaking-butshefoundherselfformingdifferentletters.

Mine,shewrote.This time when the lunch box hit the pavement, it broke wide across its

hingesand thecarbehind theschoolbus ran rightoverhis tuna fishsandwichandhisbagofDoritos.Thebusdriver, asusual,didn’tnotice.The fifth-gradeboysweresogoodatdoingthisbynowthatthewindowwasopenedandclosedbeforeyoucouldevenyellforthemtostop.Peterfelthiseyeswellingwithtearsastheboyshigh-fivedeachother.Hecouldhearhismother’svoiceinhishead-this was themoment where he was supposed to stick up for himself!-but hismotherdidnotrealizethatwouldonlymakeitworse.

“Oh,Peter,”Josiesighedashesatdownagainbesideher.He stared down at his mittens. “I don’t think I can go to your house on

Friday.”“Howcome?”“Becausemymomsaidshe’llpunishmeifIlosemylunchboxagain.”“That’snotfair,”Josiesaid.Petershrugged.“Nothingis.”NoonewasmoresurprisedthanAlexwhenthegovernorofNewHampshire

officially picked her from a short list of three candidates for a district courtjudicial position. Although it made sense that Jeanne Shaheen-a young,Democraticfemalegovernor-wouldwanttoappointayoung,Democraticfemalejudge,Alexwasstilla little light-headedover thenewswhenshewentforherinterview.

Thegovernorwas younger thanAlex had expected, and prettier.Which isexactlywhatmostpeoplewillthinkaboutmeifI’monthebench,shethought.Shesatdownandslippedherhandsunderherthighstokeepthemfromshaking.

“IfInominateyou,”thegovernorsaid,“isthereanythingIshouldknow?”“Youmeanskeletonsinmycloset?”Shaheennodded.Whatitreallycamedownto,foragubernatorialappointee,

was whether or not that nominee would in some way reflect poorly on thegovernor herself. Shaheen was trying to cross her t’s and dot her i’s beforemakinganofficialdecision,andforthat,Alexcouldonlyadmireher.“IsanyonegoingtocometoyourExecutiveCouncilhearingandopposeyournomination?”thegovernorasked.

“Thatdepends.Areyougivingoutfurloughsatthestateprison?”Shaheenlaughed.“Itakeitthat’swhereyourdisgruntledclientshaveended

up.”“That’sexactlywhythey’redisgruntled.”ThegovernorstoodupandshookAlex’shand.“Ithinkwe’llgetalongwell,”

shesaid.MaineandNewHampshireweretheonlytwostatesleftinthecountrywith

an Executive Council-a group that acted as a direct check on the governor’spower.ForAlex, thismeant that inthemonthbetweenhernominationandherconfirmation hearing, she had to do whatever she could to placate fiveRepublicanmenbeforetheyputherthroughthewringer.

She called them weekly, asking if they had any questions they neededanswered.Shealsohad toarrange forwitnesses toappearonherbehalfat theconfirmation hearing. After years in the public defender’s office, this shouldhavebeensimple,buttheExecutiveCouncildidnotwanttohearfromlawyers.Theywanted to hear from the communitywhereAlexworked and lived-fromherfirst-gradeteachertoastatetrooperwholikedherinspiteofherallegiancetotheDarkSide.ThetrickypartwasthatAlexhadtocallinallherfavorstogetthesepeopletoprepareandtestify,butshealsohadtomakeitclearthatifshedidgetconfirmedasajudge,shecouldgivethemnothinginreturn.

And then, finally, it was Alex’s turn to take the hot seat. She sat in theExecutiveCouncilofficeintheStateHouse,fieldingquestionsthatrangedfromWhatwasthelastbookyouread?toWhohastheburdenofproofinabuseandneglect cases?Most of thequestionswere substantive and academic, until shewasthrownacurve.

Ms.Cormier,whohastherighttojudgesomeoneelse?“Well,”shesaid.“Thatdependsonwhetheryou’rejudginginamoralsense

oralegalsense.Morally,noonehastherighttojudgeanyoneelse.Butlegally,

it’snotaright-it’saresponsibility.”Followinguponthat,whatisyourpositiononfirearms?Alex hesitated. She was not a fan of guns. She didn’t let Josie watch

anythingontelevisionthatshowedviolence.Sheknewwhathappenedwhenyouputaguninthehandofatroubledkid,oranangryhusband,orabatteredwife-she’d defended those clients toomany times to dismiss that kind of catalyticreaction.

Andyet.She was in New Hampshire, a conservative state, in front of a group of

Republicans who were terrified she would turn out to be a left-wing loosecannon.Shewouldbepresidingovercommunitieswherehuntingwasnotonlyreveredbutnecessary.

Alextookasipofwater.“Legally,”shesaid,“Iampro-firearms.”“It’scrazy,”AlexsaidasshestoodinLacy’skitchen.“Yougototheserobe

sites online, and the models are all linebackers with breasts. The publicperceptionofafemalejudgeisonethatlookslikeBeaArthur.”Sheleanedintothehallwayandyelledupthestairs.“Josie!I’mcountingtotenandthenwe’releaving!”

“Aretherechoices?”“Yeah, black…or black.” Alex folded her arms. “You can get cotton and

polyesterorjustpolyester.Youcangetbellsleevesorgatheredsleeves.They’reallhideous.WhatIreallywantissomethingwithawaist.”

“GuessVeraWangdoesn’tdojudicial,”Lacysaid.“Notquite.”Shestuckherheadintothehallwayagain.“Josie!Now!”Lacyputdownthedishtowelshehadbeenusingtodryapanandfollowed

Alexintothehall.“Peter!Josie’smotherhastogethome!”Whentherewasnoresponsefromthechildren,Lacyheadedupstairs.“They’reprobablyhiding.”

Alex followedher intoPeter’sbedroom,whereLacy threwopen theclosetdoors and checked beneath the bed. From there, they checked the bathroom,Joey’sroom,andthemasterbedroom.Itwasn’tuntiltheywentdownstairsagainthattheyheardvoicescomingfromthebasement.“It’sheavy,”Josiesaid.

ThenPeter:“Here.Likethis.”Alex wound down the wooden stairway. Lacy’s basement was a one-

hundred-year-oldrootcellarwithadirtfloorandcobwebsstrunglikeChristmasdecorations. She homed in on the whispers coming from a corner of thebasement, and there, behind a stack of boxes and a shelf full of home-cannedjelly,wasJosie,holdingarifle.

“OhmyGod,”Alexbreathed,andJosieswungaround,pointingthebarrelather.

Lacy grabbed the gun and pulled it away. “Where did you get this?” shedemanded,andonlythendidPeterandJosieseemtorealizethatsomethingwaswrong.

“Peter,”Josiesaid.“Hehadakey.”“Akey?”Alexcried.“Towhat?”“The safe,” Lacymurmured. “Hemust have seenLewis taking out a rifle

whenhewenthuntinglastweekend.”“Mydaughterhasbeencomingover toyourhouse forhow longnow,and

you’vegotgunslyingaround?”“They’renotlyingaround,”Lacysaid.“They’reinalockedgunsafe.”“Whichyourfive-year-oldcanopen!”“Lewiskeepsthebullets-”“Where?”Alexdemanded.“OrshouldIjustaskPeter?”LacyturnedtoPeter.“Youknowbetter.Whatonearthmadeyoudothis?”“Ijustwantedtoshowittoher,Mom.Sheasked.”Josieliftedafrightenedface.“Ididnot.”Alexturned.“Sonowyourson’sblamingJosie-”“Oryourdaughter’slying,”Lacycountered.Theystaredateachother,twofriendswhohadseparatedalongthefaultlines

of their children.Alex’s facewas flushed.What if, shekept thinking.What ifthey’dbeenfiveminuteslater?WhatifJosiehadbeenhurt,killed?Ontheedgesof this thought, another one ignited-the answers she’d given the ExecutiveCouncilweeksbefore.Whohastherighttojudgesomeoneelse?

Noone,shehadsaid.Andyet,hereshewasdoingit.Iampro-firearms,shehadtoldthem.Didthatmakeherahypocrite?Orwassheonlybeingagoodmother?AlexwatchedLacykneelbesidehersonandthatwasall it tooktotripthe

switch: Josie’s steadfast loyalty toPeter suddenly seemed to only be aweightdragging her down. Maybe it was best for Josie if she started making otherfriends. Friends who did not get her called to the principal’s office and whoplacedriflesinherhand.

AlexanchoredJosietoherside.“Ithinkweoughttoleave.”“Yes,”Lacyagreed,hervoicecool.“Ithinkthatwouldbebest.”Theywere in the frozen-foodaislewhenJosiebeganher tantrum.“Idon’t

likepeas,”shewhined.“Youdon’thave toeat them.”Alexopenedup the freezerdoor, letting the

coldairkisshercheekasshereachedfortheGreenGiantvegetables.“IwantOreos.”

“You’renotgettingOreos.Youalreadyhadanimalcrackers.”Josiehadbeencontentious for aweeknow, ever since the fiasco atLacy’shouse.Alexknewshecouldn’tkeepJosiefrombeingwithPeteratschoolduringtheday,butthatdidn’tmeanshehadtocultivatetherelationshipbyallowingJosietoinvitehimovertoplayafterward.

AlexhauledavatofPolandSpringwaterintohercart,thenabottleofwine.Onsecondthought,shereachedforanother.“Doyouwantchickenorhamburgerfordinner?”

“Iwanttofurkey.”Alexstartedlaughing.“Wheredidyouhearabouttofurkey?”“Lacymadeitforusfor lunch.They’relikehotdogsbut they’rebetterfor

you.”Alexsteppedforwardashernumberwascalledatthemeatcounter.“CanI

haveahalfpoundofbonelesschickenbreasts?”“How come you get what you want, but I never get what I want?” Josie

accused.“Believeme,you’renotasdeprivedachildasyou’dliketothinkyouare.”“Iwantanapple,”Josieannounced.Alexsighed.“Canwejustpleasegetthroughthegrocerystorewithoutyou

sayingIwantagain?”BeforeAlexrealizedwhatherdaughterwasdoing,Josiekickedoutfromthe

seatoftheshoppingcart,catchingAlexhardinthemiddle.“Ihateyou!”Josiescreamed.“You’retheworstmominthewholeworld!”

Alexwasuncomfortablyawareoftheothershopperslookingather-theoldwomanfeelingmelons,thegroceryemployeewithhisfistsfulloffreshbroccoli.Whydidkidsalwaysfallapartinvenueswhereyouwouldbedulymeasuredforyouractions?“Josie,”shesaid,smilingthroughherteeth,“calmdown.”

“IwishyouwerelikePeter’smother!IwishIcouldjustgolivewiththem.”Alexgraspedhershoulders,hardenoughtomakeJosieburstintotears.“You

listen to me,” she said in a heated undertone, and then she caught a distantwhisper,andthewordjudge.

Therehadbeenanarticleinthelocalpaperaboutherrecentappointmenttothedistrictcourt;itranwithaphoto.Alexhadfeltthesparkofrecognitionwhenshe passed people in the baking aisle and the cereal aisle:Oh, that’s her. Butrightnow,shealsofelt thechecksandbalancesof theirstaresastheywatchedherwithJosie,waitingforhertoact-well-judiciously.

Sherelaxedhergrasp.“Iknowyou’retired,”Alexsaid,loudenoughfortherestof theentirestoretohear.“Iknowyouwanttogohome.Butyouhavetobehavewhenwe’reoutinpublic.”

Josie blinked through her tears, listening to the Voice of Reason andwonderingwhat this alien creaturehaddonewithher realmother,whowouldhaveyelledrightbackatherandtoldhertocutitout.

Ajudge,Alexsuddenlyrealized,doesn’tgettobeajudgeonlyonthebench.She’sstillajudgewhenshegoesouttoarestaurantordancesatapartyorwantsto throttleherchild in themiddleof theproduceaisle.Alexhadbeengivenamantle to wear, without realizing that there was a catch: she would never beallowedtotakeitoff.

Ifyouspentyour lifeconcentratingonwhateveryoneelse thoughtofyou,wouldyouforgetwhoyoureallywere?Whatifthefaceyoushowedtheworldturnedouttobeamask…withnothingbeneathit?

Alexpushedthecarttowardthecheckoutlines.Bynow,herragingchildhadturnedintoacontritelittlegirlagain.ShelistenedtoJosie’sdiminishinghiccups.“There,”shesaid,tocomfortherselfasmuchasherdaughter.“Isn’tthatbetter?”

Alex’sfirstdayonthebenchwasspentinKeene.Noonebutherclerkwouldknowofficially that itwas her first day-attorneys had heard shewas new, butweren’tsurewhenshequitestarted-andyet,shewasterrified.Shechangedheroutfit three times, even though no onewould see it underneath her robe. Shethrewuptwicebeforesheleftforthecourthouse.

She knew how to get to chambers-after all, she’d tried cases here on theother side of the bench a hundred times. The clerk was a thin man namedIshmael who remembered Alex from their previous meetings and hadn’tparticularly liked her-she’d cracked up after he introduced himself (“Call meIshmael”).Today,however,hepracticallyfellatherhigh-heeledfeet.“Welcome,YourHonor,”hesaid.“Here’syourdocket.I’lltakeyoutoyourchambers,andwe’llsendacourtofficerintogetyouwhenwe’reready.IsthereanythingelseIcandoforyou?”

“No,”Alexsaid.“I’mallset.”He left her in chambers, which were freezing cold. She adjusted the

thermostat and pulled her robe out of her briefcase to dress. There was anadjoiningbathroom;Alex stepped inside to scrutinizeherself. She looked fair.Commanding.

Andmaybealittlelikeachoirgirl.Shesatdownatthedeskandimmediatelythoughtofherfather.Lookatme,

Daddy,shethought,althoughbynowhewasinaplacewherehecouldn’thearher.Shecould rememberdozensof caseshe’d tried;he’dcomehomeand tellher about them over dinner.What she couldn’t remember were the momentswhenhewasn’tajudgeandwasjustherfather.

Alex scanned the files she needed for thatmorning’s run of arraignments.

Thenshelookedatherwatch.Shestillhadforty-fiveminutesbeforecourtwentintosession; itwasherowndamnfault forbeingsonervous that she’dgottenheretooearly.Shestoodup,stretched.Shecoulddocartwheelsinthisroom,itwasthatbig.

Butshewouldn’t,becausejudgesdidn’tdothat.Tentatively, she opened the door to the hall, and immediately Ishmael

materialized.“YourHonor?WhatcanIdoforyou?”“Coffee,”Alexsaid.“Thatwouldbenice.”IshmaeljumpedonthisrequestsofastthatAlexrealizedifsheaskedhimto

gooutandbuyagiftforJosie’sbirthday,hewouldhaveitwrappedandonherdeskbynoon.She followedhim into the lounge, one sharedby attorneys andotherjudges,andwalkedtowardthecoffeemaker.Immediately,ayoungattorneyfell back. “You go right ahead,YourHonor,” she said, giving up her place inline.

Alex reached for a paper cup. She’d have to remember to bring amug toleaveinchambers.Thenagain,sinceherpositionwasarotatingonethatwouldtakeherthroughLaconia,Concord,Keene,Nashua,Rochester,Milford,Jaffrey,Peterborough,Grafton, andCoos, depending onwhat day of theweek itwas,she’dhavetofindalotofcoffeemugs.Shepusheddownonthethermalcoffeedispenser,onlytohaveitwhistleandhiss-empty.Withouteventhinkingaboutit,shereachedforafiltertomakeafreshpot.

“Your Honor, you don’t have to do that,” the attorney said, clearlyembarrassedonAlex’sbehalf.Shetookthefilteroutofherhandandstartedtomakethecoffee.

Alexstaredatthelawyer.ShewonderedifanyonewouldevercallherAlexagain,orifsheshouldjusthavehernameofficiallychangedtoYourHonor.Shewondered if anyone would have the guts to tell her if she had toilet paperhangingoffhershoeasshewalkeddownthehall,or ifshehadspinachinherteeth.Itwasastrangefeelingtobescrutinizedsocarefullyandtoknowallthesame that no one would ever dare to tell her to her face that something waswrong.

Thelawyerbroughtherthemaidencupoffreshcoffee.“Iwasn’tsurehowyoulikedit,YourHonor,”shesaid,offeringsugarandcreamercups.

“This is fine,” Alex said, but as she reached for the cup, her bell sleevecaughttheedgeoftheStyrofoam,andthecoffeespilled.

Smooth,Alex,shethought.“Oh,gosh,”thelawyersaid.“I’msorry!”Why are you sorry, Alex wondered, when it was my fault? The girl was

alreadysettingoutnapkinstocleanupthemess,soAlexstrippedoffhergown

to clean it. For one giddy moment she thought about not stopping there-disrobing completely, down to her bra and panties, and parading through thecourthouseliketheEmperorinthefairytale.Isn’tmygownbeautiful?she’dsay,andshewouldlistentoeveryoneanswer:Oh,yes,YourHonor.

Sherinsedthesleeveoffinthesinkandwrungitdry.Then,stillcarryingherrobe,shestartedback tochambers.But the thoughtofsitting thereforanotherhalfhour,alone,wastoodepressing,soinsteadAlexbegantowanderthehallsoftheKeenecourthouse.Shetookturnsshe’dnevertakenbeforeandwoundupatabasementdoorthatledtoaloadingzone.

Outside, she found a woman dressed in the green jumpsuit of agroundskeeper,smokingacigarette.Theairwasfullofwinter,andfrostglitteredon theasphalt likebrokenglass.Alexwrappedherarmsaroundherself-itwasquitepossiblyevencolderoutherethaninchambers-andnoddedatthestranger.“Hi,”shesaid.

“Hey.”Thewomanexhaledastreamofsmoke.“Ihaven’tseenyouaroundherebefore.What’syourname?”

“Alex.”“I’m Liz. I’m the whole property maintenance department.” She grinned.

“Sowheredoyouworkinthecourthouse?”Alex fumbled in her pocket for a box of Tic Tacs-not that she wanted or

needed a mint, but because she wanted to buy some time before thisconversationcametoascreechinghalt.“Um,”shesaid,“I’mthejudge.”

Immediately,Liz’sfacefell,andshesteppedback,uncomfortable.“Youknow,Ihatetellingyouthat,becauseitwassonicethewayyoujust

struckupaconversationwithme.Nooneelsearoundherewilldothatandit’s…well, it’sa little lonely.”Alexhesitated.“Couldyoumaybeforget that I’mthejudge?”

Lizgroundoutthecigarettebeneathherboot.“Depends.”Alex nodded. She turned the small plastic box ofmints over in her palm;

theyrattledlikemusic.“YouwantaTicTac?”After a moment, Liz held out her hand. “Sure, Alex,” she said, and she

smiled.Peterhadtakentowanderinghisownhomelikeaghost.Hewasgrounded,

whichhadsomething todowith the fact that Josiedidn’tcomeoveranymore,eventhoughtheyusedtoseeeachotherafterschoolthreeorfourtimesaweek.Joeydidn’twanttoplaywithhim-hewasalwaysoffatsoccerpracticeorplayingacomputergamewhereyouhadtodrivereallyfastaroundaracetrackthatwasbentlikeapaperclip-whichmeantthatPeter,officially,hadnothingtodo.

Oneeveningafterdinner,heheardrustlinginthebasement.Hehadn’tbeen

downtheresincehismotherhadfoundhimwithJosieandthegun,butnowhewasdrawnlikeamothtothelightoverhisfather’sworkbench.Hisfathersatona stool in front of it, holding theverygun that hadgottenPeter into somuchtrouble.

“Aren’tyousupposedtobegettingreadyforbed?”hisfatherasked.“I’mnottired.”Hewatchedhisfather’shandsrundowntheswanneckofthe

rifle.“Pretty, isn’t it? It’s a Remington 721. A thirty-ought-six.” Peter’s father

turnedtohim.“Wanttohelpmecleanit?”Peterinstinctivelyglancedtowardthestairs,wherehismotherwaswashing

dishesfromdinner.“ThewayIfigureit,Peter,ifyou’resointerestedinguns,youneedtolearn

howtorespect them.Bettersafe thansorry,right?Evenyourmomcan’targuewiththat.”Hecradledtheguninhislap.“Agunisavery,verydangerousthing,butwhatmakesitsodangerousisthatmostpeopledon’treallyunderstandhowitworks.Andonceyoudo,it’sjustatool,likeahammerorascrewdriver,anditdoesn’tdoanythingunlessyouknowhowtopickitupanduseitcorrectly.Youunderstand?”

Peterdidn’t,buthewasn’tabouttotellhisfather.Hewasabouttolearnhowtousearealrifle!Noneofthoseidiotkidsinhisclass,theoneswhoweresuchjerks,couldsaythat.

“Firstthingwehavetodoisopenthebolt,likethis,tomakesuretherearen’tanybulletsinit.Lookinthemagazine,rightdownthere.Seeany?”Petershookhishead.“Nowcheckagain.Youcanneverchecktoomanytimes.Now,there’salittlebuttonunderthereceiver-justinfrontofthetriggerguard-pushthatandyoucanremovetheboltcompletely.”

Peterwatchedhisfathertakeoffthebigsilverratchetthatattachedthebuttof the rifle to the barrel, just like that. He reached onto his workbench for abottleofsolvent-Hoppes#9,Peterread-andspilledalittlebitonarag.“There’snothing likehunting,Peter,”his fathersaid.“Tobeout in thewoodswhentherestoftheworldisstillsleeping…toseethatdeerraiseitsheadandstarerightatyou…”Heheldtheragawayfromhim-thesmellmadePeter’sheadswim-andstarted to rub the boltwith it. “Here,” Peter’s father said. “Whydon’t you dothis?”

Peter’s jaw dropped-he was being told to hold the rifle, after what hadhappenedwithJosie?Maybeitwasbecausehisfatherwasheretosupervise,ormaybethiswasatrickandhewasgoingtogetpunishedforwantingtoholditagain. Tentative, he reached for it-surprised, as he had been before, at howincredibly heavy it was. On Joey’s computer game, Big Buck Hunter, the

charactersswungtheirriflesaroundasiftheywerefeather-light.Itwasn’tatrick.Hisfatherwantedhimtohelp,forreal.Peterwatchedhim

reachforanothertin-gunoil-anddribblesomeontoacleanrag.“Wewipedowntheboltandputadroponthefiringpin….Youwanttoknowhowagunworks,Peter?Comeoverhere.”Hepointedoutthefiringpin,ateensycircleinsidethecircleof thebolt. “Inside thebolt,whereyoucan’t see it, there’sabigspring.Whenyoupull the trigger, it releases thespring,whichhits this firingpinandpushesitoutjust thetiniestbit-”Heheldhisthumbandforefingerapart justafraction of an inch, for illustration. “That firing pin hits the center of a brassbullet…and dents a little silver button called the primer.The dent sets off thecharge,whichisgunpowderinsidethebrasscasing.You’veseenabullet-howitgetsthinnerandthinnerattheend?Thatskinnypartholdstheactualbullet,andwhenthegunpowdergoesoff,itcreatespressurebehindthebulletandpushesitfrombehind.”

Peter’sfathertooktheboltoutofhishands,wipeditwithoil,andsetitaside.“Nowlookintothebarrel.”Hepointedthegunasifheweregoingtoshootatalightbulbontheceiling.“Whatdoyousee?”

Peterpeeked into theopenbarrel frombehind. “It’s like thenoodlesMommakesforlunch.”

“Yeah, I guess it is. Rotini? Is thatwhat they’re called? The twists in thebarrel are like a screw.As the bullet gets pushedout, these groovesmake thebulletturn.Kindoflikewhenyouthrowafootballandputsomespinonit.”

Peterhad tried todo that in thebackyardwithhis father and Joey,buthishandwastoosmallorthefootballwastoobigandwhenhetriedtomakeapass,mostlyitjustcrashedathisownfeet.

“Ifthebulletcomesoutspinning,itcanflystraightwithoutwobbling.”Hisfatherbegantofiddlewithalongrodthathadaloopofwireontheend.Stickingapatchintotheloop,hedippeditinsolvent.“Thegunpowderleavesgunkinsidethebarrel,though,”hesaid.“Andthat’swhatwehavetocleanoff.”

Peterwatchedhisfatherjamtherodintothebarrel,upanddown,likehewaschurningbutter.Heputonacleanpatchandranitthroughthebarrelagain,andthenanother,until theydidn’tcomeoutstreakedblackanymore.“WhenIwasyourage,myfathershowedmehowtodothis,too.”Hethrewthepatchoutinthetrash.“Oneday,youandIwillgohunting.”

Petercouldn’tcontainhimselfat thevery thoughtof this.He-whocouldn’tthrowafootballordribbleasoccerballorevenswimverywell-wasgoingtogohunting with his father? He loved the thought of leaving Joey at home. Hewondered how long he’d have towait for this outing-how itwould feel to bedoingsomethingwithhisfatherthatwasjusttheirs.

“Ah,”hisfathersaid.“Now,lookdownthebarrelagain.”Peter grabbed the gun backward, looking down through the muzzle, the

barrel of the gun pressed up against his face near his eye. “Jesus, Peter!” hisfathersaid, takingitoutofhishands.“Notlikethat!You’vegotitbackward!”HeturnedthegunsothatthebarrelwasfacingawayfromPeter.“Eventhoughthebolt’swayoverthere-andit’ssafe-youdon’teverlookdownthemuzzleofarifle.Youdon’tpointagunatsomethingyoudon’twanttokill.”

Petersquinted,lookingintothebarreltherightway.Itwasblinding,silver,shiny.Perfect.

His father rubbed down the outside of the barrel with oil. “Now, pull thetrigger.”

Peterstaredathim.Evenheknewyoudidn’tdothat.“It’s safe,” his father repeated. “It’swhatweneed to do to reassemble the

gun.”Peterhesitantlycurledhisfingeraroundthehalf-moonofmetalandpulled.

Itreleasedacatchsothatthebolthisfatherwasholdingslidintoplace.Hewatchedhisfathertaketheriflebacktotheguncabinet.“Peoplewhoget

upsetaboutgunsdon’tknowthem,”hisfathersaid.“Ifyouknowthem,youcanhandlethemsafely.”

Peterwatchedhisfatherlockuptheguncase.Heunderstoodwhathisfatherwastryingtosay:Themysteryoftherifle-theverythingthathadsparkedhimtostealthekeytothecabinetfromhisfather’sunderweardrawerandshowJosie-was no longer quite as compelling.Now that he’d seen it taken apart and putbacktogether,hesawthefirearmforwhatitwas:acollectionoffittedmetal,thesumofitsparts.

Agunwasnothing,really,withoutapersonbehindit.WhetherornotyoubelieveinFatecomesdowntoonething:whoyoublame

when something goes wrong. Do you think it’s your fault-that if you’d triedbetter,orworkedharder,itwouldn’thavehappened?Ordoyoujustchalkituptocircumstance?

Iknowpeoplewho’ll hear about thepeoplewhodied, andwill say itwasGod’s will. I know people who’ll say it was bad luck. And then there’s mypersonalfavorite:Theywerejustinthewrongplaceatthewrongtime.

Thenagain,youcouldsaythesamethingaboutme,couldn’tyou?TheDayAfterF or Peter’s sixth Christmas, he’d been given a fish. It was one of those

Japanesefightingfish,abetawithashreddedtissue-thintailthattrailedlikethegownof amovie star. Peter named itWolverine and spent hours staring at itsmoonbeam scales, its sequin eye. But after a few days, he started to imagine

what itwouldbe like tohaveonlyabowl toexplore.Hewondered if the fishhoveredover the tendrilofplasticplanteach time itpassedbecause therewassomethingnewandamazinghe’ddiscoveredaboutitsshapeandsize,orbecauseitwasawaytocountanotherlap.

Peterstartedwakingupinthemiddleofthenighttoseeifhisfisheverslept,but nomatter what time it was,Wolverine was swimming. He thought aboutwhatthefishsaw:amagnifiedeyeball,risinglikeasunthroughthethickglassbowl.He’dlistentoPastorRonatchurch,talkingaboutGodseeingeverything,andhewonderedifthatwaswhathewastoWolverine.

AshesatinacellattheGraftonCountyjail,Petertriedtorememberwhathad happened to his fish. It died, he supposed. He’d probably watched it todeath.

He staredup at the camera in the corner of the cell,whichblinked at himimpassively.They-whoevertheywere-wantedtomakesurehedidn’tkillhimselfbefore he was publicly crucified. To this end, his cell didn’t have a cot or apilloworevenamat-justahardbench,andthatstupidcamera.

Then again,maybe thiswas a good thing.As far as he could tell, hewasaloneinthislittlepodofsinglecells.He’dbeenterrifiedwhenthesheriff’scarpulled up in front of the jail. He’dwatched all the TV shows; he knewwhathappenedinplaceslikethis.Thewholetimehewasbeingprocessed,Peterhadkepthismouthshut-notbecausehewassotough,butbecausehewasafraidthatifheopenedithewouldstarttocry,andnotrememberhowtostop.Therewasthe swordfight sound of metal being drawn across metal, and then footsteps.Peter stayedwherehewas, his hands lockedbetweenhis knees, his shouldershunched. He didn’t want to look too eager; he didn’t want to look pathetic.Invisibility,actually,wassomethinghewasprettygoodat.He’dperfecteditoverthepasttwelveyears.

Acorrectionalofficerstoppedinfrontofhiscell.“You’vegotavisitor,”hesaid,andheopenedthedoor.

Peter got up slowly. He looked up at the camera, and then followed theofficerdownapittedgrayhallway.

Howhardwould it be togetoutof this jail?What if, like in all thevideogames,hecoulddosomefancykungfumoveanddeckthisguard,andanother,andanother,untilhewasabletoraceoutthedoorandsuckintheairwhosetastehe’dalreadystartedtoforget?

Whatifhehadtostayhereforever?Thatwaswhenherememberedwhathadhappenedtohisfish.Inasweeping

momentofanimalrightsandhumanity,Peterhad takenWolverineandflushedhim down the toilet.He figured that the plumbing emptied out into some big

ocean,liketheonehisfamilyhadgonetolastsummeronabeachvacation,andthat maybe Wolverine could find his way back to Japan and his other betarelatives. It was after Peter confided in his brother that Joey told him aboutsewers,andthatinsteadofgivinghispetfreedom,Peterhadkilledit.

The officer stopped in front of a room whose door read PRIVATECONFERENCE. He couldn’t imagine who would visit him, except for hisparents,andhedidn’twant tosee themyet.Theywouldaskhimquestionshecouldn’tanswer-abouthowyoucouldtuckasonintobed,andnotrecognizehimthenextmorning.Maybeitwouldbeeasiertojustgobacktothecamerainhiscell,whichstaredbutdidn’tpassjudgment.

“Hereyougo,”theofficersaid,andheopenedthedoor.Peter took a shuddering breath. He wondered what his fish had thought,

expectingthecoolblueofthesea,onlytowindupswimminginshit.Jordan walked into the Grafton County Jail and stopped at the check-in

point.HehadtosigninbeforehewenttovisitPeterHoughtonandgetavisitor’sbadge from the correctional officer on the other side of the Plexiglas divider.Jordanreachedfortheclipboardandscrawledhisname,thenpusheditthroughthe tiny slot at the bottom of the plastic wall-but there was no one there toreceiveit.ThetwoCOsinsidewerehuddledaroundasmallblack-and-whiteTVthatwastuned,likeeveryothertelevisionontheplanet,toanewsreportabouttheshooting.

“Excuseme,”Jordansaid,butneithermanturned.“When the shooting began,” the reporterwas saying, “EdMcCabe peered

out the door of his ninth-grade math classroom, putting himself between thegunmanandhisstudents.”

Thescreencut toasobbingwoman, identified inwhiteblock lettersbelowherfaceasJOANMCCABE,SISTEROFVICTIM.“Hecaredabouthiskids,”shewept.“Hecaredabout themthewholesevenyearshe’d taughtatSterling,andhecaredaboutthemduringthelastminuteofhislife.”

Jordanshiftedhisweight.“Hello?”“Justasecond,buddy,”onecorrectionalofficersaid,wavinganabsenthand

inhisdirection.The reporterappearedagainon thegrainyscreen,hishairblowingupward

like a boat’s sail in the light wind, the monotone brick of the school a wallbehindhim.“FellowteachersrememberEdMcCabeasacommittedteacherwhowas always willing to go the extra mile to help a student, and as an avidoutdoorsman who talked often in the faculty room about his dreams to hikethroughAlaska.A dream,” the reporter said gravely, “thatwill never come topass.”

JordantooktheclipboardandshoveditthroughtheslotinthePlexiglas,sothatitclatteredonthefloor.Bothcorrectionalofficersturnedatonce.

“I’mheretoseemyclient,”hesaid.LewisHoughtonhadnevermissedalectureinthenineteenyearshe’dbeena

professoratSterlingCollege,untiltoday.WhenLacyhadcalledhe’dleftinsuchahurry thathehadn’teventhought toputasignonthe lecturehall’sdoor.Heimaginedstudentswaitingforhimtoappear,waiting to takenoteson theverywordsthatcameoutofhismouth,asifthethingshehadtosaywerestillbeyondreproach.

Whatword,whatplatitude,whatcommentofhishadledPetertothis?Whatword,whatplatitude,whatcommentmighthavestoppedhim?HeandLacywere sitting in theirbackyard,waiting for thepolice to leave

the house. Well, they had left-or at least one of them-to broaden the searchwarrant,mostlikely.LewisandLacyhadnotbeenallowedintotheirownhomefor the duration of the search. For a while, they’d stood in the driveway,occasionally watching officers carry out bags and boxes full of things Lewiswouldhaveexpected-computers,booksfromPeter’sroom-andthingshehadn’t-atennisracket,ajumboboxofwaterproofmatches.

“Whatdowedo?”Lacymurmured.He shook his head, numb. For one of his journal articles on the value of

happiness,he’dinterviewedelderlyfolkswhoweresuicidal.What’sleftforus?they’dsaid,andatthetime,Lewishadnotbeenabletounderstandthatutterlackof hope. At the time, he couldn’t imagine the world going so sour that youcouldn’tseethewaytosetittorights.

“There’snothingwecando,”Lewisreplied,andhemeantit.HewatchedanofficerwalkoutholdingastackofPeter’soldcomicbooks.

Whenhe’d first comehome to findLacypacing thedriveway, she’d flungherselfintohisarms.“Why,”shehadsobbed.“Why?”

Therewereathousandquestionsinthatone,butLewiscouldn’tansweranyofthem.He’dheldontohiswifeasifsheweredriftwoodinthemiddleofthisflood,andthenhehadnoticedtheeyesofaneighboracrossthestreet,peekingfromadrawncurtain.

That’swhentheyhadmovedtothebackyard.Theysatontheporchswing,surroundedbyathicketofbarebranchesandmeltingsnow.Lewissatperfectlystill,hisfingersandlipsnumbfromcold,fromshock.

“Doyouthink,”Lacywhispered,“it’sourfault?”Hestaredather,amazedatherbravery:she’dputintowordswhathehadn’t

allowedhimselftoeventhink.Butwhatelsewaslefttosaybetweenthem?Theshootingshadhappened; their sonwas involved.Youcouldn’t argue the facts;

youcouldonlychangethelensthroughwhichyoulookedatthem.Lewisbenthishead.“Idon’tknow.”Wheredidyouevenbegin to lookat

thosestatistics?HadithappenedbecauseLacyhadpickedPeteruptoomuchasa baby?Or because Lewis had pretended to laughwhen Peter took a tumble,hopingthatthetoddlerwouldn’tcryifhedidn’tthinktherewasanythingtocryabout?Shouldtheyhavemonitoredmorecloselywhatheread,watched,listenedto…orwouldsmotheringhimhaveledto thesameoutcome?OrmaybeitwasthecombinationofLacyandLewistogether.Ifacouple’schildrencountedasatrackrecord,thentheyhadfailedmiserably.

Twice.Lacy stared down at the intricate brickwork between her shoes. Lewis

remembered laying this patio; he’d leveled the sandand set thebrickhimself.Peterhadwantedtohelp,butLewishadn’tlethim.Thebricksweretooheavy.Youcouldgethurt,he’dsaid.

IfLewishadbeen lessprotective-ifPeterhad felt truepain,mighthehavebeenlesslikelytoinflictit?

“WhatwasthenameofHitler’smother?”Lacyasked.Lewisblinkedather.“What?”“Wassheawful?”HeputhisarmaroundLacy.“Don’tdothistoyourself,”hemurmured.Sheburiedherfaceinhisshoulder.“Everyoneelsewill.”For just amoment,Lewis let himself believe that everyonewasmistaken-

thatPetercouldn’thavebeentheshootertoday.Inaway,thiswastrue-althoughtherehadbeenhundredsofwitnesses,theboythey’dseenwasnotthesameoneLewishadtalkedtolastnightbeforehewenttobed.They’dhadaconversationaboutPeter’scar.

Youknowyouhavetogetit inspectedbytheendofthemonth,Lewishadsaid.

Yeah,Peterhadreplied.Ialreadymadeanappointment.Hadhebeenlyingaboutthat,too?“Thelawyer-”“Hesaidhe’llcallus,”Lewisanswered.“DidyoutellhimPeter’sallergictoshellfish?Iftheyfeedhimany-”“Itoldhim,”Lewissaid,althoughhehadn’t.HepicturedPeter,sittingalone

in a cell at a jail he’d driven by every summer, en route to the HaverhillFairgrounds.HethoughtofPeter,callinghomeonthesecondnightofsleepawaycamp, begging to be picked up.He thought of his son,whowas still his son,even ifhehaddonesomethingsohorrible thatLewiscouldnotclosehiseyeswithoutimaginingtheworst;andthenhisribsfelttootightandhecouldn’tdraw

inenoughair.“Lewis?”Lacysaid,pullingawayashegasped.“Areyouallright?”Henodded,smiled,buthewaschokingonthetruth.“Mr.Houghton?”Theybothglanceduptofindapoliceofficerstandinginfrontofthem.“Sir,couldyoucomewithmeforasecond?”Lacystoodupbesidehim,butheheldheroffwithonehand.Hedidn’tknow

wherethiscopwastakinghim,whathewasabouttobeshown.Hedidn’twantLacytoseeitifshedidn’thaveto.

Hefollowedthepolicemanintohisownhouse,arrestedforamomentbythewhite-glovedofficerscombing throughhiskitchen,hiscloset.Assoonas theyreached the basement door, he started to sweat. He knew where they wereheaded; itwas somethinghehad studiously avoided thinkingabout sincehe’dfirstgottenLacy’scall.

Anotherofficerwasstandinginthebasement,blockingLewis’sview.Itwasten degrees colder down here, and yet Lewis was sweating. He mopped hisforeheadwithhissleeve.“Theserifles,”theofficersaid.“Theybelongtoyou?”

Lewisswallowed.“Yes.Ihunt.”“Canyou tellus,Mr.Houghton, ifallyour firearmsarehere?”Theofficer

steppedasidetorevealtheglass-frontedguncabinet.Lewis felt his knees buckle. Three of his five hunting rifles were nestled

insidetheguncabinet,likewallflowersatadance.Twoweremissing.Untilthismoment,hehadnotallowedhimselftobelievethishorriblething

aboutPeter.Untilthismoment,ithadbeenadevastatingaccident.Now,Lewisstartedblaminghimself.He faced theofficer, looking theman in the eyewithoutgivinganyofhis

feelings away.An expression,Lewis realized, he’d learned fromhis own son.“No,”hesaid.“They’renot.”

Thefirstunwrittenruleofdefenselawwastoactlikeyoukneweverything,wheninfactyouknewabsolutelynothingatall.Youwerefacinganunknownclient whomay or may not have had a chance in hell of acquittal; the trick,however,was to remain simultaneously impassive and impressive.Youhad toimmediatelysettheparametersoftherelationship:Iamboss;youtellmeonlywhatIneedtohear.

Jordanhadbeeninthissituationahundredtimesbefore-waiting,inaprivateconferenceroomatthisveryjail,forhisnextmealtickettoarrive-andhetrulybelieved he had seen it all, which is why he was stunned to find that PeterHoughtonhad theability tosurprisehim.Given themagnitudeof theshootingand the damage wrought, the terror on the faces Jordan had seen on the

television screen-well, this skinny, freckled, four-eyed kid hardly seemedcapableofsuchanact.

Thiswashisfirstthought.Hissecondwas:That’llworktomyadvantage.“Peter,”hesaid.“I’mJordanMcAfee,andI’malawyer.I’vebeenretained

byyourparentstorepresentyou.”He waited for a response. “Have a seat,” he said, but the boy remained

standing.“Ordon’t,”Jordanadded.HeputonhisbusinessmaskandlookedupatPeter.“You’llbearraignedtomorrow.You’renotgoingtogetbail.We’llhaveachance togoover thecharges in themorning,beforeyougo intocourt.”HegavePeter amoment to digest this information. “Fromhere on in, you’re notgoingthroughthisalone.You’vegotme.”

WasitJordan’simagination,orhadsomethingflashedinPeter’seyeswhenhe’dsaidthosewords?Asquicklyasitmighthavehappened,itwasgone;Peterstareddownattheground,expressionless.

“Well,”Jordansaid,gettingtohisfeet.“Anyquestions?”As he expected, there wasn’t any response. Hell, for all of Peter’s

involvementinthislittlediscussion,Jordanmightaswellhavebeenchattinguponeofthelessfortunatevictimsoftheshooting.

Maybe you are, he thought, and the voice in his head sounded too damnmuchlikehiswife’s.

“Allright,then.I’llseeyoutomorrow.”Heknockedonthedoor,summoningthecorrectionalofficerwhowouldtakePeterbacktohiscell,whensuddenlytheboyspoke.

“HowmanydidIget?”Jordanhesitated,hishandontheknob.Hedidnotturntofacehisclient.“I’ll

seeyoutomorrow,”herepeated.Dr.ErvinPeabodylivedacross theriver inNorwich,Vermont,andworked

part-timeatSterlingCollege’spsychologyprogram.Sixyearsagohehadbeenoneofsevencoauthorsofapublishedpaperaboutschoolviolence-anacademicexercisehebarelyremembered.Andyet,he’dbeencalledbytheNBCaffiliateoutofBurlington-amorningnewsshowhesometimeswatchedoverabowlofcerealforthesheergleeofseeinghowoftentheineptnewscastersscrewedup.We’re looking for someone who can talk about the shooting from apsychologicalstandpoint,theproducerhadsaid,andErvinhadreplied,I’myourman.

“Warningsignals,”hesaidinresponsetotheanchor’squestion.“Well,theseyoung men pull away from others. They tend to be loners. They talk abouthurtingthemselves,orothers.Theycan’tfunctioninschool,oraresubjectedtodisciplinethere.Theylackaconnectionwithsomeone-anyone-whomightmakethemfeelimportant.”

Ervinknewthenetworkhadn’tcometohimforhisexpertise-onlyforsolace.The rest of Sterling-the rest of theworld-wanted to know that kids like PeterHoughtonwererecognizable,asifthepotentialtoturnintoamurdererovernightwereavisiblebirthmark.“Sothere’sageneralprofileofaschoolshooter,”theanchorprodded.

Ervin Peabody looked into the camera.He knew the truth-that if you saidthese kids wore black or listened to odd music or were angry, you werediscussing most of the male teenage population at some point during theiradolescent years.He knew that if a deeply disturbed individualwas intent ondoingdamage, he’dprobably succeed.But he alsoknew that every eye in the

ConnecticutValleywasonhim-maybeeveninthewholeNortheast-andthathewas up for tenure at Sterling. A little prestige-a label of expert-couldn’t hurt.“Youcouldmakethatargument,”hesaid.

LewiswastheonewhosettledtheHoughtonhouseholdforthenight.He’dstartinthekitchenandloadthedishwasher.He’dlockthefrontdoorandturnoffthe lights. Then he’d head upstairs, where Lacy was usually already in bed,reading-ifnotoutassistingatabirth-andhe’dstopinhisson’sroom.Tellhimtoshutoffthecomputerandgotobed.

Tonight he foundhimself standing in front ofPeter’s room, looking at themesswroughtby thepoliceduring their search.He thought about righting theremainingbooksontheshelves,puttingawaythecontentsof thedeskdrawersthathadbeendumpedontothecarpet.Onsecondthought,hegentlyclosedthedoor.

Lacy was not in the bedroom, or brushing her teeth. He hesitated, an earcocked. Therewas chatter-it sounded like a furtive conversation-coming fromtheroomdirectlybelowhim.

He retraced his steps, drawing closer to the voices. Who would Lacy betalkingtoatnearlymidnight?

The screenof the televisionglowedgreenandunearthly in thedark study.Lewis had forgotten there even was a television in that room, it was soinfrequently used.He saw theCNN logo and familiar ticker tape of breakingnewsalongthebottom.Athoughtoccurredtohim:thattickertapehadn’texisteduntil 9/11-until people were so scared that they needed to know, without anydelay,thefactsoftheworldtheyinhabited.

Lacywaskneelingonthecarpet,herfaceturneduptotheanchor’s.“Thereislittlewordyetabouthowthemanwhowastheshootersecuredhisweapons,orexactlywhatthoseweaponsare…”

“Lacy,”hesaid,swallowing.“Lacy,cometobed.”Lacy did not move, did not give any indication she’d heard him. Lewis

passed her, trailing his hand over her shoulder as he went to shut off thetelevision. “Preliminary reports are focusing on two pistols,” the anchorconfided,justbeforehisimagedisappeared.

Lacy turned to him. Her eyes reminded him of the sky you see fromairplanes: a boundless gray that could be anywhere, and nowhere, all at once.“Theykeepcallinghimaman,”shesaid,“buthe’sonlyaboy.”

“Lacy,”herepeated,andshestoodandmovedintohisarms,asifthiswereherinvitationtothedance.

Ifyoulistencarefullyinahospital,youcanhearthetruth.Nurseswhispertoone another over your still bodywhenyou are pretending to sleep; policemen

trade secrets in the hallway; doctors enter your room with another patient’sconditionontheirlips.

Josie had beenmaking amental list of thewounded. It seemed she couldplaysixdegreesofseparationwithanyof the injured-whenshehadseenthemlast;when theyhadcrossedherpath;where theyhadbeen inproximity toherwhentheyhadbeenshot.TherewasDrewGirard,who’dgrabbedMattandJosietotellthemthatPeterHoughtonwasshootinguptheschool.Emma,who’dbeensitting three chairs away from Josie in the cafeteria. And TreyMacKenzie, afootballplayerknownforhishouseparties.JohnEberhard,whohadbeeneatingJosie’sFrenchfriesthatmorning.MinHoruka,anexchangestudentfromTokyowho’dgottendrunklastyearoutontheropescoursebehindthetrackandthenpeedintotheopenwindowoftheprincipal’scar.NatalieZlenko,who’dbeeninfrontofJosie in thecafeteria line.CoachSpearsandMissRitolli, twoformersteachersofJosie’s.BradyPryceandHaleyWeaver,thegoldenseniorcouple.

There were others that Josie knew only by name-Michael Beach, SteveBabourias, Natalie Phlug, Austin Prokiov, Alyssa Carr, JaredWeiner, RichardHicks, JadaKnight, ZoePatterson-strangerswithwhom, now, she’d be linkedforever.

Itwashardertofindoutthenamesofthedead.Theywerewhisperedabouteven more quietly, as if their condition were contagious to the rest of theunfortunate souls just taking up space in the hospital beds. Josie had heardrumors: thatMr.McCabe had been killed, andTopherMcPhee-the school potdealer.To hoard crumbs of information, Josie tried towatch television,whichwas running twenty-four-hourSterlingHighShooting coverage, but inevitablyhermotherwouldcomeintotheroomandturnitoff.Allshehadgleanedfromherforbiddenmediaforayswasthattherehadbeentenfatalities.

Mattwasone.Every time Josie thought about it, something happened to her body. She

stoppedbreathing.Allthewordssheknewcongealedatthebottomofherthroat,aboulderblockingtheexitfromacave.

Thanks to the sedatives, so much of this seemed unreal-as if she werewalkingonthespongyfloorofadream-butthemomentshethoughtofMatt,itbecameauthenticandraw.

ShewouldneverkissMattagain.Shewouldneverhearhimlaugh.Shewouldneverfeeltheprintofhishandonherwaist,orreadanotehe’d

slipped through the furrows of her locker, or feel her heart beat into his handwhenheunbuttonedhershirt.

Shewasonlyrememberingthehalfofit,thatsheknew-asiftheshootinghad

notonlysplitherlifeintobeforeandafter,butalsorobbedherofcertainskills:theabilitytolastanhourwithoutpuddlingintotears;theabilitytoseethecolorredwithout feelingqueasy; theability to formaskeletonof the truth fromthebare bones ofmemory.To remember the rest of it, givenwhat had happened,wouldbenearlyobscene.

So instead, Josie found herself veering drunkenly from the soft-focusmomentswithMatttothemacabre.ShekeptthinkingofalinefromRomeoandJulietthathadfreakedheroutwhenthey’dstudiedtheplayinninthgrade:Withwormsthatarethychambermaids.RomeohadsaidittoJuliet’slooks-like-deadbodyintheCapuletcrypt.Ashestoashes,dusttodust.Buttherewereawholebunchof steps inbetween thatnooneever talkedabout, andwhen thenursesweregoneinthemiddleofthenight,Josiefoundherselfwonderinghowlongittookforfleshtopeelfromaskull;whathappenedtothejellyofeyes;whetherMatthadalreadystopped looking likeMatt.And thenshe’dwakeupand findherselfscreaming,withadozendoctorsandnursesholdingherdown.

Ifyougavesomeoneyourheartand theydied,did they take itwith them?Didyouspendtherestofforeverwithaholeinsideyouthatcouldn’tbefilled?

Thedoortoherroomopenedandhermothersteppedinside.“So,”shesaid,withafakesmilesowideitdividedherentireheadlikeanequator.“Youready?”

Itwasonly7:00a.m.,butJosiehadalreadybeendischarged.Shenoddedathermother.Josiesortofhatedherrightnow.Shewasactingallconcernedandworried,butitwastoomuchtoolate,asifithadtakenthisshootingforhertowakeuptothefactthatshehadabsolutelynorelationshipwithJosie.ShekepttellingJosieshewashereifJosieneededtotalk,whichwasridiculous.EvenifJosiewantedto-whichshedidn’t-hermotherwasthelastpersononearthshe’dwanttoconfidein.Shewouldn’tunderstand-noonewould,exceptfortheotherkidslyingindifferentroomsinthishospital.Thishadn’tbeenjustsomemurderon the street somewhere, which would have been bad enough. This was theworst thatcouldhappen, inaplacewhereJosiewouldhave to return,whethershewantedtoornot.

Josiewaswearing different clothes than the ones she’d been brought herewith,which hadmysteriously disappeared.Noonewas admitting to anything,butJosieassumedtheywerecoveredwithMatt’sblood. In this, theyhadbeenrighttothrowthemaway:nomatterhowmuchbleachwasusedandhowmanywashingsweredone,Josieknewshe’dbeabletoseethestains.

Her head still ached from where she’d struck the floor when she fainted.She’d cut her forehead and narrowly avoided needing stitches, although thedoctorshadwanted towatchherovernight. (Forwhat?Josiehadwondered.Astroke?Abloodclot?Suicide?)WhenJosiestoodup,hermotherwasatherside

immediately,anarmanchoredaroundher forsupport. It remindedJosieof theway that sheandMatt sometimeswalkeddown thestreet in thesummer, theirhandsfiledintothebackpocketsofeachother’sjeans.

“Oh,Josie,”hermothersaid,andthatwashowsherealizedshe’dstartedtocryagain.Ithappenedsooften,now,thatJosiehadlostthecapacitytotellwhenitstoppedandstarted.Hermotherofferedheratissue.“Youknowwhat?You’llstartfeelingbetterwhenyougethome.Ipromise.”

Well,duh.Josiecouldn’tstartfeelinganyworse.Butshemanagedagrimace,whichmighthavebeenasmileifyouweren’t

lookingtooclosely,becausesheknewthat’swhathermotherneededrightnow.Shewalkedthefifteenstepstothedoorofherhospitalroom.

“Youtakecare,sweetheart,”oneofthenursessaidasJosiepassedtheirpodofdesks.

Anotherone-theoneJosiehadlikedthebest,whofedhericechips-smiled.“Don’tcomebackandseeus,youhear?”

Josie moved slowly toward the elevator, which seemed to get farther andfarther away each time she glanced up. As she passed by one of the patientroomsshenoticedafamiliarnameontheclipboardoutside:HALEYWEAVER.

Haleywasasenior,homecomingqueenforthepasttwoyears.Sheandherboyfriend,Brady,weretheBrangelinaofSterlingHigh-rolesJosieactuallyhadbelieved she andMatt stood a good chance to inherit after Haley and Bradygraduated.EventhewishfulthinkerswhopinedafterBradyforhissmokysmileand sculpted body had to admit that there was a poetic justice to his datingHaley, themost beautiful girl in the school.Withherwaterfall ofwhite-blondhairandherclearblueeyes,shehadalwaysremindedJosieofamagicalfairy-theserene,heavenlycreaturethatfloatsdowntograntsomeone’swishes.

Therewere all sorts of stories that circulated about them: howBrady hadgiven up football scholarships at colleges that didn’t have art programs forHaley;howHaleyhadgottenatattooofBrady’sinitialsinaplacenoonecouldsee;howontheirfirstdate,he’dhadrosepetalsspreadonthepassengerseatofhisHonda.Josie,circulatinginthesamecrowdasHaley,knewthatmostofthiswasbullshit.Haleyherselfhadadmitted,first,thatitwasatemporarytattoo,andsecond, that it wasn’t rose petals, but a bouquet of lilacs he’d stolen from aneighbor’sgarden.

“Josie?”Haleywhisperednow,frominsidetheroom.“Isthatyou?”Josie felt hermother’s hand on her arm, restraining her. But thenHaley’s

parents,whowereblockingaclearviewofthebed,movedaway.TherighthalfofHaley’sfacewasswathedinbandages;herhairwasshaved

to the scalp above it.Her nose had been broken, and her one visible eyewas

completelybloodshot.Josie’smotherdrewinherbreathsilently.Shesteppedinsideandforcedherselftosmile.“Josie,” Haley said. “He killed them. Courtney andMaddie. And then he

pointedthegunatme,butBradysteppedinfrontofit.”Atearstreakeddownthecheekthatwasn’tbandaged.“Youknowhowpeoplearealwayssayingthey’ddothatforyou?”

Josiestartedshaking.ShewantedtoaskHaleyahundredquestions,butherteeth were chattering so hard that she couldn’t manage a single word. Haleygrabbedontoherhand,andJosiestartled.Shewantedtopullaway.Shewantedtopretendshe’dneverseenHaleyWeaverlikethis.

“IfIaskyousomething,”Haleysaid,“you’llbehonest,won’tyou?”Josienodded.“Myface,”shewhispered.“It’sruined,isn’tit?”JosielookedHaleyintheeye.“No,”shesaid.“It’sfine.”Theybothknewshewasn’ttellingthetruth.Josiesaidgood-byetoHaleyandherparents,grabbedontohermother,and

hurried even faster toward the elevators, even though every step felt like athunderstormbehindhereyes.Shesuddenlyrememberedstudying thebrain inscienceclass-howa steel rodhadpiercedaman’s skull, andheopeneduphismouth tospeakPortuguese,a languagehe’dneverstudied.Maybe itwouldbelikethis,now,forJosie.Maybehernativetongue,fromhereonin,wouldbeastringoflies.

By the timePatrick returned toSterlingHigh thenextmorning, thecrime-scenedetectiveshadturnedthehallsoftheschoolintoanenormousspiderweb.Basedonwherethevictimshadbeenfound,stringwastapedup-aburstoflinesradiating fromonespotwherePeterHoughtonhadpaused longenough to fireshotsbeforemovingon.Thelinesofstringcrossedeachotheratpoints:agridofpanic,agraphofchaos.

Hestoodforamoment in thecenterof thecommotion,watching the techsweave the string across the hallways and between banks of lockers and intodoorways. He imagined what it would have been like to start running at thesoundof thegunshots, to feel peoplepushingbehindyou like a tide, toknowthatyoucouldn’tmovefasterthanaspeedingbullet.Torealizetoolateyouweretrapped,aspider’sprey.

Patrickpickedhisway through theweb,carefulnot todisturb theworkofthetechs.Hewouldusewhattheydidtocorroboratethestoriesofthewitnesses.All1,026ofthem.

Thebreakfastbroadcastofthethreelocalnetworknewsstationswasdevotedto that morning’s arraignment of Peter Houghton. Alex stood in front of the

televisioninherbedroom,nursinghercupofcoffeeandstaringatthebackdropbehindtheeagerreporters:herformerworkplace,thedistrictcourthouse.

She’dsettledJosieinherbedroomtosleepthedark,dreamlesssleepofthesedated.Tobeperfectlyhonest,Alexneeded this timealone, too.Whowouldhaveguessedthatawomanwho’dbecomeamasteratputtingonapublicfacewouldfinditsoemotionallyexhaustingtoholdherself together infrontofherdaughter?

Shewantedtositdownandgetdrunk.Shewantedtoweep,herheadburiedinherhands, athergood fortune:herdaughterwas twodoorsaway fromher.Later,theywouldhavebreakfasttogether.Howmanyparentsinthistownwerewakinguptorealizethiswouldneverbetrueagain?

Alexshutoff the television.Shedidn’twant tocompromiseherobjectivityasthefuturejudgeonthiscasebylisteningtowhatthemediahadtosay.

Sheknewtherewouldbecritics-peoplewhosaidthatbecauseherdaughterwent toSterlingHighSchool,Alex shouldbe removed from thecase. If Josiehad been shot, she would have quickly agreed. If Josie had even still beenfriendlywithPeterHoughton,Alexwouldhaverecusedherself.Butasitstood,Alex’s judgmentwascompromisednomore than thatofanyother justicewholivedinthearea,orwhoknewachildwhoattendedtheschool,orwhowastheparentofateenager.IthappenedallthetimetoNorthCountryjustices:someoneyouknewwouldinevitablywindupinyourcourtroom.WhenAlexwasrotatingasadistrictcourtjudge,she’dfaceddefendantsshe’dknownonapersonallevel:her mailman caught with pot in his car; a domestic disturbance between hermechanicandhiswife.Aslongasthedisputedidn’tinvolveAlexpersonally,itwasperfectlylegal-infact,mandatory-forhertotrythecase.Inthosescenarios,yousimplytookyourselfoutoftheequation.Youbecamethejudgeandnothingmore.Theshooting,asAlexsawit,wasthesamesetofcircumstances,ratchetedupanotch.Infact,she’darguethatinacasewiththemassivemediacoveragethis onehad, itwould take someonewith adefensebackground-likeAlex’s-totrulybe impartial to the shooter.And themore she thought about it, themorefirmly convinced Alex became that justice couldn’t be done without herinvolvement,themoreludicrousitseemedtosuggestshewasnotthebestjudgeforthejob.

ShetookanothersipofhercoffeeandtiptoedfromherbedroomtoJosie’s.Butthedoorstoodwideopen,andherdaughterwasnotinside.

“Josie?”Alexcalled,panicking.“Josie,areyouallright?”“Downhere,”Josiesaid,andAlexfelttheknotinsideherunravelagain.She

walkeddownstairstofindJosiesittingatthekitchentable.Shewasdressedinaskirtandtightsandablacksweater.Herhairwasstill

damp from a shower, and she had tried to cover the bandage on her foreheadwithaswathofbangs.ShelookedupatAlex.“DoIlookallright?”

“Forwhat?”Alexasked,dumbfounded.Shecouldn’tbeexpecting togo toschool,couldshe?ThedoctorshadtoldAlexthatJosiemightneverrememberthe shooting, but could she erase the fact that it had ever happened from hermind,too?

“Thearraignment,”Josiesaid.“Sweetheart,thereisnowayyou’regoingnearthatcourthousetoday.”“Ihaveto.”“You’renotgoing,”Alexsaidflatly.Josielookedasifshewereunravelingattheseams.“Whynot?”Alexopenedhermouthtoanswer,butcouldn’t.Thiswasn’tlogic;itwasgut

instinct:shedidn’twantherdaughtertorelivethisexperience.“BecauseIsaidso,”shefinallyreplied.

“That’snotananswer,”Josieaccused.“I knowwhat themediawill do if they see you at the courthouse today,”

Alex said. “I know that nothing’s going to happen at that arraignment that’sgoingtobeasurprisetoanyone.AndIknowthatIdon’twanttoletyououtofmysightrightnow.”

“Thencomewithme.”Alexshookherhead.“Ican’t,Josie,”shesaidsoftly.“Thisisgoingtobemy

case.”ShewatchedJosiepale,andrealizedthatuntilthatmoment,Josiehadn’tconsidered this. The trial, by default,would put an even thickerwall betweenthem. As a judge, there would be information she couldn’t share with herdaughter, confidences she couldn’t keep.While Josie was struggling tomovepast this tragedy, Alex would be knee-deep in it. Why had she put so muchthought into judging this case, and so little into how it would affect her owndaughter?Josiedidn’tgiveadamnifhermotherwasafairjudgerightnow.Sheonlywanted-needed-amother, andmotherhood,unlike the law,was somethingthathadnevercomeeasilytoAlex.

Outoftheblue,shethoughtofLacyHoughton-amotherwhowasinawholedifferentlevelofhellrightnow-whowouldhavesimplytakenJosie’shandandsatwithherandsomehowmadeitseemsympathetic, insteadofcontrived.ButAlex,whohadneverbeentheJuneCleavertype,hadtoreachbackyearstofindsomemomentofconnection,somethingsheandJosiehaddoneoncebeforethatmightworkagainnow tohold them together.“Whydon’tyougoupstairsandchange,andwe’llmakepancakes.Youusedtolikethat.”

“Yeah,whenIwasfive…”“Chocolatechipcookies,then.”

JosieblinkedatAlex.“Areyouoncrack?”Alexsoundedridiculouseventoherself,butshewasdesperatetoshowJosie

that she could andwould take care of her, and that her job came second. Shestoodup, opening cabinetsuntil she foundaScrabblegame. “Well, then, howaboutthis?”Alexsaid,holdingoutthebox.“Ibetyoucan’tbeatme.”

Josiepushedpasther. “Youwin,” she saidwoodenly, and then shewalkedaway.

ThestudentwhowasbeinginterviewedbytheCBSaffiliateoutofNashuarememberedPeterHoughtonfromaninth-gradeEnglishclass.“Wehadtowritea storywith a first-person narrator, andwe could pick anyone,” the boy said.“Peterdid thevoiceofJohnHinckley.Fromthe thingshesaid,you thinkhe’slookingoutfromhell,butthenattheendyoufindoutit’sheaven.Itfreakedoutour teacher. She had the principal look at the paper and everything.”The boyhesitated,scratchinghis thumbalongtheseamofhis jeans.“Peter told themitwaspoeticlicense,andanunreliablenarrator-whichwe’dbeenstudying,also.”Heglancedupatthecamera.“IthinkhegotanA.”

At the traffic light, Patrick fell asleep. He dreamed that he was runningthrough the halls of the school, hearing gunshots, but every time he turned acorner he found himself hovering inmidair-the floor having vanished beneathhisfeet.

Atahonk,hesnappedalert.Hewaved in apology to the car that pulled up alongside him to pass and

drove to the state crime lab,where the ballistics tests hadbeengivenpriority.LikePatrick,thesetechshadbeenworkingaroundtheclock.

His favorite-and most trusted-technician was a woman named SelmaAbernathy, a grandmother of four who knew more about cutting-edgetechnologythananytechnogeek.ShelookedupwhenPatrickcameintothelabandraisedabrow.“You’vebeennapping,”sheaccused.

Patrickshookhishead.“Scout’shonor.”“Youlooktoogoodforsomeonewho’sexhausted.”Hegrinned.“Selma,you’vereallygottogetoveryourcrushonme.”Shepushedherglassesuponhernose.“Honey,I’msmartenoughtofallfor

someonewhodoesn’tmakemylifeapainintheass.Youwantyourresults?”Patrick followedherover to a table, onwhichwere fourguns: twopistols

andtwosawed-offshotguns.Theyweretagged:GunA,GunB-thetwopistols;GunCandGunD-the shotguns.He recognized thepistols-theywere theonesfound in the locker room-one held by Peter Houghton, the other one a shortdistanceawayonthetilefloor.“FirstItestedforlatentprints,”Selmasaid,andsheshowedtheresultstoPatrick.“GunAhadaprintthatmatchesyoursuspect.

GunsCandDwereclean.GunBhadapartialprintonitthatwasinconclusive.”Selmanoddedtotherearofthelaboratory,whereenormousbarrelsofwater

wereused for test-firing theguns.Shewouldhave test-firedeachweapon intothewater,Patrickknew.Whenabulletwasfired,itspunthroughthebarrelofagun,whichcausedstriationsonthemetal.Asaresult,youcouldtell,bylookingat abullet, exactlywhichgun it hadbeen fired from.ThiswouldhelpPatrickpiece togetherPeterHoughton’s rampage:wherehe’d stopped to shoot,whichweaponhe’dused.

“GunAwastheoneprimarilyusedduringtheshooting,GunsCandDwereleftinthebackpackretrievedatthecrimescene.Whichisactuallyagoodthing,because they most likely would have done more damage. All of the bulletsretrievedfromthebodiesofvictimswerefiredfromGunA,thefirstpistol.”

PatrickwonderedwherePeterHoughtonhadgottenhisarmory.Andat thesametime,herealizedthatitwasn’thardinSterlingtofindsomeonewhohuntedorwenttargetshootingatthesiteofanolddumpinthewoods.

“Iknow,fromthegunpowderresidue,thatGunBwasfired.However,therehasn’tbeenabulletrecoveredyetthatconfirmsthis.”

“They’restillprocessing-”“Letmefinish,”Selmasaid.“TheotherinterestingthingaboutGunBisthat

it jammed after that one discharge.Whenwe examined itwe found a double-feedofabullet.”

Patrickcrossedhisarms.“There’snoprintontheweapon?”heclarified.“There’saninconclusiveprintonthetrigger…probablysmudgedwhenyour

suspectdroppedit,butIcan’tsaythatforcertain.”PatricknoddedandpointedtoGunA.“Thisis theonehedropped,whenI

drewdownonhiminthelockerroom.So,presumably,it’sthelastonehefired.”Selma lifted a bulletwith a pair of tweezers. “You’re probably right. This

wasretrievedfromMatthewRoyston’sbrain,”shesaid.“AndthestriationsareconsistentwithadischargefromGunA.”

Theboyinthelockerroom,theonewho’dbeenfoundwithJosieCormier.Theonlyvictimwho’dbeenshottwice.“Whataboutthebulletinthekid’sstomach?”Patrickasked.Selmashookherhead.“Went throughclean. Itcouldhavebeenfired from

eitherGunAorGunB,butwewon’tknowuntilyoubringmeaslug.”Patrick stared at the weapons. “He’d used Gun A all over the rest of the

school.Ican’timaginewhatmadehimswitchtotheotherpistol.”Selmaglancedupathim;henoticedforthefirsttimethedarkcirclesunder

her eyes, the toll this overnight emergency had taken. “I can’t imagine whatmadehimuseeitheroftheminthefirstplace.”

Meredith Vieira stared gravely into the camera, having perfected thedemeanorforanationaltragedy.“DetailscontinuetoaccumulateinthecaseoftheSterling shootings,” she said. “Formore,wego toAnnCurry at thenewsdesk.Ann?”

The news anchor nodded. “Overnight, investigators have learned that fourweapons were brought into Sterling High School, although only two wereactuallyusedbytheshooter.Inaddition,thereisevidencethatPeterHoughton,thesuspectintheshootings,wasanardentfanofahard-corepunkbandcalledDeath Wish, often posting on fan websites and downloading lyrics onto hispersonalcomputer.Lyricsthat,inretrospect,havesomepeoplewonderingwhatkidsshouldandshouldnotbelisteningto.”

Thegreenscreenbehindhershoulderfilledwithtext:BlacksnowfallingStonecorpsewalkingBastardslaughingGonnablowthemallaway,onmyJudgmentDay.Bastardsdon’tseeThebloodybeastinmeThereaperridesforfreeGonnablowthemallaway,onmyJudgmentDay.“TheDeathWishsong‘JudgmentDay’includesafrighteningforeshadowing

of an event that became all too real in Sterling, New Hampshire, yesterdaymorning,”Currysaid.“RavenNapalm,leadsingerforDeathWish,heldapressconferencelatelastnight.”

ThefootagecuttoamanwithablackMohawk,goldeyeshadow,andfivepiercedhoopsthroughhislowerlip,standinginfrontofagroupofmicrophones.“We live in a countrywhereAmerican kids are dying becausewe’re sendingthem overseas to kill people for oil. But when one sad, distraught child whodoesn’tseethebeautyinlifegoesandwronglyactsonhisragebyshootingupaschool, people start pointing a finger at heavymetalmusic.Theproblem isn’twithrocklyrics,it’swiththefabricofthissocietyitself.”

AnnCurry’sfacefilledthescreenagain.“We’llhavemoreonthecontinuingcoverage of the tragedy in Sterling as it unfolds. In national news, the Senatedefeated the gun control bill last Wednesday, but Senator Roman Nelsonsuggests that it’s not the lastwe’ve seenof that fight.He joins us today fromSouthDakota.Senator?”

Peterdidn’tthinkhe’dsleptatalllastnight,butallthesame,hedidn’thearthecorrectionalofficercoming towardhiscell.Hestartledat the soundof themetaldoorscrapingopen.

“Here,”themansaid,andhetossedsomethingatPeter.“Putiton.”Heknewthathewasgoingtocourttoday;JordanMcAfeehadtoldhimso.

Heassumedthatthiswasasuitorsomething.Didn’tpeoplealwaysgettowearasuit in court, even if theywere coming straight from jail? Itwas supposed tomakethemsympathetic.Hethoughthe’dseenthatonTV.

Butitwasn’tasuit.ItwasKevlar,abulletproofvest.Intheholdingcellbeneaththecourthouse,Jordanfoundhisclientlyingon

hisbackonthefloor,anarmshieldinghiseyes.Peterwaswearingabulletproofvest, an unspoken nod to the fact that everyone packing the courtroom thatmorningwantedtokillhim.“Goodmorning,”Jordansaid,andPetersatup.

“Ornot,”hemurmured.Jordandidn’trespond.Heleanedalittleclosertothebars.“Here’stheplan.

You’vebeenchargedwithtencountsoffirst-degreemurderandnineteencountsof attempted first-degree murder. I’m going to waive the readings of thecomplaints-we’llgooverthemindividuallysomeothertime.Rightnowwejusthavetogointhereandenternot-guiltypleas.Idon’twantyoutosayaword.Ifyou have any questions, youwhisper them tome.You are, for all intents andpurposes,muteforthenexthour.Understand?”

Peterstaredathim.“Perfectly,”hesaid,sullen.ButJordanwaslookingathisclient’shands.

Theywereshaking.FromthelogofitemsremovedfromthebedroomofPeterHoughton:Delllaptopcomputer.GamingCDs:Doom3,GrandTheftAuto:ViceCity.Threepostersfromgunmanufacturers.Assortedlengthsofpipe.Books: The Catcher in the Rye, Salinger; On War, Clausewitz; graphic

novelsbyFrankMillerandNeilGaiman.DVD-BowlingforColumbine.Yearbook from Sterling Middle School, various faces circled in black

marker.One circled face x’d outwithwords LETLIVE beneath picture.GirlidentifiedincaptionasJosieCormier.

Thegirl spoke so softly that themicrophone,hangingonaboomoverherhead like a piñata, had trouble picking up the unraveled threads of hervoice. “Mrs.Edgar’s classroom is right next toMr.McCabe’s, and sometimeswe couldhear themmoving their chairs aroundor shoutingout answers,” shesaid. “But this time we heard screaming. Mrs. Edgar, she took her desk andshoveditupagainstthedoorandtoldusalltogotothefarendoftheclassroom,nearthewindows,andsitonthefloor.Thegunshots,theysoundedlikepopcorn.

Andthen…”Shestoppedandwipedhereyes.“Andthentherewasn’tanymorescreaming.”

DianaLevenhadn’texpectedthegunmantolooksoyoung.PeterHoughtonwasshackledandchained,wearinghisorangejumpsuitandbulletproofvest,buthestillhadtheapplecheeksofaboywhohadn’tcomethroughthefarsideofpubertyyet,andshewouldhavebetmoneyhedidn’thavetoshave.Theglasses,too,upsether.Thedefensewouldplaythattothehilt,shewascertain,claimingsomemyopiathatwouldhavemadesharpshootinganimpossibility.

Thefourcamerasthatthedistrictcourtjudgehadagreedontorepresentthenetworks-ABC,CBS,NBC,andCNN-hummedtolifelikeabarbershopquartetassoonasthedefendantwasledintotheroom.Sinceithadgottensoquietintheroom that you could hear the sound of your own doubts, Peter turnedimmediatelytowardthem.Dianarealizedthathiseyeswerenotallthatdifferentfromthoseofthecameras:dark,blind,emptybehindthelenses.

JordanMcAfee-alawyerDianadidn’tlikeverymuchonapersonallevelbutgrudgingly admitted was damn good at his job-leaned toward his client themoment Peter reached the defense table. The bailiff stood. “All rise,” hebellowed,“theHonorableCharlesAlbertpresiding.”

JudgeAlberthustledintothecourtroom,hisrobeswhispering.“Beseated,”hesaid.“PeterHoughton,”hebegan,turningtothedefendant.

JordanMcAfee stood. “YourHonor,wewaive the reading of the charges.We’dliketoenternot-guiltypleasforallofthem,andwerequestthataprobablecausehearingbescheduledintendays.”

Thiswasn’tasurprisetoDiana-whywouldJordanwantthewholeworldtohearhisclientbeingindictedontenseparatecountsoffirst-degreemurder?Thejudge turned to her. “Ms.Leven, the statute requires that a defendant chargedwithfirst-degreemurder-multiplecounts,at that-beheldwithoutbail.Iassumeyouhavenoproblemwiththis.”

Dianahidasmile.JudgeAlbert,Godblesshim,hadmanagedtoslipinthechargesanyway.“That’scorrect,YourHonor.”

The judge nodded. “Well then,Mr.Houghton.You’re remanded back intocustody.”

The whole procedure had taken less than five minutes, and the publicwouldn’t be happy. Theywanted blood; theywanted revenge. DianawatchedPeterHoughtonstumblebetweentheholdoftwosheriff’sdeputiesandturnbacktohislawyeronelasttimewithaquestiononhislipsthathedidn’tutter.Thenthedoorclosedbehindhim,andDianagatheredherbriefcaseandwalkedoutofthecourtroomtothecameras.

She stood in front of a thrust of microphones. “Peter Houghton was just

arraignedontencountsoffirst-degreemurderandnineteencountsofattemptedfirst-degree murder, and various accompanying charges involving illegalpossession of explosives and firearms in this recent tragedy. The rules ofprofessionalresponsibilitypreventusfromcommentingontheevidenceat thispoint, but the community can rest assured that we are prosecuting this casevigorously,thatwehavebeenworkingaroundtheclockwithourinvestigatorstomakesurethattheevidenceiscollected,preserved,andappropriatelyhandledsothatthisunspeakabletragedywillnotgounanswered.”Sheopenedhermouthtocontinue but realized that there was another voice speaking, just across thehallway,andthatreportersweredefectingfromherimpromptupressconferencetohearJordanMcAfeeinstead.

Hestoodsoberandpenitent,hishandsin thepocketsofhis trousers,ashestared right at Diana. “I grieve with the community for its losses, and willrepresentmyclient to the fullest.PeterHoughton is a seventeen-year-oldboy;he’s very scared. And I ask you to please have respect for his family and torememberthatthisisamattertobedeterminedincourt.”Jordanhesitated,everthe showman, and then made eye contact with the crowd. “I ask you torememberthatwhatyouseeisnotalwaysallitseemstobe.”

Dianasmirked.Thereporters-andthepeopleallover theworldwhowouldbelisteningtoJordan’scarefulspeech-wouldhearhislittlesalvoattheendandbelieve that he had some fabulous truth up his sleeve-something that wouldprove his client was not a monster. Diana, however, knew better. She couldtranslate legalese, because she spoke it fluently. When an attorney spunmysteriousrhetoriclikethat,itwasbecausehehadnothingelsehecouldusetodefendhisclient.

At noon, the governor of NewHampshire held a press conference on thestepsoftheCapitolbuildinginConcord.Onhislapelhewaswearingaloopofmaroonandwhiteribbon,theschoolcolorsofSterlingHigh,whichhadsproutedupatgasstationcashregistersandWal-Martcountersandwerebeingsoldfor$1 each, the proceeds going to support the SterlingVictims Fund.One of hisminionshaddriventwenty-sevenmilestogetone,becausethegovernorplannedtothrowhishatintotheDemocraticprimaryin2008andknewthiswasaperfectmediamomentduringwhichhecouldportraycompassionat itsstrongest.Yes,hefeltforthecitizensofSterling,andespeciallythosepoorparentsofthedead,buttherewasalsoacalculatedpartofhimthatknewamanwhocouldshepherda state through one of the most tragic school shooting incidents in Americawouldbeseenasastrongleader.“Today,allof thiscountrygrieveswithNewHampshire,”hesaid.“Today,allofusfeelthepainthatSterlingfeels.Theyareallourchildren.”

Heglancedup.“I’vebeenuptoSterling,andI’vespokentotheinvestigatorswhoareworkinghard,roundtheclock,tounderstandwhathappenedyesterday.I’vespenttimewithsomeofthefamiliesofthevictims,andatthehospitalwiththebrave survivors.Partofourpast andpartofour futuredisappeared in thistragedy,” thegovernorsaidashe lookedsolemnly into thecameras.“Whatweallneed,now,istofocusonthefuture.”

IttookJosielessthanamorningtolearnthemagicwords:whenshewantedhermothertoleaveheralone,whenshewassickofhermotherwatchingherlikeahawk,allshehadtodowassaythatsheneededanap.Then,hermotherwouldbackoff,completelyunawareofthefactthatherwholefacerelaxedtheminuteJosieletheroffthehook,andthatonlythencouldJosierecognizeher.

Upstairs, inher room, Josie sat in thedarkwithher shadesdrawnandherhandsfoldedinherlap.Itwasbroaddaylight,butyou’dneverknowit.Peoplehadfiguredoutall sortsofways tomake thingsseemdifferent than they trulywere.Aroomcouldbeturnedintoanartificialnight.Botoxtransformedpeople’sfacesintosomethingtheyweren’t.TiVoletyouthinkyoucouldfreezetime,orat leastreorder it toyourownliking.Anarraignmentatacourthousefit likeaBand-Aidoverawoundthatreallyneededatourniquet.

Fumblinginthedark,Josiereachedunderneaththeframeofherbedfortheplasticbagshe’dstashed-hersupplyofsleepingpills.Shewasnobetterthananyof the other stupid people in this world who thought if they pretended hardenough, they couldmake it so. She’d thought that death could be an answer,becauseshewastooimmaturetorealizeitwasthebiggestquestionofall.

Yesterday, she hadn’t known what patterns blood could make when itsprayedonawhitewashedwall.Shehadn’tunderstood that life leftaperson’slungs first, and their eyes last.Shehadpictured suicideas a final statement, afuckyoutothepeoplewhohadn’tunderstoodhowharditwasforhertobetheJosie theywantedher tobe.She’d somehow thought that if shekilledherself,she’d be able towatch everyone else’s reaction; that she’d get the last laugh.Untilyesterday, shehadn’t reallyunderstood.Deadwasdead.Whenyoudied,youdidnotgettocomebackandseewhatyouweremissing.Youdidn’tgettoapologize.Youdidn’tgetasecondchance.

Deathwasn’tsomethingyoucouldcontrol.Infact,itwouldalwayshavetheupperhand.

Sherippedtheplasticbagopenintoherpalmandstuffedfiveofthepillsintohermouth.Shewalkedintothebathroomandranthetap,stuckherheadclosetothefaucetuntilthepillswereswimminginthefishbowlofherbulgingcheeks.

Swallow,shetoldherself.Butinstead,Josiefellinfrontofthetoiletandspitthepillsout.Sheemptied

therestofthepills,stillclutchedinherfist.Sheflushedbeforeshecouldthinktwice.

Her mother came upstairs because she heard the sobbing. It had seepedthrough the grout of the tile and the soffits and the plaster that made up theceilingdownstairs. Itwould, in fact,becomeasmuchof thishouseholdas thebricks and the mortar, although neither of the women realized it yet. Josie’smother burst into the bedroom and sank down beside her daughter in theattachedbathroom.“WhatcanIdo,baby?”shewhispered,runningherhandsupand down Josie’s shoulders and back, as if the answer were a visible tattooinsteadofascarontheheart.

YvetteHarveysatonacouchholdingherdaughter’seighth-gradegraduationphoto,takentwoyears,sixmonths,andfourdaysbeforeshedied.Kaitlyn’shairhadgrownout, but you could still see the easy lopsided smile, themoon facethatwaspartandparcelofDownsyndrome.

Whatwouldhavehappened if shehadn’t chosen tomainstreamKaitlyn inmiddleschool?Ifshe’dsenthertoaschoolforkidswhohaddisabilities?Werethosekidsanylessangry,lesslikelytohavebredakiller?

The producer from The Oprah Winfrey Show handed back the stack ofphotographs that Yvette had given her. She hadn’t known, before today, thattherewerelevelsoftragedy,thateveniftheOprahshowcalledyoutoaskyoutotellyoursadstory,theywouldwanttomakesureitwassadenoughbeforetheyletyouspeakoncamera.Yvettehadn’tplannedtoshowherpainontelevision-infact, her husband was so dead set against it he refused to be here when theproducer came to call-but she was determined. She had been listening to thenews.Andnow,shehadsomethingtosay.

“Kaitlynhadabeautifulsmile,”theproducersaidgently.“Shedoes,”Yvettereplied,thenshookherhead.“Did.”“DidsheknowPeterHoughton?”“No. They weren’t in the same grade; they wouldn’t have had classes

together.Kaitlyn’swerein thelearningcenter.”Shepushedher thumbintotheedgeofthesilverportraitframeuntilithurt.“Allofthesepeoplewhoaregoingaround saying that Peter Houghton had no friends-that Peter Houghton wasteased…that’s not true,” she said. “My daughter had no friends.My daughterwasteasedeverysingleday.Mydaughterwastheonewhofeltlikeshewasonthefringe,becauseshewas.PeterHoughtonwasn’tamisfit,likeeveryonewantstomakehimouttobe.PeterHoughtonwasjustevil.”

Yvette looked down at the glass covering Kaitlyn’s portrait. “The griefcounselorfromthepolicedepartmenttoldmeKaitlyndiedfirst,”shesaid.“Shewantedme toknowthatKaitiedidn’tknowwhatwasgoingon-thatshedidn’t

suffer.”“Thatmusthavebeensomeconsolation,”theproduceroffered.“Itwas.Untilweallstartedtalkingtoeachotherandrealizedthatthegrief

counselorhadtoldthesamethingtoeveryoneofuswithadeadchild.”Yvetteglancedup,tearsinhereyes.“Thethingis,theycouldn’tallhavebeenfirst.”

Inthedaysaftertheshooting,thefamiliesofthevictimswereshoweredwithdonations:money,casseroles,babysittingservices, sympathy.KaitlynHarvey’sfatherwokeuponemorningaftera light, last springtimesnowto find thathisdrivewayhadalreadybeenshoveledbyaSamaritan.CourtneyIgnatio’sfamilybecame the beneficiaries of their local church, whose members signed up toprovide food or cleaning services on a different day of the week, a rotatingschedule that would take them through June. John Eberhard’s mother waspresentedwithahandicapped-accessiblevan,courtesyofSterlingFord,tohelpher son adapt to life as a paraplegic. Everyone wounded at Sterling Highreceived a letter from the president of the United States, crisp White Housestationerycommendingthemontheirbravery.

The media-at first a wave as unwelcome as a tsunami-became somethingordinary on the streets of Sterling. After days of watching their high-heeledblack boots sink into the softmud of aNewEnglandMarch, they visited thelocalFarm-WayandboughtMerrellclogsandmuckboots.TheystoppedaskingthefrontdeskattheSterlingInnwhytheircellphonesdidn’tworkandinsteadcongregatedintheparkinglotoftheMobilstation,thepointofhighestelevationin town,where they could get aminimal signal. They hovered in front of thepolice station and the courthouse and the local coffee shop, waiting for anycrumbofinformationtheycouldcalltheirown.

EverydayinSterling,therewasadifferentfuneral.MatthewRoyston’smemorialservicewasheldinachurchthatwasn’tlarge

enough to hold the grief of its mourners. Classmates and parents and familyfriends packed into the pews, stood along the walls, spilled out the doors. Acontingentofkids fromSterlingHighhadcomedressed ingreenT-shirtswiththenumber19onthefront-thesameonethathadgracedMatt’shockeyjersey.

Josieandhermotherweresittingsomewhereintheback,butthatdidn’tkeepJosiefromfeelingthateveryonewasstaringather.Shewasn’tsureifthatwasbecausetheyallknewshewasMatt’sgirlfriendorbecausetheycouldseerightthroughher.

“Blessed are those who mourn,” the pastor read, “for they will becomforted.”

Josie shivered. Was she mourning? Did mourning feel like a hole in themiddleofyou thatgotwiderandwiderevery timeyou tried toplug itup?Or

was she incapable of mourning, because that meant remembering, which shecouldn’tdo?

Hermotherleanedcloser.“Wecanleave.Youjustsaytheword.”Itwashardenoughnothavingacluewhoshewas,buthereintheAfterward,

shecouldn’tseemtorecognizeanyoneelse,either.Peoplewhohadignoredherforherwhole lifesuddenlyknewherbyname.Everyone’seyesgotsoftat theedgeswhentheylookedather.Andhermotherwasthemostforeignofall-likeoneofthosecorporateaddictswhohasanear-deathexperienceandbecomesatree-hugger. Josie had expected to have to fight hermother in order to attendMatt’s funeral, but to Josie’s surprise,hermotherhad suggested it.The stupidshrinkJosiehad toseenow-probablyfor therestofher life-kept talkingaboutclosure.Closure,apparently,meantthatshewassupposedtorealizethatlosingnormalwassomethingyougotover, like losingasoccergameorafavoriteT-shirt. Closure also meant that her mother had morphed into a crazy,overcompensating emotive machine, one who kept asking her if she neededanything(howmanycupsofherbalteacouldapersondrinkwithoutliquefying?)and trying to act like an ordinary mother, or at least what she imagined anordinarymothertobe.Ifyoureallywantmetofeelbetter,Josiefeltlikesaying,gobacktowork.Thentheycouldpretenditwasbusinessasusual,andafterall,hermotherwastheonewho’dtaughtJosiehowtopretendinthefirstplace.

In the frontof the churchwasa coffin. Josieknew itwasn’topen; rumorshadflownaboutthat.ItwashardtoimaginethatMattwasinsidethatlacqueredblackbox.Thathewasn’tbreathing;thathisbloodhadbeendrainedoutandhisveinswerepumpedfullofchemicalsinstead.

“Friends,aswegatherheretorememberMatthewCarltonRoyston,wearebeneath theprotective shelterofGod’shealing love,” thepastor said. “Wearefreetopouroutourgrief,releaseouranger,faceouremptiness,andknowthatGodcares.”

Lastyear,inancientworldhistory,theyhadlearnedabouthowtheEgyptianspreparedtheirdead.Matt-whostudiedonlywhenJosieforcedhimtodoit-hadbeentrulyfascinated.Thewaythebrainwassuckedoutthroughthenose.Thepossessions that went into a tomb with a pharaoh. The pets that were buriedbesidehim.Josiehadbeenreadingthechapterinthetextbookoutloud,herheadcradled onMatt’s lap.He’d stopped her by putting his hand on her forehead.“WhenIgo,”hesaid,“I’mgoingtotakeyouwithme.”

Thepastorlookedoutoverthecongregation.“Thedeathofalovedonecanshakeus toourvery foundations.When theperson is soyoungand so full ofpotential and skill, the feelings of grief and loss can be even moreoverwhelming. At times such as this we turn to our friends and family for

support,forashouldertocryonandforsomeonetowalkthatroadofpainandanguishwithus.WecannothaveMattback,butwecanresteasyknowingthathe’sfoundthepeaceindeathhewasdeniedhereonearth.”

Mattdidn’tgotochurch.Hisparentsdid,andtheytriedtomakehimgo,butJosieknewhehatedit.HethoughtitwasawasteofaSunday,andthatifGodwasat allworthyofhangingaroundwith,he’dprobablybeout ridingaroundwiththetopdownonhisJeeporplayingpickuppondhockeyinsteadofsittinginastuffybuildingdoingresponsivereading.

The pastor moved aside, and Matt’s father stood up. Josie knew him, ofcourse-hecrackedtheworstjokes,sillypunsthatwereneverfunny.He’dplayedhockeyatUVMuntilheblewouthisknee,andhe’dhadhighhopesforMatt.Butovernight,he’dturnedhunch-shoulderedandsullen,likeahuskthatusedtocontainthewholeofhim.Hestoodupandtalkedaboutthefirsttimehe’dtakenMattouttoskate,howhe’dstartedoutpullinghimalongontheendofahockeystickandrealized,notmuchlater,thatMattwasn’tholdingon.Inthefrontrow,Matt’smotherbegancrying.Loud,noisysobs-thekindthatsplatteredagainstthewallsofthechurchlikepaint.

BeforeJosierealizedwhatshewasdoing,she’dgottentoherfeet.“Josie!”hermotherwhispered, fierce, besideher-in that instant a flickerof themothershewasaccustomed to, theonewhowouldnevermakea spectacleofherself.Josiewasshakingsohardthatherfeetdidnotseemtotouchtheground,notasshesteppedintotheaisleintheblackdressshehadborrowedfromhermother,notasshemovedtowardMatt’scoffin,magneticallydrawntoapole.

She could feelMatt’s father’s eyes on her, could hear thewhispers of thecongregation.She reached the casket, polished to such a gleam that she couldseeherownfacereflectedbackather,animposter.

“Josie,”Mr.Royston said, comingdown from the podium to embraceher.“Youallright?”

Josie’s throat closed like a rosebud. How could this man, whose son wasdead,beaskingherthat?Shefeltherselfdissolving,andwonderedifyoucouldturnintoaghostwithoutdying;ifthatpartofitwasonlyatechnicality.

“Didyouwanttosaysomething?”Mr.Roystonoffered.“AboutMatt?”Before she knewwhatwas happening,Matt’s father had led her up to the

podium.Shewasvaguelyawareofhermother,who’dgottenoutofherseatinthe pew and was edging her way down toward the front of the church-to dowhat?Spiritheraway?Stopherfrommakinganothermistake?

Josie stared out at a landscape of faces she recognized and did not reallyknowatall.Shelovedhim,theywereallthinking.Shewaswithhimwhenhedied.Herbreathcaughtlikeamothinthecageofherlungs.

Butwhatwouldshesay?Thetruth?Josiefeltherlipstwist,herfacecrumple.Shestartedtosob,sohardthatthe

woodenfloorboardsofthechurchbowedandcreaked;sohardthateveninthatsealedcasket,JosiewassureMattcouldhearher.“I’msorry,”shechokedout-tohim,toMr.Royston,toanyonewhowouldlisten.“Oh,God.I’msosorry.”

Shedidnotnoticehermotherclimbingthestepstothepodium,wrappinganarmaround Josie, leadingher behind the altar to a little vestibule usedby theorganist.Shedidn’tprotestwhenhermotherhandedherKleenexandrubbedherback.Shedidn’t evenmindwhenhermother tuckedher hair backbehindherears,thewaysheusedtowhenJosiewassosmall,shecouldbarelyrememberthegesture.“EveryonemustthinkI’manidiot,”Josiesaid.

“No,theythinkyoumissMatt.”Hermotherhesitated.“Iknowyoubelievethiswasyourfault.”

Josie’sheartwaspounding sohard, itmoved the thinchiffon fabricof thedress.

“Sweetheart,”hermothersaid,“youcouldn’thavesavedhim.”Josiereachedforanothertissue,andpretendedthathermotherunderstood.Maximum security meant Peter did not have a roommate. He did not get

recreationtime.Hisfoodwasbrought tohimthree timesadayinhiscell.Hisreadingmaterialwasrestrictedbythecorrectionalofficers.Andbecausethestaffstillbelievedhemightbesuicidal,hisroomconsistedofatoiletandabench-nosheets, nomattress, nothing thatmight be fashioned into ameansof checkingoutofthisworld.

Therewere fourhundredand fifteencinderblockson thebackwallofhiscell; he’d counted.Twice.Since then, he’d taken the time to stare right at thecamerathatwaswatchinghim.Peterwonderedwhowasattheotherendofthatcamera.Hepictured a bunchofCOs clustered around a crummyTVmonitor,pokingeachotherandcrackingupwhenPeterhadtogotothebathroom.Or,inotherwords,yetanothergroupofpeoplewho’dfindawaytomakefunofhim.

The camera had a red light on it, a power indicator, and a single lens thatshimmered like a rainbow. There was a rubber bumper around the lens thatlookedlikeaneyelid.ItstruckPeterthatevenifhewasn’tsuicidal,afewweeksofthisandhewouldbe.

It did not get dark in jail, just dim. That hardlymattered, since therewasnothing todobut sleepanyway.Peter layon thebench,wondering ifyou lostyourhearingifyouneverhadtouseit;ifthepowerofspeechworkedthesameway.HerememberedlearninginoneofhissocialstudiesclassesthatintheOldWest,whenNativeAmericanswere thrown into jail, they sometimes droppeddead. The theorywas that someone so used to the freedom of space couldn’t

handle the confinement, but Peter had another interpretation. When the onlycompanyyouhadwasyourself,andwhenyoudidn’twanttosocialize,therewasonlyonewaytoleavetheroom.

Oneof theCOshad just come through,doinghis security sweep-aheavy-bootedrunpastthecells-whenPeterheardit:

Iknowwhatyoudid.Holyshit,Peterthought.I’vealreadystartedtogocrazy.Everyoneknows.Peter swung his feet to the cement floor and stared at the camera, but it

wasn’tgivingupanysecrets.Thevoicesoundedlikewindpassingoversnow-bleak,awhisper.“Toyour

right,”itsaid,andPeterslowlygottohisfeetandwalkedtoacornerofthecell.“Who…who’sthere?”hesaid.“It’saboutfuckingtime.Ithoughtyouwerenevergoingtostopwailing.”Petertriedtoseethroughthebars,butcouldn’t.“Youheardmecrying?”“Fuckingbaby,”thevoicesaid.“Growthefuckup.”“Whoareyou?”“YoucancallmeCarnivore,likeeveryoneelse.”Peterswallowed.“Whatdidyoudo?”“NothingtheysaidIdid,”Carnivoreanswered.“Howlong?”“Howlongwhat?”“Howlongtillyourtrial?”Peter didn’t know. Itwas the one question he had forgotten to ask Jordan

McAfee,probablybecausehewasafraidtoheartheanswer.“Mine’snextweek,”CarnivoresaidbeforePetercouldreply.Themetaldoorof thecell felt like iceagainsthis temple.“Howlonghave

youbeenhere?”Peterasked.“Tenmonths,”Carnivoreanswered.Peterimaginedsittinginthiscellfortenstraightmonths.Hethoughtabout

allthetimeshe’dcountthosestupidcinderblocks,allthepissesthattheguardswouldgettowatchontheirlittletelevisionset.

“Youkilledkids,right?Youknowwhathappensinthisjailtoguyswhokillkids?”

Peterdidn’t respond.Hewas roughly thesameageaseveryoneatSterlingHigh;itwasn’tlikehe’dgoneintoanurseryschool.Anditwasn’tlikehehadn’thadagoodreason.

Hedidn’twanttotalkaboutthisanymore.“Howcomeyoudidn’tgetbail?”Carnivore scoffed. “Because they say I raped some waitress, and then

stabbedher.”

Dideveryone in this jail think theywere innocent?All this timePeterhadspent lyingon thatbench,convincinghimself thathewasnothing likeanyoneelseintheGraftonCountyJail-andasitturnedout,thatwasalie.

DidhesoundlikethistoJordan?“Youstillthere?”Carnivoreasked.Peter laybackdownonhisbenchwithout sayinganotherword.He turned

hisface to thewall,andhepretendednot tohearas themannext tohimtriedoverandovertomakeaconnection.

The first thing that struck Patrick, again, was how much younger JudgeCormierlookedwhenshewasn’tonthebench.Sheansweredthedoorinjeansandaponytail,wipingherhandsonadishtowel.Josiestoodjustbehindher,herfacewashedbythesamevacantstarehe’dseenadozentimesover,now,inothervictimshe’dinterviewed.Josiewasavitalpieceinthepuzzle,theonlyonewhohad seen Peter kill Matthew Royston. But unlike those victims, Josie had amotherwhoknewtheintricaciesofthelegalsystem.

“JudgeCormier,”hesaid.“Josie.Thanksforlettingmecomeover.”The judge stared at him. “This is awasteof time. Josie doesn’t remember

anything.”“Withallduerespect,Judge,it’smyjobtohearthatfromJosieherself.”Hesteeledhimselfforanargument,butshesteppedbacktolethiminside.

Patricklethiseyesroamthefoyer-theantiquetablewithaspiderplantspillingoveritssurface,thetastefullandscapesthathungonthewalls.Sothiswashowajudge lived. His own place was a pit stop, a haven of laundry and oldnewspapersandfoodlongpastitsexpirationdate,wherehe’dgoforafewhoursbetweenhisstintsattheoffice.

HeturnedtoJosie.“How’sthehead?”“Itstillhurts,”shesaid,sosoftlythatPatrickhadtostraintohearher.Heturnedtothejudgeagain.“Istherearoomwherewecouldgotalkfora

fewminutes?”She led them into the kitchen, which looked like just the kind of kitchen

Patricksometimesthoughtaboutwhenheimaginedwhereheshouldhavebeenbynow.Therewerecherrycabinetsand lotsof sunstreaming through thebaywindowandabowlofbananasonthecounter.HesatdownacrossfromJosie,expectingthejudgetopullupachairbesideherdaughter,buttohissurprisesheremainedstanding.“Ifyouneedme,”shesaid,“I’llbeupstairs.”

Josielookedup,pained.“Can’tyoujuststay?”Foramoment,Patricksawsomethinglightinthejudge’seyes-want?regret?-

but itvanishedbeforehecouldputaname to it.“YouknowIcan’t,”shesaidgently.

Patrickdidn’thaveanykidsofhisown,buthewasprettydamnsurethatifoneofhishadcomethisclosetodying,he’dhaveahardtimelettingheroutofhissight.Hedidnotknowexactlywhatwasgoingonbetweenthemotheranddaughter,butheknewbetterthantogetinthemiddleofit.

“I’m sure Detective Ducharme will make this utterly painless,” the judgesaid.

It was part wish, part warning. Patrick nodded at her. A good cop didwhateverhecouldtoprotectandserve,butwhenitwassomeoneyouknewwhowasrobbedor threatenedorhurt, thestakeschanged.You’dmakea fewmorephonecalls;you’dshuffleyourresponsibilitiessothatonetookpriority.Patrickhadexperiencedthat,toagreaterdegree,yearsagowithhisfriendNinaandherson.Hedidn’tknowJosieCormierpersonally,buthermotherwasinthefieldoflaw enforcement-Christ, she was at its top level-and for this, her daughterdeservedtobetreatedwithkidgloves.

HewatchedAlexwalkupthestairs,andthenhetookapadandpenciloutofhiscoatpocket.“So,”hesaid.“Howareyoudoing?”

“Look,youdon’thavetopretendyoucare.”“I’mnotpretending,”Patricksaid.“Idon’tevengetwhyyou’rehere.It’snotlikeanythinganyonesaystoyou

isgoingtomakethosekidslessdead.”“That’strue,”Patrickagreed,“butbeforewecantryPeterHoughtonweneed

toknowexactlywhathappened.Andunfortunately,Iwasn’tthere.”“Unfortunately?”He looked down at the table. “I sometimes think it’s easier to be the one

who’sbeenhurtthantheonewhocouldn’tstopitfromhappening.”“Iwasthere,”Josiesaid,shaken.“Icouldn’tstopit.”“Hey,”Patricksaid,“it’snotyourfault.”Shelookedupathimthen,asifshesobadlywishedshecouldbelievethat,

butknewhewaswrong.AndwhowasPatricktotellherotherwise?Everytimehe envisioned his mad dash to Sterling High, he imagined what would havehappened if he’d been at the school when the shooter first arrived. If he’ddisarmedthekidbeforeanyonewashurt.

“Idon’trememberanythingabouttheshooting,”Josiesaid.“Doyourememberbeinginthegym?”Josieshookherhead.“HowaboutrunningtherewithMatt?”“No.Idon’tevenremembergettingupandgoingtoschoolinthefirstplace.

It’slikeablankspotinmyheadthatIjustskipover.”Patrickknew,fromtalkingtotheshrinkswho’dbeenassignedtoworkwith

thevictims,thatthiswasperfectlynormal.Amnesiawasonewayforthemindtoprotectitselffromrelivingsomethingthatwouldotherwisebreakyouapart.Inaway,hewishedhecouldbeasluckyasJosie,thathecouldmakewhathe’dseenvanish.

“WhataboutPeterHoughton?Didyouknowhim?”“Everyoneknewwhohewas.”“Whatdoyoumean?”Josieshrugged.“Hegotnoticed.”“Becausehewasdifferentfromeveryoneelse?”Josiethoughtaboutthisforamoment.“Becausehedidn’ttrytofitin.”“YouweredatingMatthewRoyston?”Immediately,tearswelledinJosie’seyes.“HelikedtobecalledMatt.”Patrick reached forapapernapkinandpassed it to Josie.“I’msorryabout

whathappenedtohim,Josie.”Sheduckedherhead.“Metoo.”Hewaitedforhertowipehereyes,blowhernose.“DoyouknowwhyPeter

mighthavedislikedMatt?”“Peopleusedtomakefunofhim,”Josiesaid.“Itwasn’tjustMatt.”Did you? Patrick thought. He’d looked at the yearbook confiscated from

Peter’s room-the circles around certain kids who became victims, and otherswhodidnot.Thereweremanyreasonsforthis-fromthefactthatPeterranoutoftimetothetruththathuntingdownthirtypeopleinaschoolofathousandwasmoredifficultthanhe’dimagined.ButofallthetargetsPeterhadmarkedintheyearbook,onlyJosie’sphotohadbeencrossedout,asifhe’dchangedhismind.Onlyherfacehadwordsprintedbeneathit,inblockletters:LETLIVE.

“Didyouknowhimpersonally?Haveanyclassesoranythingwithhim?”Shelookedup.“Iusedtoworkwithhim.”“Where?”“Thecopystoredowntown.”“Didyoutwogetalong?”“Sometimes,”Josiesaid.“Notalways.”“Whynot?”“HelitafirethereonceandIrattedhimout.Helosthisjobafterthat.”Patrickmarkedanotedownonhispad.WhyhadPetermadethedecisionto

spareherwhenhehadeveryreasontoholdagrudge?“Beforethat,”Patrickasked,“wouldyousayyouwerefriends?”Josiepleatedthenapkinshe’dusedtodryhertearsintoatriangle,asmaller

one,asmalleronestill.“No,”shesaid.“Weweren’t.”Thewomannext toLacywaswearinga checkered flannel shirt, reekedof

cigarettes,andwasmissingmostofherteeth.ShetookonelookatLacy’sskirtandblouse.“Yourfirsttimehere?”sheasked.

Lacynodded.Theywerewaiting in a long room, sideby side in a rowofchairs. In front of their feet ran a red dividing line, and then a second set ofchairs. Inmatesandvisitors sat likemirror images, speaking in shorthand.ThewomanbesideLacysmiledather.“Yougetusedtoit,”shesaid.

OneparentwasallowedtovisitPetereverytwoweeks,foronehour.Lacyhad come with a basket full of home-baked muffins and cakes, magazines,books-anything she could think of to help Peter. But the correctional officerwho’d signedher in for visitationhad confiscated the items.Nobakedgoods.Andnoreadingmaterial,notuntilitwasvettedbythejailstaff.

A man with a shaved head and sleeves of tattoos up and down his armsheadedtowardLacy.Sheshivered-wasthataswastikainkedontohisforehead?“Hi,Mom,”hemurmured,andLacywatchedthewoman’seyesstripawaythetattoos and thebare scalp and theorange jumpsuit to see a little boy catchingtadpoles in a mudhole behind their house. Everyone, Lacy thought, issomebody’sson.

She glanced away from their reunion and saw Peter being led into thevisitationroom.Foramomentherheartcaught-helookedtoothin,andbehindhisglasses,hiseyesweresoempty-butthenshetampeddownwhatevershewasfeelingandofferedhimabrilliantsmile.Shewouldpretendthatitdidn’tbotherhertoseehersoninaprisonjumpsuit;thatshehadn’thadtositinthecarandfightapanicattackafterpullingintothejaillot;thatitwasperfectlynormaltobesurroundedbydrugdealersand rapistswhileyouaskedyourson ifhewasgettingenoughtoeat.

“Peter,”shesaid,foldinghimintoherarms.Ittookamoment,buthehuggedherback.Shepressedherfacetohisneck,thewaysheusedtowhenhewasababy,andshethoughtshewoulddevourhim-buthedidnotsmelllikeherson.Foramomentsheletherselfentertainthepipedreamthatthiswasallamistake-Peter’snotinjail!Thisissomeoneelse’sunfortunatechild!-butthensherealizedwhatwas different. The shampoo and deodorant he had to use herewere notwhathe’dusedathome;thisPetersmelledsharper,coarser.

Suddenlytherewasataponhershoulder.“Ma’am,”thecorrectionalofficersaid,“you’llhavetoletgonow.”

Ifonlyitwasthateasy,Lacythought.Theysatdownonoppositesidesoftheredline.“Areyouallright?”sheasked.“I’mstillhere.”Thewayhesaidit-asifhe’dtotallyexpectedotherwisebynow-madeLacy

shudder.Shehadafeelinghewasn’ttalkingaboutbeingletoutonbail,andthealternative-theideaofPeterkillinghimself-wassomethingshecouldnotholdinherhead.She felt her throat funnel tight, and she foundherself doing theonethingshe’dpromisedherself shewouldnotdo: she started tocry. “Peter,” shewhispered.“Why?”

“Didthepolicecometothehouse?”Peterasked.Lacynodded-itseemedasifithadhappenedsolongago.“Didtheygotomyroom?”“Theyhadawarrant-”“Theytookmythings?”Peterexclaimed,thefirstemotionshe’dseenfrom

him.“Youletthemtakemythings?”“Whatwere you doingwith those things?” shewhispered. “Those bombs.

Theguns…?”“Youwouldn’tunderstand.”“Thenmakeme,Peter,”shesaid,broken.“Makemeunderstand.”“Ihaven’tbeenabletomakeyouunderstandinseventeenyears,Mom.Why

shoulditbeanydifferentnow?”Hisfacetwisted.“Idon’tevenknowwhyyoubotheredtocome.”

“Toseeyou-”“Thenlookatme,”Petercried.“Whywon’tyoufuckinglookatme?”Heputhisheadinhishands,hisnarrowshouldersroundingwiththesound

ofasob.Itcamedowntothis,Lacyrealized:Youstaredatthestrangerinfrontofyou

anddecided, categorically, that thiswasno longeryour son.Oryoumade thedecision to findwhatever scraps of your child you still could inwhat he hadbecome.

Wasthatevenreallyachoice,ifyouwereamother?People could argue that monsters weren’t born, they were made. People

could criticizeherparenting skills, point tomomentswhenLacyhad letPeterdownbybeingtoolaxortoofirm,tooremovedortoosmothering.ThetownofSterlingwould analyze to deathwhat she had done to her son-butwhat aboutwhatshewoulddoforhim?ItwaseasytobeproudofthekidwhogotstraightA’sandwhomadethewinningbasket-akidtheworldalreadyadored.Buttruecharacter showedwhen you could find something to love in a child everyoneelsehated.Whatif thethingsshehadorhadn’tdoneforPeterwerethewrongcriteriaformeasurement?Wasn’titjustastellingamarkofmotherhoodtoseehow,fromthisawfulmomenton,shebehaved?

ShereachedacrosstheredlineuntilshecouldembracePeter.Shedidn’tcareifitwasallowedornot.Theguardscouldcomeandpullheroffhim,butuntil

thathappened,Lacywasnotplanningtolethersongo.On the surveillance video taken from the cafeteria, studentswere carrying

traysanddoinghomeworkandchattingwhenPeterenteredtheroomholdingahandgun. There was a discharge of bullets and a cacophony of screaming. Asmokealarmwentoff.Wheneveryonestartedtorun,heshotagain,andthistimetwogirlsfelldown.Otherstudentsranrightovertheminanefforttogetaway.

When the only people left in the cafeteria were Peter and the victims, hewalked through therowsof tables,surveyinghishandiwork.Hepassedby theboyhe’dshotwholayinapuddleofbloodontopofabook,buthestoppedtopickupaniPodthathadbeenleftonthetableandputtheearphonesinhisearsbefore turning it off and setting it downagain.He turned thepage in anopennotebook.Andthenhesatdownatoneuntouchedtrayandplacedthegunonit.HeopenedaboxofRiceKrispiesandpouredthemintoaStyrofoambowl.Headdedthecontentsofamilkcontainerandateallthecerealbeforestandingupagain,retrievinghispistol,andexitingthecafeteria.

Itwasthemostchilling,deliberatethingPatrickhadeverseeninhislife.He looked down at the bowl of ramen noodles he had cooked himself for

dinner, and realized he’d lost his appetite. Setting it aside on a stack of oldnewspapers,herewoundthevideoandforcedhimselftowatchitagain.

Whenthephonerang,hepickeditup,stilldistractedbythesightofPeteronhistelevisionscreen.“Yeah.”

“Well,hellotoyou,too,”NinaFrostsaid.Hemeltedwhenheheardhervoice;oldhabitsdiedhard.“Sorry.I’mjustin

themiddleofsomething.”“Icanimagine.It’salloverthenews.Howareyouholdingup?”“Oh, youknow,” he said,whenwhat he reallymeantwas that hewas not

sleepingatnight;thathesawthefacesofthedeadwheneverheclosedhiseyes;thathismouthwasfullofthequestionshewascertainhe’dforgottentoask.

“Patrick,”shesaid,becauseshewashisoldestfriendandbecausesheknewhimbetterthananyone,includinghimself,“don’tblameyourself.”

Hebenthishead.“Ithappenedinmytown.Howcan’tI?”“Ifyouhadavideophone,I’dbeabletotellifyou’rewearingyourhairshirt

oryourcapeandboots,”Ninasaid.“It’snotfunny.”“No,it’snot,”sheagreed.“Butyoumustknowit’saslamdunkattrial.You

have,what?Athousandwitnesses?”“Somethinglikethat.”Ninagrewquiet.Patrickdidnothavetoexplaintoher-awomanwho’dlived

with regret as a constant companion-that convicting Peter Houghton was not

enough.ForPatrick to lay this to rest,he’dhave tounderstandwhyPeterhaddonethisinthefirstplace.

Sothathecouldkeepitfromhappeningagain.FromanFBI investigatory report,publishedby special agents inchargeof

examiningschoolshootingsaroundtheglobe:Amongschoolshooters,wehaveseenasimilarityoffamilydynamics.Often

the shooter will have a turbulent relationship with his parents, or will haveparentswhoacceptpathologicalbehavior.Thereisalackofintimacywithinthefamily. There are no limits for television or computer use imposed on theshooter,andsometimesthereisaccesstoweapons.

Withintheschoolenvironment,wefoundatendencytowarddetachmentfromthe learning process on the part of the shooter. The school itself tended totoleratedisrespectfulbehavior,exhibitedinequitabledisciplineandaninflexibleculture-with certain students enjoying prestige given to them by teachers andstaff.

Shooters aremore likely to have access to violentmovies, television, andvideogames;tousedrugsandalcohol;tohaveapeergroupthatexistsoutsideofschoolandsupportstheirbehavior.

In addition, prior to a violent act, there is evidence of leakage-aclue thatsomething is coming. These hints might take the form of poems, writings,drawings,Internetposts,orthreatsmadeinpersonorinabsentia.

In spite of the commonalities describedwithin,we caution the use of thisreporttocreateachecklistthatmightpredictfutureschoolshooters.Inthehandsof the media, this might result in labeling many nonviolent students aspotentially lethal. In fact, a great many adolescents who will never commitviolentactswillshowsomeofthetraitsonthelist.

LewisHoughtonwasacreatureofhabit.Everymorning,hewokeupat5:35andwentforarunonthetreadmillinthebasement.Heshoweredandheateabowl of cornflakeswhile he scanned the headlines in the paper. Hewore thesameovercoat,nomatterhowcoldorhottheweather,andheparkedinthesamespotinthefacultylot.

He’doncetriedtomathematicallyfiguretheeffectofroutineonhappiness,buttherewasaninterestingtwisttothecalculation:Themeasureofjoybroughtby the familiar was amplified or reduced by the individual’s resistance tochange. Or-as Lacy would have said, English, Lewis-for every person likehimselfwho liked theworn grooves of the familiar, therewas another personwho found it stifling. In those cases, the comfort quotient became a negativenumber, and doingwhat came habitually actually detracted fromhappiness. Itwasthatway,hesupposed,forLacy,whowanderedaroundthehouseasifshe’d

never seen it before, who couldn’t stand the thought of going back to herpractice.Howcanyouexpectmetothinkofsomeoneelse’schildrightnow?shehadargued.

Shekeptinsistingthattheyneededtodosomething,butLewisdidn’tknowwhatthatwassupposedtobe.Andbecausehecouldn’tcomforteitherhiswifeorhisson,Lewisdecidedhewasleft tocomforthimself.AftersittingathomeforfivedaysafterPeter’sarraignment,onemorninghewokeupandpackedhisbriefcase,atehiscornflakes,readthepaper,andheadedofftowork.

Hewasthinkingoftheequationforhappinessasheheadedtotheoffice.Oneofthetenetsofhisbreakthrough-H=R/E,orhappinessequalsrealitydividedbyexpectation-was based on the universal truth that you always had someexpectationforwhatwastocome.Inotherwords,Ewasalwaysarealnumber,sinceyoucouldnotdividebyzero.Butrecently,hewonderedaboutthetruthofthat.Mathcouldonlytakeamansofar.Inthemiddleofthenight,whenhewaswideawakeandstaringupattheceiling,knowingthathiswifelaybesidehimpretending to be asleep and doing the very same thing, Lewis had come tobelieve thatyoumightbeconditioned toexpect absolutelynothing fromone’slife. That way, when you lost your first son, you didn’t grieve. When yoursecondsonwasjailedforamassacre,youwerenotshattered.Youcoulddividebyzero;itfeltlikeacanyonwhereyourheartusedtobe.

Assoonashesetfootonthecampus,Lewisfeltbetter.Here,hewasnotthefatheroftheshooterandneverhadbeen.HewasLewisHoughton,professorofeconomics.Here,hewasstillatthetopofhisgame;hedidn’thavetolookatthebodyofhisresearchandwonderatwhatpointithadbeguntounravel.

Lewis had just pulled a sheaf of papers out of his briefcase that morningwhen the chair of the econ department poked his head through the opendoorway.HughMacquariewas a bigman-HugeAndhairy iswhat the collegestudentscalledhimbehindhisback-whohadtakenoverthepositionwithgusto.“Houghton?Whatareyoudoinghere?”

“LastIchecked,thecollegewasstillpayingmetowork,”Lewissaid,tryingtomakeajoke.Hecouldn’tmakejokes,neverhadbeenabletodoso.Histimingwasoff;hegaveawaypunchlinesbyaccident.

Hughwalkedintotheroom.“MyGod,Lewis,Idon’tknowwhattosay.”Hehesitated.

Lewisdidn’tblameHugh.Hebarelyknewwhattosayhimself.TherewereHallmark cards for bereavement, for loss of a belovedpet, for getting laidofffromajob,butnooneseemedtohavetherightwordsofcomfortforsomeonewhosesonhadjustkilledtenpeople.

“Ithoughtaboutcallingyouathome.Lisaevenwantedtobringacasserole

orsomething.How’sLacyholdingup?”Lewis pushed his glasses higher on the bridge of his nose. “Oh,” he said.

“Youknow.We’retryingtokeepthingsasnormalaspossible.”When he said this, he pictured his life as a graph.Normalwas a line that

stretchedonandon,teasingitswayclosertoanaxisbutneverreallyreachingit.HughsatdowninthechairacrossfromLewis’sdesk-thesamechairthatwas

sometimesfilledbyastudentwhoneededatutorialinmicroeconomics.“Lewis,takesometimeoff,”hesaid.

“Thanks,Hugh. Iappreciate that.”Lewisglancedatanequationon the farblackboardthathe’dbeenpuzzlingout.“Rightnow,though,Ireallyneedtobehere. It keepsme from thinking about being there.”Reaching for some chalk,Lewisbegantoprintacrosstheboard,alongandlovelystreamofnumbersthatcalmedhiminside.

He knew that there was a difference between something that makes youhappyandsomethingthatdoesn’tmakeyouunhappy.Thetrickwasconvincingyourselfthesewereoneandthesame.

HughputhishandonLewis’s arm, stilling itmid-equation. “Maybe I saidthatwrong.Weneedyoutotaketimeoff.”

Lewisstaredathim.“Oh.Um.Isee,”hesaid,althoughhedidn’t.IfLewiswaswillingtosegregatehisworklifefromhishomelife,whycouldn’tSterlingCollegedothesame?

Unless.Had that been hismistake in the first place? If youwere uncertain in the

decisionsyoumadeasafather,couldyoupatchoveryourinsecuritieswiththeconfidenceyouhadasaprofessional?Orwouldthefixalwaysbeflimsy,apaperwallthatcouldn’tbearweight?

“It’sjustforabit,”Hughsaid.“It’swhat’sbest.”Forwhom?Lewisthought,butheremainedsilentuntilheheardHughclose

thedoorbehindhimselfonhiswayout.Whenthechairmanwasgone,Lewisliftedthechalkagain.Hestaredatthe

equations until theymelded together, and then he began to scrawl furiously, acomposer with a symphony moving too fast for his fingers. Why hadn’t herealized thisbefore?Everyoneknewthat ifyoudividedrealitybyexpectation,yougot a happiness quotient.Butwhenyou inverted the equation-expectationdividedbyreality-youdidn’tgettheoppositeofhappiness.Whatyougot,Lewisrealized,washope.

Purelogic:Assumingrealitywasconstant,expectationhadtobegreaterthanreality to create optimism. On the other hand, a pessimist was someone withexpectations lower than reality, a fraction of diminishing returns. The human

conditionmeantthatthisnumberapproachedzerowithoutreachingit-youneverreallycompletelygaveuphope;itmightcomefloodingbackatanyprovocation.

Lewissteppedbackfromtheblackboard,surveyinghishandiwork.Someonewhowashappywouldhave littleneed tohopeforchange.But,conversely,anoptimisticpersonwasthatwaybecausehewantedtobelieveinsomethingbetterthanhisreality.

He startedwondering if therewere exceptions to the rule: if happypeoplemight be hopeful, if the unhappy might have given up any anticipation thatthingsmightgetbetter.

AndthatmadeLewisthinkofhisson.He stood in front of the blackboard and started to cry, his hands and his

sleevescoveredinfinewhitechalkdust,asifhehadbecomeaghost.Theofficeof theGeekSquad,asPatrickaffectionately referred to the tech

guyswhohackedintoharddrivestofindproofofpornographyanddownloadsfrom The Anarchist Cookbook, was filled with computers. Not just the oneseized from Peter Houghton’s room, but also several from Sterling High,including theone from the secretary’smainoffice and another batch from thelibrary.

“He’sgood,”saidOrestes,atechthatPatrickwouldhaveswornwasnotoldenough to have graduated from high school himself. “We’re not just talkingHTMLprogramming.Guyknewhisshit.”

HepulledupafewfilesfromthebowelsofPeter’scomputer,graphicsfilesthat didn’tmakemuch sense toPatrickuntil the tech typed a fewbuttons andsuddenlyathree-dimensionaldragonappearedonthescreenandbreathedfireatthem.“Wow,”Patricksaid.

“Yeah. Fromwhat I can tell, he actuallymade up a few computer games,evenpostedthemforgamersonacoupleofsiteswhereyoucandothatandgetfeedback.”

“Anymessageboardsonthosesites?”“Dude,givemeaniotaofcredit,”Orestessaid,andheclickedontoonehe’d

alreadyflagged.“PeterwentbythescreennameDeathWish.They’rea-”“-band,”Patrickfinished.“Iknow.”“They’re not just a band,” Orestes said with reverence, his fingers flying

over the keyboard. “They’re the modern voice of the collective humanconscience.”

“TellthattoTipperGore.”“Who?”Patricklaughed.“Shewasbeforeyourtime,Iguess.”“Whatdidyouusedtolistentowhenyouwereakid?”

“Thecavemen,bangingrockstogether,”Patricksaiddryly.ThescreenfilledwithaseriesofpostsfromDeathWish.Mostofthemwere

entries abouthow to enhance a certaingraphicor reviewsofothergames thathadbeenpostedonthesite.TwoquotedlyricsfromthebandDeathWish.“Thisismypersonalfavorite,”Orestessaid,andhescrolleddown.

From:DeathWishTo:Hades1991Thistownblows.Thisweekendthereisacraftfestivalwhereoldbagscome

toshowoffthetickytackyshittheymade.TheyshouldcallitaCRAPfestival.I’mgonnahideinthebushesoutsidethechurch.Targetpracticeastheycrossthestreet-tenpointseach!Yeeha!

Patrickleanedbackinthechair.“Well,thatdoesn’tproveanything.”“Yeah,”Orestessaid.“Craft festivalsdokindofsuck.Butcheck thisout.”

Heswiveled inhisownchair toreachanother terminal,setupona table.“Hehackedintotheschool’ssecurecomputersystem.”

“Todowhat?Changehisgrades?”“Nope. The program he wrote broke through the firewalls on the school

systemat9:58a.m.”“That’swhenthecarbombwentoff,”Patrickmurmured.Orestes pivoted themonitor so that Patrick could see. “Thiswas on every

singlescreenoneverysinglecomputerattheschool.”Patrickstaredatthepurplebackground,theflamingredlettersthatscrolled

likeamarquee:READYORNOT…HEREICOME.Jordanwas already sitting at the table of the conference roomwhenPeter

Houghton was brought in by a correctional officer. “Thanks,” he said to theguard,hiseyesonPeter,whoimmediatelycanvassedtheroom,hisgazelightingon the only window. Jordan had seen this over and over in prisoners he’drepresented-anordinaryhumancouldsoquicklyturnintoacagedanimal.Thenagain, it was a chicken-and-egg conundrum: were they animals because theywereinjail…orweretheyinjailbecausetheywereanimals?

“Haveaseat,”hesaid,andPeterremainedstanding.Unfazed,Jordanstartedtalking.“Iwanttolayoutthegroundrules,Peter,”

he said. “Everything I say toyou is confidential.Everythingyou say tome isconfidential.Ican’ttellanyonewhatyousay.Icantellyou,however,nottotalkto the media or the police or anyone else for that matter. If anyone tries tocontactyou,youcontactmeimmediately-callmecollect.Asyourlawyer,Igettodothetalkingforyou.Fromnowon,I’myourbestfriend,yourmother,yourfather,yourpriest.Areweclearonthat?”

Peterglaredathim.“Crystal.”

“Good. So.” Jordan pulled a legal pad out of his briefcase, a pencil. “Iimagineyou’vegotafewquestions;wecanstartwiththose.”

“Ihateithere,”Peterburstout.“Idon’tgetwhyIhavetostayhere.”MostofJordan’sclientsstartedoutquietandterrifiedinjail-whichquickly

gavewaytoangerandindignation.Butat thatmomentPetersoundedlikeanyotherordinaryteenagekid-likeThomashadsoundedathisage,whentheworldapparently revolvedaroundhimandJordan justhappened tobe livingon itaswell.However,thelawyerinJordantrumpedtheparentinhim,andhestartedtowonder if Peter Houghton truly might not know why he was in jail. Jordanwouldbethefirst to tellyouinsanitydefensesrarelyworkedandweregrosslyoverrated,butmaybePetercouldbepassedoffastherealdeal-andthatwasthekeytosecuringanacquittal.“Whatdoyoumean?”hepressed.

“They’re the ones who did this tome, and now I’m the onewho’s beingpunished.”

Jordansatbackandcrossedhisarms.Peterdidn’tfeelremorseforwhathe’ddone,thatmuchwasclear.Infact,heconsideredhimselfavictim.

Andherewas the remarkable thingaboutbeingadefense attorney: Jordandidn’treallycare.Therewasnoroominhis lineofworkforhisownpersonalfeelings. He hadworkedwith the scum of the earth before-killers and rapistswho fancied themselves martyrs. His job wasn’t to believe them or to passjudgment. Itwas simply todoor saywhateverhehad to inorder toget themfree.Inspiteofwhathe’djusttoldPeter,hewasnotaclergymanorashrinkorafriendtoaclient.Hewassimplyaspindoctor.

“Well,” Jordan said evenly, “you need to understand the jail’s position.Tothem,you’rejustamurderer.”

“Thenthey’reallhypocrites,”Petersaid.“Iftheysawaroach,they’dsteponit,wouldn’tthey?”

“Isthathowyou’ddescribewhathappenedattheschool?”Peter flicked his eyes away. “Do you know that I’m not allowed to read

magazines?”hesaid.“Ican’tevengointotheexerciseyardlikeeveryoneelse.”“I’mnotheretoregisteryourcomplaints.”“Whyareyouhere?”“Tohelpyougetout,”Jordansaid.“Andifthat’sgoingtohappen,thenyou

needtotalktome.”Peter folded his arms across his chest and glanced from Jordan’s collared

shirt tohis tie tohispolishedblackshoes.“Why?Youdon’t reallygivea shitaboutme.”

Jordan stood up and stuffed his notebook into his briefcase. “You knowwhat?You’reright.Idon’treallygiveashitaboutyou.I’mjustdoingmyjob,

becauseunlikeyou,Iwon’thavethestatepayingmyroomandboardfortherestofmylife.”Hestartedforthedoor,butwascalledbackbythesoundofPeter’svoice.

“Whyiseveryonesoupsetthatthosejerksaredead?”Jordan turned slowly,making amental note that kindness had notworked

especiallywellwithPeter,norhad thevoiceofauthority.Whathadmadehimrespondwaspureandsimpleanger.

“Imean,peoplearecryingoverthem…andtheywereassholes.Everyone’ssayingIruinedtheirlives,butnooneseemedtocarewhenmylifewastheonebeingruined.”

Jordansatdownontheedgeofthetable.“How?”“Wheredoyouwantmetostart,”Peteranswered,bitter.“Innurseryschool,

when the teacherwouldbringout snacks, andoneof themwouldpulloutmychair so I’d falldownandeveryoneelsewouldcrackup?Or insecondgrade,whentheyheldmyheaddowninthetoiletandtheyflusheditoverandover,justbecausetheyknewtheycould?OrthattimetheybeatmeuponmywayhomefromschoolandIneededstitches?”

JordanpickeduphispadandwroteSTITCHES.“Who’sthey?”“Awholebunchofkids,”Petersaid.Theonesyouwantedtokill?Jordanthought,buthedidn’task.“Whydoyou

thinktheytargetedyou?”“Becausethey’redickheads?Idon’tknow.They’relikeapack.Theyhaveto

makesomeoneelsefeellikeshitinordertofeelgoodaboutthemselves.”“Whatdidyoutrytodotostopit?”Peter snorted. “In case you haven’t noticed, Sterling’s not exactly a

metropolis. Everyone knows everyone. You wind up in high school with thesamekidswhowereinthesandboxinyourpreschool.”

“Couldn’tyoustayoutoftheirpath?”“I had to go to school,” Peter said. “You’d be surprised how small it gets

whenyou’rethereforeighthourseveryday.”“Sodidtheydothisoutsideofschool,too?”“Whentheycouldcatchme,”Petersaid.“IfIwasbymyself.”“Howaboutharassment-phonecalls,letters,threats?”Jordanasked.“Online,”Petersaid.“They’dsendmeinstantmessages,sayingIwasaloser,

thingslikethat.AndtheytookanemailIwroteandspammeditouttothewholeschool…madeitajoke…”Helookedaway,fallingsilent.

“Why?”“Itwas…”Heshookhishead.“Idon’twanttotalkaboutit.”Jordanmadeanoteonhispad.“Didyouever tell anyoneaboutwhatwas

goingon?Parents?Teachers?”“No one gives a crap,” Peter said. “They tell you to ignore it. They say

they’llbewatchingout tomakesure itdoesn’thappen,but theyneverwatch.”Hewalked to thewindowandpressedhispalmsagainst theglass.“Therewasthiskidinmyfirst-gradeclasswhohadthatdisease, theonewhereyourspinegrowsoutsideyourbody-”

“Spinabifida?”“Yeah.Shehadawheelchairandshecouldn’tsituporanything,andbefore

shecametoclasstheteachertolduswehadtotreatherlikeshewasjustlikeus.Thethingis,shewasn’tlikeus,andweallknewit,andsheknewit.Soweweresupposedtolie toherface?”Petershookhishead.“Everyonetalkslikeit’sallrighttobedifferent,butAmerica’ssupposedtobethismeltingpot,andwhatthehelldoesthatmean?Ifit’sameltingpot,thenyou’rereallyjusttryingtomakeeveryonethesame,aren’tyou?”

Jordan foundhimself thinkingabouthis sonThomas’s transition tomiddleschool.They’dmoved fromBainbridge toSalemFalls, a small enoughschoolsystem that the cliques had already developed thick cellular walls againstoutsiders. For a while, Thomas had been a chameleon-he’d come home fromschool and hole up in his room, emerging as a soccer player, a thespian, a“mathlete.” It tookhimseveral sheddingsofhisownadolescent skin to findagroupof friendswho lethimbewhoeverhewanted;and the restofThomas’shigh schoolcareerwasa fairlypeacefulone.Butwhat ifhehadn’t found thatgroupoffriends?Whatifhe’dcontinuedpeelingofflayersofhimselfuntiltherewasnothingleftathiscore?

As if he could read Jordan’smind, Peter suddenly stared at him. “Do youhavekids?”

Jordan did not talk about his personal life with clients. Their relationshipexistedintheconfinesofacourt,andthatwasthat.Thefewtimesinhiscareerwhen this unwritten rule had been broken had nearlywrecked him personallyand professionally. But he met Peter’s gaze and said, “Two. A six-month-oldbabyandasonatYale.”

“Thenyougetit,”Petersaid.“EveryonewantstheirkidtogrowupandgotoHarvardorbeaquarterbackforthePatriots.Nooneeverlooksattheirbabyandthinks, Oh, I hope my kid grows up and becomes a freak. I hope he gets toschool every day and prays hewon’t catch anyone’s attention. But you knowwhat?Kidsgrowuplikethateverysingleday.”

Jordanfoundhimselfatalossforwords.Therewasthefinestlinebetweenuniqueandodd,betweenwhatmadeachildgrowup tobeaswelladjustedasThomasversusunstable,likePeter.Dideveryteenagerhavethecapacitytofall

ononesideortheotherofthattightrope,andcouldyouidentifyasinglemomentthattippedthebalance?

He suddenly thought of Sam thismorning,when Jordanwas changing hisdiaper.Thebabyhadgrabbedholdofhisown toes, fascinated tohave locatedthem,andimmediatelystuffedhisfootintohismouth.Lookatthat,Selenahadjoked over his shoulder, like father like son. As Jordan had finished dressingSam,he’dmarveledatthemysterylifemustbeforsomeonethatyoung.Imagineaworldthatseemedsomuchbiggerthanyou.Imaginewakinguponemorningandfindingapieceofyourselfyoudidn’tevenknowexisted.

When you don’t fit in, you become superhuman. You can feel everyoneelse’seyesonyou,stucklikeVelcro.Youcanhearawhisperaboutyoufromamileaway.Youcandisappear,evenwhenitlookslikeyou’restillstandingrightthere.Youcanscream,andnobodyhearsasound.

You become themutantwho fell into the vat of acid, the Jokerwho can’tremovehismask, thebionicmanwho’smissing all his limbs andnoneof hisheart.

Youarethethingthatusedtobenormal,butthatwassolongago,youcan’tevenrememberwhatitwaslike.

SixYearsBeforePeterknewhewasdoomed, the firstdayof sixthgrade,whenhismother

presentedhimwithagiftoverbreakfast.“Iknowhowmuchyouwantedone,”shesaid,andshewaitedforhimtoopenthewrappingpaper.

Insidewasathree-ringbinderwithagraphicofSupermanonthecover.Andhehadwantedone.Threeyearsago,whenthatwasacoolthingtohave.

Hehadmanagedasmile.“Thanks,Mom,”hesaid,andshebeamedathim,whilehe imaginedall thewayscarrying this totally stupidnotebookwouldbeusedagainsthim.

Josie,asusual,hadcometohisrescue.Shetoldtheschoolcustodianthatherbikehandlebarswereallscrewedupandthatsheneededsomeducttapetojury-rig it until shegot home. In reality, shedidn’t bike to school-shewalkedwithPeter,who lived a little farther out of town but picked her up along theway.Although they never saw each other outside of school-and hadn’t in years,thankstosomeblowoutfightbetweenhismotherandhersthatneitherofthemcould really remember the details about-Josie still hung out with Peter. Andthank God for that, because no one else really did. They sat together duringlunch, they read each other’s rough drafts in English, they were always eachother’slabpartners.Summerswerealwaystough.Theycouldemail,andeverynowandthentheysaweachotheratthetownpond,butthatwasaboutit.Andthen, comeSeptember, they fell back in step as if they’dnevermissed abeat.

That,Peterfigured,wastheverydefinitionofabestfriend.Today, thanks to the Superman binder, they’d started off the year with a

crisis.WithJosie’shelp,he’dmadeaslipcoverofsortsfromthetapeandanoldnewspaper they stole from the science lab.He could take it offwhen hewashome,shereasoned,sothathismotherwouldn’tbeoffended.

Thesixthgradershadlunchfourthperiod,whenitwasonly11:00a.m.,butbythatpointitfeltliketheyhadn’teateninmonths.Josiebought-hermother’scookingskills,shesaid,werelimitedtowritingachecktothecafeterialadies-andPeterstoodbesideher in thesnaking line topickupacartonofmilk.Hismother would have packed him a sandwich with the crusts cut off, a bag ofcarrotsticks,anorganicfruitthatmightormightnotbebruised.

Peterslidhisbinderontothecafeteriatray,embarrassedeventhoughitwasstillcoveredupbythenewspaper.Hepoppedastrawintohismilkcarton.“Youknow,itshouldn’tmakeadifferencewhatbinderyou’vegot,”Josiesaid.“Whatdoyoucarewhattheythink?”

Astheyheadedintothelunchroom,DrewGirardslammedintoPeter.“Watchwhere you’re going, retard,” Drew said, but it was too late-Peter had alreadydroppedhistray.

Hismilk spilled all over his splayed binder,melting the newspaper into amuddyclotandrevealingtheSupermangraphicbeneathit.

Drewstartedtolaugh.“AreyouwearingyourUnderoos,too,Houghton?”“Shutup,Drew.”“Orwhat?WillyoumeltmewithyourX-rayvision?”Mrs.McDonald,theartteacherwhowaspatrollingthelunchroom-andwho

Josie swore she’d once caught sniffing glue in the supply closet-took ahalfheartedstepforward.Byseventhgrade,therewerekidslikeDrewandMattRoyston who were taller than the teachers and had deep voices and wereshaving;buttherewerealsokidslikePeter,whoprayedeverynightthatpubertywouldhitbuthadn’tseenanyviablesignsyet.“Peter,whydon’tyoujustgotakeaseat…”Mrs.McDonaldsighed.“Drewwillbringyouanothercartonofmilk.”

Probablypoisoned,Peterthought.Hestartedmoppingoffhisbinderwithawadofnapkins.Evenafteritdried,itwouldreek,now.Maybehecouldtellhismotherthathe’dspilledhismilkonitatlunch.Itwasthetruth,afterall,evenifhe’dhadalittlehelpdoingit.Andit justmightbeenoughincentiveforhertobuyhimanew,normalnotebook,onelikeeveryoneelse’s.

Inside,Peterwasgrinning:DrewGirardhadactuallyjustdonehimafavor.“Drew,”theteachersaid.“Imeantnow.”AsDrewtookasteptowardtheinteriorofthecafeteriatowardthepyramid

of milk cartons, Josie stuck out her foot surreptitiously so that he tripped,

landingflatonhisface.Inthelunchroom,otherkidsstartedtolaugh.Thatwasthewaythissocietyworked:youwereonlyatthebottomofthetotempoleuntilyou could find someone else to take your place. “Watch out for kryptonite,”Josiewhispered,justloudenoughforPetertohear.

Thetwobestthingsaboutbeingadistrictcourtjudge,inAlex’smind,were,first,beingabletoaddresspeople’sproblemsandmakethemfeelasiftheyarebeinglistenedto,andsecond,theintellectualchallenge.Youhadsomanyfactorsto balance when you were making decisions: the victims, the police, lawenforcement, society. And all of them had to be considered in the context ofprecedent.

Theworstpartofthejobwasthatyoucouldn’tgivepeoplewhattheyreallyneeded when they came to court: for a defendant-the sentencing that wouldreallyoffertreatment,insteadofapunishment.Foravictim-anapology.

Todaytherewasagirlstandinginfrontofherwhowasn’tmucholderthanJosie. Shewaswearing aNASCAR jacket and a black pleated skirt, and hadblond hair and acne.Alex had seen kids like her, hanging out in parking lotsaftertheMallofNewHampshirewasclosedforthenight,spinning360sintheirboyfriends’ I-Rocs.Shewonderedwhat thisgirlwouldhavebeen like if she’dgrownupwithajudgeforamother.Shewonderedif,atsomepoint,thisgirlhadplayedwithstuffedanimalsunderneaththekitchentableandreadbooksbeneathhercoverswithaflashlightwhenshewassupposedtobegoingtobed.ItneverfailedtoamazeAlexhow,withthebrushofahand,thetrackofsomeone’slifemightveerinacompletelydifferentdirection.

The girl had been charged with receiving stolen property-a $500 goldnecklacethatherboyfriendgaveher.Alexlookeddownatherfromthebench.Therewasareasonitwasupsohighinacourtroom-ithadnothingtodowithlogistics and everything to do with intimidation. “Are you knowingly,voluntarily, and intelligentlywaivingyour rights?Andyouunderstand that bypleadingguilty,you’readmittingtothetruthofthecharge?”

Thegirlblinked.“Ididn’tknowitwasstolen.IthoughtitwasapresentfromHap.”

“Ifyoureadthefaceofthecomplaint,itsaysyou’rechargedwithknowinglyreceivingthisnecklace,knowingitwasstolen.Ifyoudidn’tknowitwasstolen,youhavetherighttogototrial.Youhavetherighttomountadefense.YouhavetherighttohavemeappointalawyertorepresentyoubecauseyouarechargedwithaClassAmisdemeanorandthisispunishablebyuptoayearinjailanda$2,000 fine.Youhave a right tohave theprosecutionprove its casebeyondareasonabledoubt.Youhavetherighttosee,hear,andquestionallthewitnessesagainst you.You have the right to haveme subpoena into court any evidence

and/orwitnessesinyourfavor.YouhavetherighttoappealyourdecisiontotheSupremeCourt,ortheSuperiorCourtforajurytrialdenovoifImakeanerroroflaworifyoudon’tagreewithmydecision.Bypleadingguilty,yougiveuptheserights.”

Thegirlswallowed.“Well,”sherepeated.“Ididpawnit.”“That’snottheessenceofthecharge,”Alexexplained.“Theessenceofthe

chargeisthatyoutookthatnecklaceevenafteryouknewitwasstolen.”“ButIwanttopleadguilty,”thegirlsaid.“You’re tellingme you didn’t dowhat the charge said you did.You can’t

pleadguiltytosomethingyoudidn’tdo.”In the rear of the courtroom, awoman stoodup.She looked like a poorly

aged carbon copy of the defendant. “I told her to plead not guilty,” the girl’smother said. “Shecamehere todayand shewasgoing todo that,but then theprosecutorsaidshe’dgetabetterdealifshesaidshewasguilty.”

Theprosecutorsprungoutofhischair likea jack-in-the-box.“Ineversaidthat,YourHonor. I told herwhat the deal on the tablewas, today, if shewaspleading guilty, plain and simple. And that if she pled not guilty instead andwenttotrial,thedealwasoffthetableandYourHonorwouldmakethedecisionthatyouwantedtomake.”

Alex tried to imagine what it would be like to be this girl, completelyoverwhelmed by themassive stature of this legal system, unable to speak itslanguage.ShewouldlookattheprosecutorandseeMontyHall.Doyoutakethemoney?OrdoyouchooseDoorNumberOne-whichmightrevealaconvertible,ormightrevealachicken?

Thisgirlhadtakenthemoney.Alex motioned the prosecutor to approach the bench. “Do you have any

evidencefromyourinvestigationtoprovesheknewitwasstolen?”“Yes,YourHonor.”Heproducedthepolicereportandhandeditover.Alex

scannedit-therewasnoway,givenwhatshe’dsaidtothecopsandhowthey’drecordedit,thatshehadn’tknownitwasstolen.

Alexturnedtothegirl.“Basedonthefactsofthepolicereport,coupledwiththe offer of proof, I find that there’s a basis for your plea. There’s enoughevidenceheretosubstantiatethefactthatyouknewthisnecklacewasstolen,andyoutookitanyway.”

“Idon’t…Idon’tunderstand,”thegirlsaid.“ItmeansI’lltakeyourplea,ifyoustillwantmeto.But,”Alexadded,“first

youhavetotellmethatyou’reguilty.”Alex watched the girl’s mouth tighten and start to tremble. “Okay,” she

whispered.“Ididit.”

Itwasoneofthoseincrediblybeautifulautumndays,thekindwhenyoudragyour feet on the sidewalk in themorning as youwalk to school because youcannot believe you have towaste eight hours there. Josiewas sitting inmathclass, staring at the blue of the sky-cerulean, thatwas a vocabularyword thisweek,andjustsayingitmadeJosiefeellikehermouthwasfulloficecrystals.ShecouldheartheseventhgradersplayingCapturetheFlagingymclassintherecessyard,andthedroneofthelawnmowerasthecustodianmovedpasttheirwindow. A piece of paper was dropped over her shoulder, into her lap. Josieunfoldedit,readPeter’snote.

Whydowealwayshavetosolveforx?Whycan’txdoithimselfandspareustheHELL!!!!!

She turned around, giving him a half-smile.Actually, she likedmath. Shelovedknowingthatifsheworkedhardenough,attheendtherewasgoingtobeananswerthatmadesense.

Shedidn’tfitinwiththepopularcrowdatschoolbecauseshewasastraight-Astudent.Peterwasdifferent-hegotB’sandC’s,andonceaD.Hedidn’tfitineither,butitwasn’tbecausehewasabrain.ItwasbecausehewasPeter.

If there was a totem pole of unpopularity, Josie knew she still rankedrelativelyhigherthansome.EverynowandthenshewonderedifshehungoutwithPeterbecause she enjoyedhis companyorbecausebeingwithhimmadeherfeelbetteraboutherself.

While the class worked on the review sheet, Mrs. Rasmussin surfed theInternet. Itwas a schoolwide joke-whocould catchher buying apair of pantsfromGap.com, or reading soap opera fansites.One kid swore he’d found herlookingatpornonedaywhenhewenttoherdesktoaskaquestion.

Josie finished early, as usual, and looked up to seeMrs.Rasmussin at hercomputer…butthereweretearsstreamingdownhercheeks,inthatstrangewaythathappenswhenpeopledonotevenrealizetheyarecrying.

Shestoodupandwalkedoutoftheroomwithoutevensayingawordtotheclassaboutbeingquietinherabsence.

Theminute she left,Peter tappedon Josie’s shoulder. “What’swrongwithher?”

BeforeJosiecouldanswer,Mrs.Rasmussinreturned.Herfacewasaswhiteas marble, and her lips were pressed together like a seam. “Class,” she said,“somethingterriblehashappened.”

Inthemediacenter,wherethemiddleschoolstudentshadbeenherded,theprincipaltoldthemwhatheknew:twoplaneshadcrashedintotheWorldTradeCenter.AnotheronehadjustcrashedintothePentagon.ThesouthtoweroftheWorldTradeCenterhadcollapsed.

The librarian had set up a television so that they could all watch theunfolding coverage. Even though they had been pulled out of class-usually acauseforcelebration-itwassoquietinthatlibrarythatPetercouldhearhisownheartpounding.Helookedaroundthewallsoftheroom,attheskyoutsidethewindows.Thisschoolwasn’tasafetyzone.Nothingwas,nomatterwhatyou’dbeentold.

Wasthiswhatitfeltliketobeatwar?Peterstaredatthescreen.PeopleweresobbingandscreaminginNewYork

City,butyoucouldbarelyseebecauseof thedustandsmoke in theair.Therewere fires everywhere, and the ululations of screaming fire engines and caralarms.ItlookednothingliketheNewYorkPeterrememberedtheonetimehe’dvacationed therewith his parents.They’d gone to the top of theEmpireStateBuilding and they were planning to have a fancy dinner at Windows on theWorld,butthenJoeyhadgottensickfromeatingtoomuchpopcornandinsteadthey’dheadedbacktothehotel.

Mrs.Rasmussinhadleftschoolfortheday.HerbrotherwasabondtraderintheWorldTradeCenter.

Hadbeen.Josiewas sittingnext toPeter.Evenwitha few inchesof space separating

theirchairs,hecouldfeelhershaking.“Peter,”shewhispered,horrified,“there’speoplejumping.”

He couldn’t see as well as she could, evenwith his glasses, but when hesquintedhecouldtellJosiewasright.Itmadehischesthurttowatch,asifhisribsweresuddenlyasizetoosmall.Whatkindofpersonwoulddothat?

Heansweredhisownquestion:Thekindwhodoesn’tseeanyotherwayout.“Doyouthinktheycouldgetushere?”Josiewhispered.Peterglancedather.Hewishedheknewwhattosaytomakeherfeelbetter,

butthetruthwas,hedidn’tfeelallthatgreathimselfandhedidn’tknowiftherewereevenanywordsintheEnglishlanguagetotakeawaythiskindofstunningshock,thisunderstandingthattheworldisn’ttheplaceyouthoughtitwas.

He turnedback to the screen so that hedidn’t have to answer Josie.Morepeopleleapedoutofthewindowsofthenorthtower;thentherewasamassiveroarasifthegrounditselfwereopeningitsjaws.Whenthebuildingcollapsed,Peterletoutthebreathhe’dbeenholding-relieved,becausenowhecouldn’tseeanythingatall.

Theswitchboardstotheschoolswerecompletelyjammed,andsoparentsfellinto two categories: the ones who didn’t want to scare their kids to death byshowingupatschoolandshepherdingthemintoabasementbunker,andthosewhowantedtorideoutthistragedywiththeirchildrencloseathand.

LacyHoughtonandAlexCormierbothfellintothelattercategory,andbotharrivedat theschoolsimultaneously.Theyparkedbesideeachother in thebuscircleandgotoutoftheircars,andonlythenrecognizedeachother-theyhadnotseen each other since the day Alex marched her daughter out of Lacy’sbasement,wherethegunswerekept.“IsPeter-”Alexbegan.

“Idon’tknow.Josie?”“I’mheretogether.”Theywentintothemainofficetogether,andweredirecteddownthehallto

themedia center. “I can’t believe they’re letting themwatch the news,” Lacysaid,runningbesideAlex.

“They’reoldenoughtounderstandwhat’shappening,”Alexsaid.Lacyshookherhead.“I’mnotoldenoughtounderstandwhat’shappening.”Themediacenterwasspreadwithstudents-onchairs,ontables,sprawledon

the floor. It took Alex a moment to realize what was so unnatural about thecrowd: no onewasmaking a sound.Even the teachers stoodwith their handsovertheirmouths,asiftheywereafraidtoletoutanyoftheemotion,becauseoncethefloodgatesopened,everythingelseintheirpathwouldbesweptaway.

In the front of the roomwas a single television, and every eyewas on it.Alex spotted Josie because she had stolen one ofAlex’s headbands-a leopardprint.“Josie,”shecalled,andherdaughterwhippedaround,thennearlyclimbedoverotherkidsinherefforttoreachAlex.

Josie hit her like a hurricane, all emotion and fury, but Alex knew thatsomewhereinsidewastheeyeofthatstorm.Andthen,likeanyforceofnature,you had to brace yourself for another onslaught before things went back tonormal.“Mommy,”shesobbed.“Isitover?”

Alexdidn’tknowwhat tosay.As theparent,shewassupposed tohavealltheanswers,butshedidn’t.Shewassupposed tobeable tokeepherdaughtersafe,butshecouldn’tpromisethateither.ShehadtoputonabravefaceandtellJosie it was going to be fine, when she really didn’t know that herself. Evendrivingherefromcourt,shehadbeenawareofthefragilityoftheroadsbeneathherwheels, of thedividerof sky that could so easilybebreached.Shepassedwells and thought about drinking-water contamination; shewondered how farawaytheclosestnuclearpowerplantwas.

And yet, she had spent years being the judge others expected her to be-someone cool and collected, someone who could reach conclusions withoutgetting hysterical. She could certainly put on that demeanor for her daughter,too.

“We’re fine,”Alex said calmly. “It’sover.”Shedidnotknow that evenasshespoke,afourthplanewascrashingintoafieldinPennsylvania.Shedidnot

realizethatherfiercegriponJosiecontradictedherwords.OverJosie’sshoulderAlexnoddedtoLacyHoughton,whowasleavingwith

hertwosonsintow.WithsomeshocksherealizedPeterwastallnow,nearlyastallasaman.

Howmanyyearshaditbeensinceshe’dseenhim?You could lose track of someone when you blinked, Alex realized. She

vowed not to let that happen to her and her daughter. Because when it camedowntoit,beingajudgedidn’tmatternearlyasmuchasbeingamother.WhenAlex’s clerk had told her the news about the World Trade Center, her firstthoughthadnotbeenforherconstituents…onlyforJosie.

Fora fewweeks,Alexheld toherpromises.She rearrangedherdocket sothatshewashomewhenJosiegotthere;sheleftlegalbriefsintheofficeinsteadof bringing them home to read on weekends; every night, over dinner, theytalked-notjustchatter,butrealconversation:aboutwhyToKillaMockingbirdmightverywellbethebestbookeverwritten;abouthowyoucouldtellifyou’dfalleninlove;evenaboutJosie’sfather.Butthen,oneweek,aparticularlyknottycase had her staying late at the office. And Josie started being able to sleepthroughthenightagain,insteadofwakingupscreaming.Partofgoingbacktonormalmeant erasing theboundariesofwhatwasabnormal, andwithina fewmonths,thewayAlexhadfelton9/11wasslowlyforgotten,likeatidewashingoutamessageshe’doncescrawledonthesand.

Peter hated soccer, but he was on the middle school team. They had ananyone-can-playpolicy,sothatevenkidswhomightnotnormallymakevarsityorJVor-whowashekidding? the team,period-could join. Itwas this-plushismother’sbeliefthatpartoffittinginmeantbeinginthecrowdtobeginwith-thatledhimtoaseasonofafternoonpracticeswherehefoundhimselfdoingpassingdrillsandrunningaftertheballmoreoftenthanhereturnedit;andgamestwiceaweek where he warmed middle school soccer field benches all over GraftonCounty.

TherewasonlyonethingPeterhatedmorethansoccer,andthatwasgettingdressedforit.Afterschool,he’dpurposelyfindsomethingtodoathislocker,oraquestiontoaskateacher,sothathewoundupinthelockerroomaftermostofhis teammates were outside stretching and warming up. Then, in a cornersection, Peterwould stripwithout having to listen to anyonemake fun of thewayhischestsortofcavedinatthebottom,orhavingtheelasticofhisboxerstwisted to give him a wedgie. They called him Peter Homo, instead of PeterHoughton,andevenwhenhewastheonlyoneinthelockerroomhecouldstillheartheslapoftheirhigh-fivesandthelaughterthatrolledtowardhimlikeanoilslick.

Afterpractice,heusuallywasabletodosomethingthatensuredhewouldbethelastoneinthelockerroom-pickingupthepracticeballs,askingthecoachaquestionaboutanupcominggame,evenretyinghiscleats.Ifhewasreallylucky,by the timehe reached theshowers,everyoneelsewouldalreadyhave left forhome.But today, justaspracticehadended,a thunderstormhadrolled in.Thecoachherdedallthekidsoffthefieldandintothelockerroom.

Peter walked slowly into his corner bank of lockers. Several guys werealready headed to the showers, towelswrapped around theirwaists.Drew, forone,andhisfriendMattRoyston.Theywerelaughingastheywalked,punchingeachotherinthearmstoseewhocouldlandtheharderhit.

Peter turned his back to the other locker sections and skimmed off hisuniform,thencoveredhimselfquicklywithatowel.Hisheartwaspounding.Hecouldalreadyimaginewhateveryoneelsesawwhentheylookedathim,becausehesawit,too,inthemirror:skinwhiteasthebellyofafish;knobsstickingoutofhisspineandcollarbones.Armswithoutasingleropeofmuscle.

ThelastthingPeterdidwastakeoffhisglassesandputthemontheshelfofhisopenlocker.Itmadeeverythingblissfullyfuzzy.

Heduckedhisheadandwalkedintotheshower,pullingoffhistowelatthelastpossibleminute.MattandDrewwerealreadysoapingthemselvesup.Peterletthesprayhithimintheforehead.Heimaginedbeinganadventureronsomewildwhiteriver,beingpummeledbyawaterfallashewassuckedintoavortex.

Whenhewipedhiseyesandturnedaround,hecouldseetheblurrededgesofthebodiesthatwereMattandDrew.Andthedarkpatchbetweentheirlegs-pubichair.

Peterdidn’thaveanyyet.Mattsuddenlytwistedsideways.“JesusChrist.Stoplookingatmydick.”“Fuckingfag,”Drewsaid.Peterimmediatelyturnedaway.Whatifitturnedouttheywereright?What

if that was the reason his gaze had fallen right there at thatmoment?Worse,whatifhegothardrightnow,whichwashappeningmoreandmorelately?

Thatwouldmeanhewasgay,wouldn’tit?“Iwasn’tlookingatyou,”Peterblurted.“Ican’tseeanything.”Drew’s laughterbouncedagainst the tilewallsof theshower.“Maybeyour

dick’stoosmall,Mattie.”SuddenlyMatthadPeterbythethroat.“Idon’thavemyglasseson,”Peter

chokedout.“That’swhy.”Matt letgo, shovingPeteragainst thewall, thenstalkedoutof theshower.

HereachedoverandpluckedPeter’stowelfromahook,tossingitintothespray.Itfell,soaked,tocoverthecentraldrain.

Peterpickeditupandwrappeditaroundhiswaist.Thecottonwassoppingwet,andhewascrying,buthe thoughtmaybepeoplecouldn’t tellbecausetherestofhimwasdripping,too.Everyonewasstaring.

WhenhewasaroundJosie,hedidn’tfeelanything-didn’twanttokissherorholdher handor anything like that.Hedidn’t thinkhe felt those things aboutguys,either;butsurelyyouhadtobegayorstraight.Youcouldn’tbeneither.

HehurriedtothecornerbankoflockersandfoundMattstandinginfrontofhis.Peter squinted, trying to seewhatMattwasholding, and thenheheard it:Matt took his glasses, slammed the locker door on them, and let themangledframesdrop to the floor. “Nowyoucan’t lookatme,”he said, andhewalkedaway.

Peterkneltdownon thefloor, trying topickup thebrokenpiecesofglass.Becausehe couldn’t see, he cuthishand.He sat, cross-legged,with the towelpuddledinhislap.Hebroughthispalmclosertohisface,untileverythingwasclear.

In her dream,Alexwaswalking downMain Street stark naked. Shewentinto the bank and deposited a check. “Your Honor,” the teller said, smiling.“Isn’titbeautifulouttoday?”

Fiveminutes later, shewent into the coffee shop and ordered a lattewithskimmilk. The barista was a girl with improbable purple hair and a straightpiercing thatwent across the bridge of her nose at the level of her eyebrows;whenJosiewaslittleandthey’dcomehere,Alexwouldhavetotellhernot tostare.“Wouldyoulikebiscottiwiththat,Judge?”thebaristaasked.

Shewentintothebookstore,thepharmacy,andthegasstation,andineachplace,shecouldfeelpeoplestaringather.Sheknewshewasnaked.Theyknewshewas naked.But no one said anything until she got to the post office.ThepostalclerkinSterlingwasanoldmanwhohadbeenworkingthere,probably,sincethechangeoverfromthePonyExpress.HehandedAlexarollofstamps,andthenfurtivelycoveredherhandwithhisown.“Ma’am,itmightnotbemyplacetosayso…”

Alexliftedhergaze,waited.The worry lines on the clerk’s forehead smoothed. “But that’s a beautiful

dressyou’vegoton,YourHonor,”hesaid.Her patient was screaming. Lacy could hear the girl sobbing all the way

downthehall.Sheranasfastasshecould,turningthecornerandenteringthehospitalroom.

KellyGamboniwas twenty-oneyearsold,orphaned, andhadan IQof79.Shehadbeengang-rapedbythreehighschoolboyswhowerenowawaitingtrialat a juvy facility in Concord. Kelly lived at a group home for Catholics, so

abortionwasneveranoption.Butnow,anERdoctorhaddeemeditmedicallynecessarytoinduceKelly,atthirty-sixweeks.Shelayinthehospitalbedwithanurse trying ineffectually to comfort her, as Kelly clutched a teddy bear.“Daddy,”shecried,toaparentwhohaddiedyearsago.“Takemehome.Daddy,ithurts!”

Thedoctorwalkedintotheroom,andLacyroundedonhim.“Howdareyou,”shesaid.“Thisismypatient.”“Well,shewasbroughtintotheERandbecamemine,”thedoctorcountered.Lacy looked atKelly and thenwalked into the hall; itwould doKelly no

goodtohavethemfightinginfrontofher.“Shecameincomplainingofwettingherunderwearfortwodays.Theexamwasconsistentwithprematureruptureofmembranes,” the doctor said. “She’s afebrile and the fetal monitor tracing isreactive.It’scompletelyreasonabletoinduce.Andshesignedoffontheconsentform.”

“Itmay be reasonable, but it’s not advisable. She’smentally retarded. Shedoesn’t know what’s happening to her right now; she’s terrified. And shecertainly doesn’t have the ability to consent.” Lacy turned on her heel. “I’mcallingpsych.”

“Likehellyouare,”thedoctorsaid,grabbingherarm.“Letgoofme!”Theywere still screaming at each other fiveminutes laterwhen the psych

consultarrived.TheboywhostoodinfrontofLacy lookedtobeaboutJoey’sage.“You’vegot tobekidding,” thedoctorsaid, the firstcommenthe’dmadethatsheagreedwith.

TheybothfollowedtheshrinkintoKelly’sroom.Bynow,thegirlwascurledinto a ball around her belly, whimpering. “She needs an epidural,” Lacymuttered.

“It’snotsafetogiveoneattwocentimeters,”thedoctorargued.“Idon’tcare.Sheneedsone.”“Kelly?”thepsychiatristsaid,squattingdowninfrontofher.“Doyouknow

whataC-sectionis?”“Uh-huh,”Kellygroaned.Thepsychiatrist stoodup.“She’scapableofconsent,unlessacourt’s ruled

otherwise.”Lacy’sjawdropped.“That’sit?”“Ihavesixotherconsultswaitingforme,”thepsychiatristsnapped.“Sorry

todisappointyou.”Lacy yelled after him. “I’m not the one you’re disappointing!” She sank

downbesideKellyandsqueezedherhand.“It’sokay.I’mgoingtotakecareof

you.”Shewingedaprayertowhoevermightmovethemountainsthatcouldbemen’shearts.Then she liftedher face to thedoctor’s. “Firstdonoharm,” shesaidsoftly.

The doctor pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’ll get her an epidural,” hesighed;andonlythendidLacyrealizeshehadbeenholdingherbreath.

ThelastplaceJosiewantedtogowasouttodinnerwithhermother,sothatshe could spend three hours watching maître d’s and chefs and otherguestssuckuptoher.ThiswasJosie’sbirthdaycelebration,soshedidn’treallyunderstandwhyshecouldn’tjustdemandtake-outChineseandavideo.Buthermotherwasinsistingthatitwouldn’tbeacelebrationiftheyjuststayedathome,andsohereshewas,trailingafterhermotherlikealady-in-waiting.

She’dbeencounting.TherewerefourNicetoseeyou,YourHonors.ThreeYes,YourHonors.TwoMypleasure,YourHonors.AndoneForYourHonor,wehavethebesttableinthehouse.SometimesJosiereadaboutcelebritiesinPeoplemagazine whowere always getting handouts from purse companies and shoestoresandfreeticketstoopeningnightsonBroadwayandYankeeStadium-whenyougotrightdowntoit,hermotherwasacelebrityinthetownofSterling.

“Icannotbelieve,”hermothersaid,“thatIhaveatwelve-year-old.”“Isthatmycuetosaysomethinglike,youmusthavebeenachildprodigy?”Hermotherlaughed.“Well,thatwouldwork.”“I’mgoingtobedrivinginthreeandahalfyears,”Josiepointedout.Hermother’sforkclatteredagainsttheplate.“Thanksforthat.”Thewaitercameovertothetable.“YourHonor,”hesaid,settingaplatterof

caviar down in front of Josie’smother, “the chefwould like you to have thisappetizerwithhiscompliments.”

“That’ssogross.Fisheggs?”“Josie!”Hermothersmiledstifflyatthewaiter.“Pleasethankthechef.”Shecouldfeelhermother’seyesonherasshepickedatherfood.“What?”

shechallenged.“Well,yousoundedlikeaspoiledbrat,that’sall.”“Why?BecauseIdon’tlikefishembryossittingundermynose?Youdon’t

eatthemeither.Iwasatleastbeinghonest.”“AndIwasbeingdiscreet,”hermothersaid.“Don’tyouthinkthatthewaiter

isgoingtotellthechefthatJudgeCormier’sdaughterisapieceofwork?”“LikeIcare?”“Ido.Whatyoudoreflectsonme,andIhaveareputationIhavetoprotect.”“Aswhat?Asuck-up?”“Assomeonewho’sabovecriticismbothinandoutofthecourtroom.”Josietiltedherheadtooneside.“WhatifIdidsomethingbad?”

“Bad?Howbad?”“Let’ssayIwassmokingpot,”Josiesaid.Hermotherfroze.“Istheresomethingyouwanttotellme,Josie?”“God,Mom,I’mnotdoingit.Thisishypothetical.”“Becauseyouknow,nowthatyou’reinmiddleschool,you’regoingtostart

comingacrosskidswhodo things thataredangerous-or justplainstupid-andIwouldhopeyou’dbe-”

“-strongenough toknowbetter than that,” Josie finished, echoingher in asingsong.“Yeah.Gotit.Butwhatif,Mom?Whatifyoucamehomeandfoundmegettingstonedinthelivingroom?Wouldyouturnmein?”

“Whatdoyoumean,turnyouin?”“Callthecops.Handovermystash.”Josiegrinned.“Ofhash.”“No,”hermothersaid.“Iwouldnotreportyou.”Josieusedtothink,whenshewasyounger,thatshewouldgrowuptolook

like her mother-fine-boned, dark-haired, light-eyed. The combination ofelementswereall thereinherfeatures,butasshe’dgottenolder,shestartedtolooklikesomeoneelseentirely-someoneshehadnevermet.Herfather.

Shewonderedifherfather-likeJosieherself-couldmemorizethingsinasnapandpicturethemonthepagejustbyclosinghiseyes.Shewonderedifherfathersang off key and liked to watch scary movies. She wondered if he had thestraightslashofeyebrows,sodifferentfromhermother’sdelicatearches.

Shewondered,period.“Ifyoudidn’treportmebecauseI’myourdaughter,”Josiesaid,“thenyou’re

notreallybeingfair,areyou?”“I’dbeactinglikeaparent,notajudge.”Hermotherreachedacrossthetable

and put her hand on Josie’s,which feltweird-hermotherwasn’t one of thesetouchy-feelytypes.“Josie,youcancometome,youknow.Ifyouneedtotalk,I’mtheretolisten.You’renotgoingtogetintolegaltrouble,nomatterwhatyoutellme-notifit’saboutyou,notevenifit’saboutyourfriends.”

To be perfectly honest, Josie didn’t havemany of those. Therewas Peter,whoshe’dknownforever-althoughPeternolongercametoherhouseandviceversa, they still hungout together in school, andhewas the lastperson in theworldJosiecouldeverimaginedoinganythingillegal.SheknewthatoneofthereasonsothergirlsexcludedJosiewasbecauseshealwaysstuckupforPeter,butshetoldherselfthatitdidn’tmatter.Shedidn’treallywanttobesurroundedbypeoplewhoonlycaredaboutwhathappenedonOneLifetoLiveandwhosavedtheirbabysittingmoney togo toTheLimited; they seemedso fake sometimesthatJosiethoughtifshepokedoneofthemwithasharppencilthey’dburstlikeaballoon.

Sowhat if she andPeterweren’t popular? Shewas always tellingPeter itdidn’tmatter;shemightaswellstarttobelieveitherself.

Josiepulledherhandawayfromhermotherandpretendedtobefascinatedbyhercreamofasparagussoup.TherewassomethingaboutasparagusthatsheandPeter foundhilarious.They’ddoneanexperiment,once, toseehowmuchyou had to eat before your pee smelledweird, and itwas less than two bites,sweartoGod.

“StopusingyourJudgeVoice,”Josiesaid.“Mywhat?”“Your Judge Voice. It’s the one you use when you answer the phone. Or

whenyou’reoutinpublic.Likenow.”Hermotherfrowned.“That’scrazy.It’sthesamevoiceI-”Thewaiterglidedover,asifhewereskatingacrossthediningroom.“Idon’t

meantointerrupt…iseverythingtoyourliking,YourHonor?”Withoutmissing a beat, hermother turned her face up to thewaiter. “It’s

gorgeous,” she said, and she smileduntil hewalkedaway.Then she turned toJosie.“It’sthesamevoiceIalwaysuse.”

Josielookedather,andthenatthewaiter’sback.“Maybeitis,”shesaid.Theotherkidonthesoccerteamwhowouldratherhavebeenanywhereelse

wasnamedDerekMarkowitz.He’dintroducedhimselftoPeterwhentheyweresittingonthebenchduringagameagainstNorthHaverhill.“Whoforcedyoutoplay?”Derekhadasked,andPeterhadtoldhimhismother.“Minetoo,”Derekadmitted.“She’sanutritionistandshe’snutsaboutfitness.”

Atdinner,Peterwouldtellhisparentsthatpracticewasgoingfine.Hemadeup stories based on plays he’d seen other kids execute-athletic feats that hehimself could never have done. He did this so that he could see his motherglanceatJoeyandsaythingslike,“Guessthere’smorethanoneathleteinthisfamily.”Whentheycametocheerhimonduringgames,andPeterneverleftthebench,hesaiditwasbecauseCoachplayedhisfavorites;andinaway,thatwastrue.

LikePeter,Derekwas justabout theworst soccerplayeron theplanet.Hewassofairthathisveinslookedlikearoadmapunderneathhisskin,andhehadsuchpalehairthatyouhadtosearchhardtofindhiseyebrows.Now,whentheywereatgames,theysatnexttoeachotheronthebench.Peterlikedhimbecausehe smuggled Snickers bars into practice and ate them when Coach wasn’tlooking,andbecauseheknewhowtotellagoodjoke:Whydidtherefstoptheleperhockeygame?Therewas a face-off in the corner.What’smore fun thanstaplingDrewGirardtoawall?Rippinghimoff.ItgottothepointwherePeteractuallywaslookingforwardtosoccerpractice,justtohearwhatDerekhadto

say-althoughthenPeterbegantoworryagainifhelikedDerekjustbecausehewasDerek,orbecausePeterwasgay;andthenhe’dsitalittlefartheraway,ortellhimselfthatnomatterwhat,hewouldn’tlookDerekintheeyeforthewholepractice,sothathedidn’tgetthewrongidea.

TheyweresittingonthebenchoneFridayafternoon,watchingeveryoneelseplayRivendell.Sterlingwasexpectedtobeabletokicktheircollectiveasswiththeireyesclosed(notthatthatwasreasonenoughforthecoachtoputPeterorDerekintoactuallyplayduringarealleaguegame).Thescorewasclimbingtosomething humiliating in the last minute of the final quarter-Sterling 24,Rivendell2-andDerekwastellingPeteranotherjoke.

“A piratewalks into a barwith a parrot on his shoulder, a peg leg, and asteeringwheelonhispants,”Dereksaid.“Thebartendersays,‘Hey,you’vegotasteeringwheelonyourpants.’Andthepirategoes,‘Arrrgh,Iknow.It’sdrivingmenuts.’”

“Good game,” the coach said, congratulating each of the players with ahandshake.“Goodgame.Goodgame.”

“Youcoming?”Derekasked,standingup.“I’llmeetyouinthere,”Petersaid,andasheleaneddowntoretiehiscleats

hesawapairoflady’sshoesstopinfrontofhim-apairherecognized,becausehewasalwaystrippingovertheminthemudroom.

“Hi,baby,”hismothersaid,smilingdown.Peter choked.Whatmiddle school kid hadMommy come to pick him up

right at the field, as if he were leaving nursery school and needed a handcrossingthestreet?

“Justgivemeasecond,Peter,”hismothersaid.Heglanceduplongenoughtoseethattheteamhadnotgoneintothelocker

room,asusual,buthungaround towatch this latesthumiliation. Justwhenhethoughtitcouldn’tgetanyworse,hismothermarcheduptothecoach.“CoachYarbrowski,”shesaid.“CouldIhaveaword?”

Killmenow,Peterthought.“I’mPeter’smother.AndI’mwonderingwhyyoudon’tplaymysonduring

thegames.”“It’s amatter of teamwork,Mrs. Houghton, and I’m just giving Peter the

chancetocomeuptospeedwithsomeoftheother-”“It’shalfwaythroughtheseason,andmysonhasjustasmuchrighttoplay

onthissoccerteamasanyoftheotherboys.”“Mom,” Peter interrupted, wishing that there were earthquakes in New

Hampshire, that a ravine would open under her feet and swallow her mid-sentence.“Stop.”

“It’sallright,Peter.I’mtakingcareofit.”The coach pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’ll put Peter in onMonday’s

game,Mrs.Houghton,butitisn’tgoingtobepretty.”“Itdoesn’thave tobepretty. It justhas tobe fun.”She turnedaroundand

smiled,clueless,atPeter.“Right?”Petercouldbarelyhearher.Shamewasashot thatranginhisears,broken

onlybythebuzzofhisteammates.Hismothersquatteddowninfrontofhim.Hehadneverreallyunderstoodwhatitmeanttolovesomeoneandhatethematthesame time,butnowhewas starting toget it. “Oncehe seesyouon that field,you’ll be playing first string.” She patted his knee. “I’ll wait for you in theparkinglot.”

Theotherplayerslaughedashepushedpastthem.“Mama’sboy,”theysaid.“Doesshefightallyourbattles,homo?”

Inthelockerroom,hesatdownandpulledoffhiscleats.Hehadaholeinthetoeofonesock,andhestaredatitasifheweretrulyamazedbythatfact,insteadofbecausehewastryingsohardnottocry.

Henearlyjumpedoutofhisskinwhenhefeltsomeonesitdownbesidehim.“Peter,”Dereksaid.“Youokay?”

Petertriedtosayyes,butjustcouldn’tgettheliethroughhisthroat.“What’sthedifferencebetweenthisteamandaporcupine?”Derekasked.Petershookhishead.“Aporcupinehaspricksontheoutside.”Derekgrinned.“SeeyouMonday.”Courtney Ignatio was a spaghetti-strap girl. That’s what Josie called that

posse,forlackofabetterterm-thegirlswhoworebelly-baringtanksandwho,duringthestudent-runrecitals,madeupdancestothesongs“Booty-licious”and“Lady Marmalade.” Courtney had been the first seventh grader to get a cellphone.Itwaspink,andsometimesitevenranginclass,butteachersnevergotangryather.

WhenshewaspairedwithCourtneyinsocialstudiestomakeatimelineoftheAmericanRevolution, Josie hadgroaned-shewas sure she’d be pulling alltheweight.ButCourtneyhadinvitedherovertoworkontheproject,andJosie’smothertoldherthatifshedidn’tgo,shewouldbestuckdoingallthework,sonow she was sitting on Courtney’s bed, eating chocolate chip cookies andorganizingnotecards.

“What?”Courtneysaid,standinginfrontofherwithherhandsonherhips.“Whatwhat?”“Whydoyouhavethatlookonyourface?”Josieshrugged.“Yourroom.It’stotallydifferentthanmine.”Courtney glanced around, as if seeing her bedroom for the first time.

“Differenthow?”Courtney had awild purple shag rug andbeaded lamps strungwith gauzy

silkscarvesforatmosphere.Anentiredresser topwasdedicated tomakeup.AposterofJohnnyDepphungonthebackofherdoor,andashelfsportedastate-of-the-artstereosystem.ShehadherownDVDplayer.

Josie’s room, in comparison, was spartan. She had a bookshelf, a desk, adresser, and a bed. Her comforter looked like an old-lady quilt, compared toCourtney’ssatinone.IfJosiehadanystyleatall,itwasEarlyAmericanDork.

“Justdifferent,”Josiesaid.“Mymom’s adecorator.She thinks this iswhat every teenagegirl dreams

of.”“Doyou?”Courtneyshrugged.“Ikindofthinkitlookslikeabordello,butIdon’twant

toruinitforher.Letmejustgogetmybinder,andwecanstart…”When she left to go back downstairs, Josie found herself staring into the

mirror. Drawn forward to the dresser with makeup on it, she found herselfpickinguptubesandbottlesthatwerecompletelyunfamiliar.Hermotherrarelywore anymakeup-maybe lipstick, but thatwas it. Josie lifted amascarawandandunscrewed the cap, ran her finger over the blackbristles. Sheuncapped abottleofperfumeandsniffed.

Inthereflectionofthemirror,shewatchedthegirlwholookedjustlikehertake a tube of lipstick-“Positively Hot!” the label read-and apply it. It put abloomofcolorinherface;itbroughthertolife.

Wasitreallythateasytobecomesomeoneelse?“Whatareyoudoing?”JosiejumpedatthesoundofCourtney’svoice.Shewatchedinthemirroras

Courtneycameforwardandtookthelipstickoutofherhands.“I…I’msorry,”Josiestammered.To her surprise, Courtney Ignatio grinned. “Actually,” she said, “it suits

you.”Joeygotbettergradesthanhisyoungerbrother;hewasabetterathletethan

Peter.Hewasfunnier;hehadmorecommonsense;hecoulddrawmorethanastraightline;hewastheonepeoplegravitatedtowardataparty.Therewasonlyonething,asfarasPetercouldtell(andhe’dbeencounting),thatJoeycouldnotdo,andthatwasstandthesightofblood.

When Joeywas seven and his best friendwent over the handlebars of hisbikeandopenedacutoverhis forehead, itwas Joeywhopassedout.Whenamedicalshowwasontelevision,hehadtoleavetheroom.Becauseofthis,he’dnevergonehuntingwithhisfather,althoughLewishadpromisedhisboysthatas

soon as they turned twelve, theywere old enough to come out with him andlearnhowtoshoot.

ItseemedasifPeterhadbeenwaitingallfallforthisweekend.Hehadbeenreadingupontheriflehisfatherwasgoingtolethimuse-aWinchesterModel94leveraction30-30thathadbeenhisfather’s,beforethepurchaseofthebolt-action Remington 721 30.06 he used now to hunt deer. Now, at 4:30 in themorning, Peter could barely believe hewas holding it in his hands, the safetycarefully locked. He crept through the woods behind his father, his breathcrystallizingintheair.

Ithadsnowedlastnight-whichwaswhytheconditionswereperfectfordeerhunting. They’d been out yesterday to find fresh scrapes-spots on live treeswhere a buck had rubbed his antlers and returned to scrape over and over,marking its territory. Now it was just a matter of finding the same spot andcheckingforfreshtracks,toseeifthebuckhadcomethroughyet.

Theworldwasdifferentwhentherewasnooneinit.Petertriedtomatchhisfather’s footsteps, setting his boot into the print left behind by his father. Hepretended he was in the army, on a guerrilla mission. The enemy was rightaroundthecorner.Atanymomentnow,hemightbesurprisedintoanexchangeoffire.

“Peter,”hisfatherhissedoverhisshoulder.“Keepyourriflepointedup!”They approached the ring of trees where they’d seen the rub. Today, the

antlerscrapeswerefresh,thewhitefleshofthetreeandthepalegreenstripofpeeledbarkchafedraw.Peterlookeddownathisfeet.Therewerethreesetsoftracks-onemuchlargerthantheothertwo.

“He’salreadybeenthroughhere,”Peter’sfathermurmured.“He’sprobablyfollowingthedoes.”Deerinrutweren’tassmartasusual-theyweresofocusedon thedoes theywerechasing, they forgot toavoid thehumanswhomightbehuntingthem.

Peter and his father walked softly through the woods, following trackstoward the swamp. Suddenly, his father stuck out his hand-a signal to stop.Glancing up, Peter could see two does-one older, one a yearling. His fatherturned,mouthing,Don’tmove.

Whenthebucksteppedoutfrombehindthetree,Peterstoppedbreathing.Itwasmassive,majestic. Its thicknecksupported theweightofa six-point rack.Peter’sfathernoddedimperceptiblyatthegun.Goahead.

Peterfumbledwiththerifle,whichfeltthirtypoundsheavier.Heliftedittohisshoulderandgotthedeerinhissights.Hispulsewaspoundingsohardthatthegunkeptshaking.

Hecouldhearhisfather’sinstructionsasiftheywerebeingwhisperedaloud

evennow:Shootunderneaththefrontleg,lowonthebody.Ifyouhittheheart,you’llkillitinstantly.Ifyoumisstheheart,you’llgetthelungs,soitwillrunforahundredyardsorsoandthendrop.

Thenthedeerturnedandlookedathim,eyestrainedonPeter’sface.Petersqueezedthetrigger,sendingtheshotwide.Onpurpose.The three deer ducked in unison, unsure ofwhere the dangerwas. Just as

Peter wondered whether or not his father had noticed that he wimped out-orsimplyassumedPeterwasalousyshot-asecondshotrangfromhisfather’srifle.Thedoesboltedaway;thebuckdroppedlikeastone.

Peter stood over the deer, watching blood pump from its heart. “I didn’tmeantostealyourshot,”hisfathersaid,“butifyou’dreloaded,theywouldhaveheardyouandrun.”

“No,”Petersaid.Hecouldnottearhiseyesfromthedeer.“It’sokay.”Thenhevomitedintothescrubbrush.

Hecouldhearhisfatherdoingsomethingbehindhim,buthewouldn’tturnaround. InsteadPeterstaredhardatapatchofsnowthathadalreadybegun tomelt.Hefelthisfatherapproach.Petercouldsmellthebloodonhishands,thedisappointment.

Peter’sfatherreachedout,pattinghisshoulder.“Nexttime,”hesighed.DoloresKeating had transferred to themiddle school this year in January.

Shewasoneofthosekidsthatslippedbyunnoticed-nottoopretty,nottoosmart,not a troublemaker. She sat in front of Peter in French class, her ponytailbobbingupanddownassheconjugatedverbsoutloud.

Oneday,asPeterwasdoinghisbestnottofallasleeptoMadame’srecitationof the verb avoir, he noticed thatDoloreswas sitting in themiddle of an inkstain.Hethoughtthatwasprettyfunny,giventhatshewaswearingwhitepants,andthenherealizedthatitwasn’tinkatall.

“Doloreshasherperiod!”hecriedout loud,outofsheershock.Inahousefullofmales-withtheexceptionofhismother,ofcourse-menstruationwasoneofthosegreatmysteriesaboutwomen,likehowdotheyputonmascarawithoutpokingouttheireyesandhowcantheyhookabrabehindthemselves,withoutseeingwhatthey’redoing?

Everyoneintheclassturned,andDolores’sfacewentasscarletasherpants.Madameusheredherintothehall,suggestingshegotothenurse.OntheseatinfrontofPeterwasasmallredpuddleofblood.Madamecalledthecustodian,butbythen,theclasswasoutofcontrol-whispersraginglikeabrushfireabouthowmuch blood there was, how Dolores was now one of the girls that everyoneknewhadherperiod.

“Keating’sbleeding,”Petersaidtothekidsittingnexttohim,whoseeyeslitup.

“Keating’sbleeding,”theboyrepeated,andthechantwentaroundtheroom.Keating’s bleeding. Keating’s bleeding. Across the room, Peter caught Josie’seye-Josie,who’dstartedtowearmakeuplately.Shewassingingalongwiththerestofthem.

Belongingfeltlikehelium;Peterfelthimselfswellinside.He’dbeentheoneto start this; by drawing a line aroundDolores, he’d becomepart of the innercircle.

At lunch that day, he was sitting with Josie when Drew Girard andMattRoystoncameoverwith their trays.“Weheard thatyousaw ithappen,”Drewsaid, and they sat down so that Peter could tell them the details. He beganembellishing-a teaspoon of blood became a cup; the stain on her white pantsgrew from a modest spot to a Rorschach blot of enormous proportion. Theycalledovertheirfriends-somewhowerekidsonPeter’ssoccerteam,yethadn’tspokentohimallyear.“Tellthem,too,it’shilarious,”Mattsaid,andhesmiledatPeterasifPeterwereoneofthem.

Dolores stayed out of school. Peter knew that it wouldn’t havemade anydifference if shewasgone for amonthormore-thememoriesof sixthgradersweresteeltraps,andfortherestofherhighschoolcareer,DoloreswouldalwaysberememberedasthegirlwhogotherperiodinFrenchclassandbledallovertheseat.

The morning that she came back, she stepped off the bus and wasimmediatelyflankedbyDrewandMatt.“Forawoman,”theysaid,drawingoutthewords,“yousuredon’thaveanyboobs.”Shepushedawayfromthem,andPeterdidn’tseeheragainuntilFrenchclass.

Someone-hereallydidn’tknowwho-hadcomeupwithaplan.Madamewasalwayslatetoclass;shehadtocomefromtheotherendoftheschool.Sobeforethebellrang,everyonewouldwalkuptoDolores’sdeskandhandheratamponthey’dbeengivenbyCourtneyIgnatio,who’dpilferedaboxfromhermother.

Drewwasfirst.Ashesetthetampononherdeskhesaid,“Ithinkyoumighthave dropped this.” Six tampons later, the bell still hadn’t rung, andMadamewasn’t in the roomyet.Peterwalkedup,holding thewrapped tube inhis fist,readytodropit-andnoticedDoloreswascrying.

Itwasn’tloud,anditwasbarelyevenvisible.ButasPeterreachedoutwiththetampon,hesuddenlyrealizedthatthiswaswhatitlookedlikefromtheotherside,whenhewasbeingputthroughhell.

Peter crushed the tampon in his fist. “Stop,” he said softly, and then heturned around to the next three students waiting in line to humiliate Dolores.

“Juststopalready.”“What’syourproblem,homo?”Drewasked.“It’snotfunnyanymore.”Maybeitwasneverfunny.Itwasjustthatithadn’tbeenhim,andthatwas

goodenough.TheboybehindhimshovedPeteroutofthewayandflickedhistamponso

that it bounced offDolores’s head, rolled underneathPeter’s seat.And then itwasJosie’sturn.

ShelookedatDolores,andthenshelookedatPeter.“Don’t,”hemurmured.Josiepressedherlipstogetherandletthetamponrollfromheroutstretched

fingersontoDolores’sdesk.“Oops,”shesaid,andwhenMattRoystonlaughed,shewenttostandbesidehim.

Peterwaslyinginwait.AlthoughJosiehadn’tbeenwalkingwithhimforafewweeksnow,heknewwhatshewasdoingafterschool-usuallystrollingintotown toget an iced teawithCourtney&Co. and thenwindow-shopping.Sometimeshestoodbackatadistanceandwatchedherthewayyou’dstareatabutterflythatyou’donlyknownasacaterpillar,wonderinghowthehellchangecouldbethatdramatic.

Hewaiteduntilshe’dlefttheothergirls,andthenhefollowedherdownthestreetthatledtoherhouse.Whenhecaughtuptoherandgrabbedherarm,sheshrieked.

“God!”shesaid.“Peter,whydon’tyoujustscaremetodeath!”Hehadworkedoutwhathewasgoingtoaskherinhismind,becausewords

didn’tcomeeasilytohim,andheknewthathehadtopracticethemmorethanothers would; but when he had Josie this close, after everything that hadhappened,everyquestionfeltlikeaslap.Instead,hesankontothecurb,spearinghishandsthroughhishair.“Why?”heasked.

Shesatdownnexttohim,foldingherarmsoverherknees.“I’mnotdoingittohurtyou.”

“You’resuchafakewiththem.”“I’mjustnotthewayIamwithyou,”Josiesaid.“LikeIsaid:fake.”“There’sdifferentkindsofreal.”Peterscoffed.“Ifthat’swhatthosejerksareteachingyou,it’sbullshit.”“They’renotteachingmeanything,”Josieargued.“I’mtherebecauseIlike

them.They’refunandfunnyandwhenI’mwiththem-”Shebrokeoffabruptly.“What?”Peterprompted.Josie lookedhimin theeye.“WhenI’mwith them,”shesaid,“people like

me.”

Peter guessed change could be that dramatic: in an instant, you could gofromwantingtokillsomeonetowantingtokillyourself.

“Iwon’tletthemmakefunofyouanymore,”Josiepromised.“That’sasilverlining,right?”

Peterdidn’trespond.Thiswasn’tabouthim.“Ijust…Ijustcan’treallyhangoutwithyourightnow,”Josieexplained.Heliftedhisface.“Can’t?”Josie stood up, backing away from him. “I’ll see you around, Peter,” she

said,andshewalkedoutofhislife.Youcanfeelpeoplestaring;it’slikeheatthatrisesfromthepavementduring

summer, like a poker in the small of your back. You don’t have to hear awhisper,either,toknowthatit’saboutyou.

Iusedtostandinfrontofthemirrorinthebathroomtoseewhattheywerestaringat.Iwantedtoknowwhatmadetheirheadsturn,whatitwasaboutmethatwassoincrediblydifferent.AtfirstIcouldn’ttell.Imean,Iwasjustme.

Thenoneday,whenI looked in themirror, Iunderstood. I looked intomyowneyesandIhatedmyself,maybeasmuchasallofthemdid.

ThatwasthedayIstartedtobelievetheymightberight.TenDaysAfterJ osiewaited until she could no longer hear the television in hermother’s

bedroom-Leno, notLetterman-and then rolledontoher side towatch theLEDacrobaticsof thedigitalclock.Whenitwas2:00a.m.,shedecideditwassafe,andshepulledbackhercoversandgotoutofbed.

Sheknewhowtosneakdownstairs.She’ddoneitacoupleoftimesbefore,meetingMattoutsideinthebackyard.Onenight,he’dtextedheronhercell-1/22CUnow.Shehadgoneouttohiminherpajamas,andforamomentwhenhetouchedhersheactuallythoughtshewouldslipthroughhisfingers.

Therewasonlyonelandingwherethefloorboardscreaked,andJosieknewenough to stepover it.Downstairs, she rummaged through the stackofDVDsfortheoneshewanted-theoneshedidn’twanttobecaughtviewing.Thensheturnedonthetelevision,mutingthesoundsolowshehadtositrightontopofthescreenanditsbuilt-inspeakerstohear.

The first person shown was Courtney. She held up her hand, blockingwhoeverhadbeenvideotaping.Shewaslaughing,though;herlonghairfallingoverherfeatureslikeascreenofsilk.Offscreen,BradyPryce’svoice:GiveussomethingforGirlsGoneWild,Court.Thecamerafuzzedoutforamoment,andthen there was a close-up of a birthday cake. HAPPY SWEET SIX-TEEN,JOSIE.Arunoffaces,includingHaleyWeaver’s,singingtoher.

Josie paused the DVD. There was Courtney, and Haley, andMaddie, and

John,andDrew.Shetouchedherfingertoeachoftheirforeheads,gettingatinyelectricshockeachtime.

Atherbirthdayparty,they’dhadabarbecueatStorrsPond.Therewerehotdogs and hamburgers and sweet corn. They had forgotten the ketchup andsomeone had to drive back into town to buy some at amini-mart.Courtney’scardhadbeen signedBFF,best friends forever, even though Josieknewshe’dwrittenthesamethingonMaddie’scardamonthearlier.

Bythetimethescreenfuzzedoutagainandherownfacecameon,Josiewascrying. She knew what was coming; she remembered this part. The camerapannedbackandtherewasMatt,hisarmsaroundherasshesatonhislaponthesand.Hehad takenoff his shirt, and Josie remembered that his skinhadbeenwarmwhereitpressedupagainsthers.

Howcouldyoubesoaliveonemoment,andthenhaveeverythingstop-notjustyourheartandyour lungs,but thewayyousmiledslowly, the left sideofyourmouthcurlingbefore theright;and thepitchofyourvoice;and thehabityouhadoftuggingatyourhairwhenyouweredoingyourmathhomework?

Ican’tlivewithoutyou,Mattusedtosay,andnowJosierealizedhewouldn’thaveto.

Shecouldn’t stop sobbing, so Josiepushedher fist intohermouth tokeepherselffrommakingnoise.ShewatchedMattonthescreenthewayyoumightstudyananimalyouhadneverseenbefore,ifyouhadtomemorizeitandtelltheworld later what you’d found. Matt’s hand splayed across her bare stomach,grazed the edge of her bikini top. Shewatched herself push him away, blush.“Nothere,”hervoicesaid,afunnyvoice,avoicethatdidn’tsoundlikeJosietoherownears.Youneverdid,whenyouheardyourselfontape.

“Thenlet’sgosomewhereelse,”Mattsaid.Josierucheduptheedgeofherpajamatop,untilshecouldreachunderneath.

She spreadherownhandacrossherbelly.Sheedgedher thumbup, likeMatthad,tothecurveofherbreast.Shetriedtopretenditwashim.

He had given her a gold locket for that birthday, one she hadn’t taken offsince that day nearly sixmonths ago. Josie waswearing it on theDVD. Sheremembered thatwhen she’d lookedat it in themirror,Matt’s thumbprint hadbeen on the back, left behind after he clasped it around her neck. That hadseemedso intimate, and for a fewdays, shehaddoneeverything shecould tokeepitfromrubbingoff.

Onthenight thatJosiehadmetMattout inherownbackyard,beneath themoon, he’d laughed at her pajamas, printed all over with pictures of NancyDrew.WhatwereyoudoingwhenItextedyou?heasked.

Sleeping.Whydidyouhavetoseemeinthemiddleofthenight?

Tomakesureyouweredreamingaboutme,hesaid.OntheDVD,someonecalledoutMatt’sname.Heturned,grinning.Histeeth

werewolf’steeth,Josiethought.Sharp,impossiblywhite.HestampedakissonJosie’smouth.“Berightback,”hesaid.

Berightback.ShepressedPauseagain,justasMattstoodup.Thenshereachedaroundher

neckandrippedthelocketoffitsthingoldchain.Sheunzippedoneofthecouchcushionsandpushedthenecklacedeepinsidethestuffing.

She turnedoff the television.Shepretended thatMattwouldbe suspendedlike that forever, inches away from Josie so that she could still reach out andgrabhim,eventhoughsheknewthattheDVDwouldresetitselfevenbeforeshelefttheroom.

Lacyhadknowntheywereoutofmilk;thatmorning,assheandLewissatlikezombiesatthekitchentable,shehadbroughtitup:

Ihearit’sgoingtorainagain.We’reoutofmilk.HaveyouheardfromPeter’slawyer?ItdevastatedLacy toknow that shecouldnotvisitPeteragain foranother

week-jail rules. Itkilledher toknowLewishadn’tbeen there toseehimatallyet. How was she supposed to go through the motions of an ordinary day,knowingthathersonwassittinginacelllessthantwentymilesaway?

There was a point where the events of your life became a tsunami; Lacyknew, because she’d been washed away once before by grief. When thathappened,youwouldfindyourselfdayslateronunfamiliarground,rootless.Theonlyotherchoiceyouhadwastomovetohighergroundwhileyoustillcould.

Which iswhyLacy foundherself at agas stationbuyingacartonofmilk,althoughallgut instinct toldher tocrawlunderthecoversandsleep.Thiswasnotaseasyasitseemed:togetthemilk,shehadtofirstbackoutofhergaragewithreportersslappingthecarwindowsandblockingherpath.Shehadtoeludethe news van that followed her to the highway.As a result, she found herselfpaying for the milk at a service station in Purmort, New Hampshire-one sherarelyfrequented.

“That’s$2.59,”thecashiersaid.Lacyopenedherwalletandextractedthreedollarbills.Thenshenoticedthe

small, hand-lettered display at the register.Memorial Fund for theVictims ofSterlingHigh,thesignread,andtherewasacoffeecantoholdthedonations.

Shestartedshaking.“Iknow,”thecashiersympathized.“It’sjusttragic,isn’tit?”Lacy’sheartwaspoundingsofiercelyshewascertaintheclerkwouldhear

it.“You’vegottowonderabouttheparents,don’tyou?Imean,howcouldthey

nothaveknown?”Lacy nodded, afraid that even the sound of her voice would ruin her

anonymity. Itwasalmost tooeasy toagree:Hadthereeverbeenamoreawfulchild?Aworsemother?

Itwassimple tosaythatbehindeveryterriblechildstooda terribleparent,butwhatabouttheoneswhohaddonethebesttheycould?Whatabouttheones,like Lacy, who had loved unconditionally, protected ferociously, cherishedmightily-andstillhadraisedamurderer?

Ididn’tknow,Lacywantedtosay.It’snotmyfault.Butshestayedsilentbecause-truthbetold-shewasn’tquitesureshebelieved

that.Lacyemptiedthecontentsofherwalletintothecoffeecan,billsandcoins.

Numb, she walked out of the gas station, leaving the carton of milk on thecounter.

Shehadnothing left inside.She’dgiven itall toherson.Andthatwas thegreatestheartbreakofall-nomatterhowspectacularwewantourchildrentobe,nomatterhowperfectwepretendtheyare, theyareboundtodisappoint.Asitturnsout,kidsaremorelikeusthanwethink:damaged,throughandthrough.

Ervin Peabody, the professor of psychiatry at the college, offered to run agriefsessionfortheentiretownofSterlingatthewhiteclapboardchurchinitscenter.Therewasatinylineiteminthedailypaperandpurpleflyerspostedatthecoffeeshopandbank,butthatwasenoughtospreadtheword.Bythetimethemeetingconvenedat7:00p.m.,carswereparkedasfarasahalfmileaway;peoplespilled through theopendoorsof thechurchonto thestreet.Thepress,whichhadcomeenmassetocoverthemeeting,wasturnedawaybyabattalionofSterlingpolicemen.

Selena pressed the baby closer against her chest as another wave oftownspeoplepushedpasther.“Didyouknowitwasgoingtobelikethis?”shewhisperedtoJordan.

Heshookhishead,eyesroamingoverthecrowd.Herecognizedsomeofthesamepeoplewho’dcometothearraignment,butalsoahostofotherfacesthatwerenew,andthatwouldn’thavebeenintimatelyconnectedtothehighschool:the elderly, the college kids, the couples with young babies. They had comebecause of the ripple effect, because one person’s trauma is another’s loss ofinnocence.

ErvinPeabodysat in the frontof the room,beside thepolicechiefand theprincipal of Sterling High. “Hello,” he said, standing up. “We’ve called this

sessiontonightbecausewe’reallstillreeling.Nearlyovernight,thelandscape’schangedaroundus.Wemaynothavealltheanswers,butwethoughtitmightbebeneficial for us to start to talk about what’s happened. And maybe moreimportantly,tolistentoeachother.”

Amanstoodupinthesecondrow,holdinghisjacketinhishands.“Imovedhere five years ago, because my wife and I wanted to get away from thecrazinessofNewYorkCity.Wewerestartingafamily,andwerelookingforaplacethatwas…well,justalittlebitkinderandgentler.Imean,whenyoudrivedownthestreetinSterlingyougethonkedatbypeoplewhoknowyou.Yougotothebankandthetellerremembersyourname.Therearen’tplaceslikethatinAmericaanymore,andnow…”Hebrokeoff.

“AndnowSterling’snotoneeither,”Ervinfinished.“Iknowhowdifficultitcanbewhentheimageyou’vehadofsomethingdoesn’tmatchitsreality;whenthefriendbesideyouturnsintoamonster.”

“Monster?”JordanwhisperedtoSelena.“Well, what is he supposed to say? That Peter was a time bomb? That’ll

makethemallfeelsafe.”Thepsychiatrist lookedoutover thecrowd.“I think that thevery fact that

you’re all here tonight shows thatSterlinghasn’t changed. Itmaynot ever benormalagain,asweknowit….We’regoingtohavetofigureoutanewkindofnormal.”

Awomanraisedherhand.“Whataboutthehighschool?Areourkidsgoingtohavetogobackinsidethere?”

Ervinglancedatthepolicechief,theprincipal.“It’sstillthesiteofanactiveinvestigation,”thechiefsaid.

“We’re hoping to finish out the year in a different location,” the principaladded.“We’reintalkswiththesuperintendent’sofficeinLebanon,toseeifwecanuseoneoftheiremptyschools.”

Anotherwoman’s voice: “But they’re going to have to go back sometime.Mydaughter’sonlyten,andshe’sterrifiedaboutwalkingintothathighschool,ever. She wakes up in the middle of the night screaming. She thinks there’ssomeonewithagunthere,waitingforher.”

“Behappyshe’sable tohavenightmares,”amanreplied.Hewasstandingnext to Jordan,his arms folded,his eyesa livid red. “Go in thereeverynight,whenshecries,andholdherandtellheryou’llkeephersafe.Lietoher,justlikeIdid.”

Amurmur rolled through the church, like a ball of yarn being unraveled.That’sMarkIgnatio.Thefatherofoneofthedead.

Just like that,a fault lineopenedup inSterling-aravinesodeepandbleak

that itwouldnotbebridgedformanyyears.Therewasalreadyadifferenceinthistown,betweenthosewhohadlostchildrenandthosewhostillhadthemtoworryabout.

“SomeofyouknewmydaughterCourtney,”Marksaid,pushingawayfromthewall.“Maybeshebabysatforyourkids.OrservedyouaburgerattheSteakShack in thesummer.Maybeyou’d recognizeherbysight,becauseshewasabeautiful,beautifulgirl.”Heturnedtothefrontofthestage.“YouwanttotellmehowI’msupposedtofigureoutanewkindofnormal,Doc?Youwouldn’tdaresuggestthatoneday,itgetseasier.ThatI’llbeabletomovepastthis.ThatI’llforgetmydaughterislyinginagrave,whilesomepsychopathisstillaliveandwell.”SuddenlythemanturnedtoJordan.“Howcanyoulivewithyourself?”heaccused. “How thehell canyou sleepatnight, knowingyou’redefending thatsonofabitch?”

Every eye in the room turned to Jordan.Beside him, he could feel SelenapressSam’sfaceagainstherchest,shieldingthebaby.Jordanopenedhismouthtospeak,butcouldn’tfindasingleword.

The sound of boots coming up the aisle distracted him. PatrickDucharmewasheadedstraightforMarkIgnatio.“Ican’t imagine thepainyou’refeeling,Mark,”Patrick said, his gaze lockedon thegrievingman’s. “And I knowyouhave every right to come here and be upset. But theway our countryworks,someone’s innocent until they’re proven guilty. Mr. McAfee’s just doing hisjob.” He clapped his hand onMark’s shoulder and lowered his voice. “Whydon’tyouandIgrabacupofcoffee?”

AsPatrickledMarkIgnatiotowardtheexit,Jordanrememberedwhathehadwantedtosay.“Ilivehere,too,”hebegan.

Markturnedaround.“Notforlong.”AlexwasnotshortforAlexandra,likemostpeopleassumed.Herfatherhad

simplygivenherthenameofthesonhewouldhavepreferredtohave.AfterAlex’smotherhaddiedofbreastcancerwhenshewasfive,herfather

hadraisedher.Hewasn’tthekindofdadwhoshowedherhowtorideabikeortoskipstones-instead,he taughther theLatinwords for things like faucetandoctopus and porcupine; he explained to her the Bill of Rights. She usedacademics to get his attention:winning spelling bees and geography contests,nettingastringofstraightA’s,gettingintoeverycollegesheappliedto.

Shewantedtobejustlikeherfather:thekindofmanwhowalkeddownthestreetandhadstorekeepersnodtohiminawe:Goodafternoon,JudgeCormier.Shewantedtohearthechangeintoneofareceptionist’svoicewhenthewomanhearditwasJudgeCormierontheline.

Ifherfatherneverheldheronhislap,neverkissedhergoodnight,nevertold

her he loved her-well, it was all part of the persona. From her father, Alexlearnedthateverythingcouldbedistilledintofacts.Comfort,parenting,love-allofthesecouldbeboileddownandexplained,ratherthanexperienced.Andthelaw-well,thelawsupportedherfather’sbeliefsystem.Anyfeelingsyouhadinthecontextofacourtroomhadanexplanation.Youweregivenpermissiontobeemotional,inalogicalsetting.Whatyoufeltforyourclientswasnotreallywhatwas inyourownheart,or soyoucouldpretend, so thatnooneevergotcloseenoughtohurtyou.

Alex’sfatherhadhadastrokewhenshewasasecond-yearlawstudent.Shehadsatontheedgeofhishospitalbedandtoldhimshelovedhim.

“Oh,Alex,”he’dsighed.“Let’snotbotherwiththat.”Shehadn’tcriedathisfuneral,becausesheknewthat’swhathewouldhave

wanted.Had her own father wished, as she did now, that the basis of their

relationshiphadbeendifferent?Hadheeventuallygivenuphoping,settlingforteacher and student instead of parent and child? How long could you marchalong on a parallel track with your child before you lost any chance ofintersectingherlife?

She’d read countlesswebsites about grief and its stages; she’d studied theaftermathofotherschoolshootings.Shecoulddoresearch,butwhenshetriedtoconnectwithJosie,herdaughterlookedatherasifshe’dneverseenherbefore.At other times, Josie burst into tears.Alex didn’t knowhow to combat eitheroutcome.Shefelt incompetent-and thenshe’dremember that thiswasn’tabouther,itwasaboutJosie-andshe’dfeelevenmorelikeafailure.

Thegreat ironyhadn’t escapedAlex: shewasmore likeher father thanheevermighthaveguessed.Shefeltcomfortableinhercourtroom,inawayshedidnot feel in the confines of her own home. She knew just what to say to adefendantwho’dcomeinwithhis thirdDUIcharge,butshecouldn’tsustainafive-minuteconversationwithherownchild.

TendaysaftertheshootingatSterlingHigh,AlexwentintoJosie’sbedroom.Itwasmidafternoon and the curtainswere shut tight; Josiewas hidden in thecocoon she’dmade of her bedcovers.Although her immediate instinctwas tosnapopentheshadesandletthesunlightin,Alexlaydownonthebedinstead.Shewrappedherarmsaroundthebundlethatwasherdaughter.“Whenyouwerelittle,”Alexsaid,“sometimesI’dcomeinhereandsleepwithyou.”

Therewas a shifting, and the sheets fell away from Josie’s face.Her eyeswerered-rimmed,herfaceswollen.“Why?”

Sheshrugged.“Iwasneverabigfanofthunderstorms.”“HowcomeIneverwokeupandfoundyouhere?”

“Ialwayswentbacktomyownbed.Iwassupposedtobethetoughone….Ididn’twantyoutothinkIwasscaredofanything.”

“Supermom,”Josiewhispered.“But I’m scared of losing you,” Alex said. “I’m scared it’s already

happened.”Josiestaredatherforamoment.“I’mscaredoflosingme,too.”Alexsatupand tuckedJosie’shairbehindherear.“Let’sgetoutofhere,”

shesuggested.Josiefroze.“Idon’twanttogoout.”“Sweetheart,itwouldbegoodforyou.It’slikephysicaltherapy,butforthe

brain.Gothroughthemotions,thepatternofyoureverydaylife,andeventuallyyourememberhowtodoitnaturally.”

“Youdon’tunderstand…”“Ifyoudon’ttry,Jo,”shesaid,“thenthatmeanshewins.”Josie’sheadsnappedup.Alexdidn’thavetotellherwhohewas.“Didyou

guess?”Alexheardherselfasking.“Guesswhat?”“Thathemightdothis?”“Mom,Idon’twantto-”“Ikeepthinkingabouthimasalittleboy,”Alexsaid.Josie shook her head. “That was a really long time ago,” she murmured.

“Peoplechange.”“Iknow.ButsometimesIcanstillseehimhandingyouthatrifle-”“We were little,” Josie interrupted, her eyes filling with tears. “We were

stupid.”Shepushedbackthecovers,inasuddenhurry.“Ithoughtyouwantedtogosomewhere.”

Alexlookedather.Alawyerwouldpressthepoint.Amother,though,mightnot.

Minuteslater,JosiewassittinginthepassengerseatofthecarbesideAlex.Shebuckledtheseatbelt,thenunlatchedit,thensecureditagain.Alexwatchedhertugonthebelttomakesureitwouldlockup.

Shepointedouttheobviousastheydrove-thatthefirstdaffodilshadpushedtheirbraveheadsthroughthesnowonthemedianstripofMainStreet;thattheSterlingCollegecrewteamwastrainingontheConnecticutRiver,thebowsoftheirboatsbreakingthroughtheresidualice.Thatthetemperaturegaugeinthecarsaiditwasmorethanfiftydegrees.Alexintentionallytookthelongroute-theonethatdidnotgopasttheschool.OnlyoncedidJosie’sheadturntolookatthescenery,andthatwaswhentheypassedthepolicestation.

Alex pulled into a parking spot in front of the diner. The streetwas filled

withlunchtimeshoppersandbusypedestrians,carryingboxestobemailedandtalkingoncellphonesandglancing intostorewindows.Toanyonewhodidn’tknow better, it was business as usual in Sterling. “So,” Alex said, turning toJosie.“Howarewedoing?”

Josielookeddownatherhandsinherlap.“Okay.”“It’snotasbadasyouthought,isit?”“Notyet.”“Mydaughtertheoptimist.”Alexsmiledather.“YouwanttosplitaBLTand

asalad?”“Youhaven’tevenlookedatamenuyet,”Josiesaid,andtheybothgotoutof

thecar.Suddenly a rusted Dodge Dart ran the light at the head of Main Street,

backfiring as it sped away. “Idiot,” Alex muttered, “I should get his platenumber…”ShebrokeoffwhensherealizedthatJosiehadvanished.“Josie!”

Then Alex saw her daughter, pressed against the sidewalk, where she’dflattenedherself.Herfacewaswhite,herbodytrembling.

Alex knelt beside her. “It was a car. Just a car.” She helped Josie to herknees.Allaroundthem,peoplewerewatchingandpretendingnotto.

Alex shielded Josie from their view. She had failed again. For someonerenowned forhergood judgment, she suddenly seemed tobe lackingany.Shethoughtofsomethingshe’dreadontheInternet-howsometimes,whenitcametogrief,youcouldtakeonestepforwardandthenthreestepsback.Shewonderedwhy the Internetdidnotadd thatwhensomeoneyou lovedwashurting, it cutyourighttothebone,too.“Allright,”Alexsaid,herarmanchoredtightaroundJosie’sshoulders.“Let’sgetyoubackhome.”

Patrickhad taken to living,eating,andsleepinghiscase.At thestation,heacted cool and in command-he was the point man, after all, for all thoseinvestigators-but at home, he questioned every move he made. On hisrefrigeratorwerethepicturesofthedead;onhisbathroommirrorhe’dcreatedadry-erase marker timeline of Peter’s day. He sat awake in the middle of thenight,writing listsofquestions:WhatwasPeterdoingathomebefore leavingforschool?Whatelsewasonhiscomputer?Wheredidhelearntoshoot?Howdidhegetguns?Wheredidtheangercomefrom?

During the day, however, he plowed through the massive amount ofinformationtobeprocessed,andtheevenmoremassiveamountofinformationtobegleaned.Now,JoanMcCabesatacrossfromhim.Shehadcriedherwaythrough the last box of Kleenex at the station, and was now wadding papertowelsupinherfist.“I’msorry,”shesaidtoPatrick.“IthoughtthiswouldgeteasierthemoreIdoit.”

“I don’t think that’s how it works,” he said gently. “I do appreciate youtakingthetimetospeaktomeaboutyourbrother.”

EdMcCabehadbeentheonlyteacherkilledintheshooting.Hisclassroomhadbeenat the topof thestairs,en route to thegymnasium;he’dhad thebadfortune to comeout and try to stopwhatwashappening.According to schoolrecords, Peter had hadMcCabe as amath teacher in tenth grade.He’d gottenB’s.NooneelsecouldrememberhisnotgettingalongwithMcCabethatyear;mostoftheotherstudentshadn’tevenrecalledPeterbeingintheclass.

“There’s really nothing else I can tell you,” Joan said. “Maybe Philiprememberssomething.”

“Yourhusband?”Joanlookedupathim.“No.That’sEd’spartner.”Patrickleanedbackinhischair.“Partner.Asin-”“Edwasgay,”Joansaid.Itmightbesomething,butthenagain,itmightnot.ForallPatrickknew,Ed

McCabe-who’dbeenjustahaplessvictimahalfhourago-couldhavebeenthereasonPeterstartedshooting.

“Nooneattheschoolknew,”Joansaid.“Ithinkhewasafraidofbacklash.HetoldpeopleintownthatPhilipwashisoldcollegeroommate.”

Anothervictim-onewhowasstillalive-wasNatalieZlenko.She’dbeenshotin the side andhad tohaveher liver resected.Patrick thought he rememberedseeinghernamelistedaspresidentoftheGLAADclubatSterlingHigh.She’dbeenoneofthefirstpeopleshot;McCabehadbeenoneofthelast.

MaybePeterHoughtonwashomophobic.PatrickhandedJoanhiscard.“I’dreallyliketotalktoPhilip,”hesaid.LacyHoughtonsetateapotandaplateofceleryinfrontofSelena.“Idon’t

haveanymilk.Iwenttobuysome,but…”Hervoicetrailedoff,andSelenatriedtofillintheblanks.

“Ireallyappreciateyoutalkingtome,”Selenasaid.“Whateveryoucantellme,we’llusetohelpPeter.”

Lacynodded.“Anything,”shesaid.“Anythingyouwanttoknow.”“Well,let’sstartwiththeeasystuff.Wherewasheborn?”“RightatDartmouth-Hitchcock,”Lacysaid.“Normaldelivery?”“Totally.Nocomplications.”Shesmiledalittle.“Iusedtowalkthreemiles

every day when I was pregnant. Lewis thought I’d wind up delivering insomeone’sdriveway.”

“Didyounursehim?Washeagoodeater?”“I’msorry,Idon’tseewhy…”

“Because we have to see if there might be a brain disorder,” Selena saidmatter-of-factly.“Anorganicproblem.”

“Oh,” Lacy said faintly. “Yes. I nursed him. He’s always been healthy. Alittle smaller than other kids his age, but neither Lewis nor I are very bigpeople.”

“Howwashissocialdevelopmentasachild?”“Hedidn’thavealotoffriends,”Lacysaid.“NotlikeJoey.”“Joey?”“Peter’s older brother. Peter is a year younger, and much quieter. He got

teasedbecauseofhissize,andbecausehewasn’tasgoodanathleteasJoey….”“WhatkindofrelationshipdoesPeterhavewithJoey?”Lacylookeddownatherknottedhands.“Joeydiedayearago.Hewaskilled

inacaraccident,byadrunkdriver.”Selenastoppedwriting.“I’msosorry.”“Yes,”Lacysaid.“Me,too.”Selena leanedbackslightly inherchair. Itwascrazy,sheknew,but just in

casemisfortunewascontagious,shedidnotwanttogettooclose.ShethoughtofSam,howshe’dlefthimsleepingthismorninginhiscrib.Duringthenighthe’dkickedoffasock;histoeswereplumpasearlypeas;itwasallshecoulddonotto taste his caramel skin. Somuch of the language of lovewas like that: youdevouredsomeonewithyoureyes,youdrankinthesightofhim,youswallowedhim whole. Love was sustenance, broken down and beating through yourbloodstream.

SheturnedbacktoLacy.“DidPetergetalongwithJoey?”“Oh,Peteradoredhisbigbrother.”“Hetoldyouthat?”Lacyshrugged.“Hedidn’thaveto.He’dbeatallofJoey’sfootballgames,

and cheering just as loud as the rest of us.When he got to the high school,everyoneexpectedgreatthingsofhim,becausehewasJoey’slittlebrother.”

Whichcouldbe,Selenaknew,justasmuchasourceoffrustrationasitwasofpride.“HowdidPeterreacttoJoey’sdeath?”

“He was devastated, just like we were. He cried a lot. Spent time in hisroom.”

“DidyourrelationshipwithPeterchangeafterJoeydied?”“Ithinkitgotstronger,”Lacysaid.“Iwassooverwhelmed.Peter…heletus

leanonhim.”“Didheleanonanyoneelse?Haveanyintimaterelationships?”“Youmeanwithgirls?”“Orboys,”Selenasaid.

“Hewasstillat thatawkwardage.Iknowhe’daskedafewgirlsout,butIdon’tthinkanythingevercameofit.”

“HowwerePeter’sgrades?”“Hewasn’tastraight-Astudentlikehisbrother,”Lacysaid,“buthe’dgetB’s

andtheoccasionalC.Wealwaystoldhimtojustdothebesthecould.”“Didhehaveanylearningdisabilities?”“No.”“Whataboutoutsideofschool?Whatdidheliketodo?”Selenaasked.“He’dlistentomusic.Playvideogames.Likeanyotherteenager.”“Didyoueverlistentohismusic,orplaythosegames?”Lacyletasmileghostoverherface.“Iactivelytriednotto.”“DidyoumonitorhisInternetuse?”“Hewasonlysupposedtobeusingitforschoolprojects.Wehadlongtalks

aboutchatroomsandhowunsafetheInternetcanbe,butPeterhadagoodheadonhisshoulders.We-”Shebrokeoff,lookingaway.“Wetrustedhim.”

“Didyouknowwhathewasdownloading?”“No.”“Whataboutweapons?Doyouknowwherehegotthemfrom?”Lacytookadeepbreath.“Lewishunts.HetookPeteroutwithhimonce,but

Peterdidn’tlikeitverymuch.Theshotgunsarealwayslockedinaguncase-”“AndPeterknewwherethekeywas.”“Yes,”Lacymurmured.“Whataboutthepistols?”“We’veneverhadthoseinourhouse.Ihavenoideawheretheycamefrom.”“Didyou ever checkhis room?Under thebed, in the closets, that kindof

thing?”Lacy met her gaze. “We’ve always respected his privacy. I think it’s

importantforachildtohavehisownspace,and-”Shepressedherlipsshut.“And?”“Andsometimeswhenyoustartlooking,”Lacysaidsoftly,“youfindthings

youdon’treallywanttosee.”Selena leaned forward, her elbows on her knees. “When did that happen,

Lacy?”Lacywalkedtothewindow,drawingasidethecurtain.“Youwouldhavehad

toknowJoeytounderstand.Hewasasenior,anhonorsstudent,anathlete.Andthen,aweekbeforegraduation,hewaskilled.”Sheletherhandtrailtheedgeofthefabric.“Someonehadtogothroughhisroom-packitup,getridofthethingswe didn’t want to keep. It tookme awhile, but finally, I did it. I was goingthrough his drawers when I found the drugs. Just a little powder, in a gum

wrapper,andaspoonandaneedle.Ididn’tknowitwasheroinuntilIlookeditupontheInternet.Iflusheditdownthetoiletandthrewthehypodermicoutatwork.”SheturnedtowardSelena,herfacered.“Ican’tbelieveI’mtellingyouthis. I’ve never told anyone, not even Lewis. I didn’t want him-or anyone-tothinkanythingbadaboutJoey.”

Lacysatdownonthecouchagain.“Ididn’tgointoPeter’sroomonpurpose,because I was afraid of what I’d find,” she confessed. “I didn’t know that itcouldbeevenworse.”

“Didyoueverinterrupthimwhenhewasinhisroom?Knockonthedoor,popyourheadinside?”

“Sure.I’dcomeintosaygoodnight.”“Whatwasheusuallydoing?”“Hewasonhiscomputer,”Lacysaid.“Almostalways.”“Didn’tyouseewhatwasonthescreen?”“Idon’tknow.He’dclosethefile.”“How did he act when you interrupted him unexpectedly? Did he seem

upset?Annoyed?Guilty?”“Whydoesitfeellikeyou’rejudginghim?”Lacysaid.“Aren’tyousupposed

tobeonourside?”Selenamethergazesteadily.“TheonlywayIcanthoroughlyinvestigatethis

caseistoaskyouthefacts,Mrs.Houghton.That’sallI’mdoing.”“Hewaslikeanyotherteenager,”Lacysaid.“He’dsufferwhileIkissedhim

good night. He didn’t seem embarrassed. He didn’t act like he was hidinganythingfromme.Isthatwhatyouwanttoknow?”

Selenaputdownherpen.Whenthesubjectstartedgettingdefensive,itwastimetoendtheinterview.ButLacywasstilltalking,unprompted.

“Ineverthoughttherewasanyproblem,”sheadmitted.“Ididn’tknowPeterwasupset. Ididn’tknowhewantedtokillhimself. Ididn’tknowanyof thosethings.”Shebegantocry.“Allthosefamiliesoutthere,Idon’tknowwhattosaytothem.IwishIcouldtellthemthatIlostsomeone,too.Ijustlosthimalongtimeago.”

Selenafoldedherarmsaroundthesmallerwoman.“It’snotyourfault,”shesaid,wordssheknewLacyHoughtonneededtohear.

In a fit of high school irony, theprincipal ofSterlingHighhadplaced theBible Study Club next door to the Gay and Lesbian Alliance. They metTuesdays,at three-thirty, inRooms233and234ofthehighschool.Room233was,during theday,EdMcCabe’sclassroom.Onememberof theBibleStudyClubwasthedaughterofa localminister,namedGraceMurtaugh.She’dbeenkilledinthehallwayleadingtothegymnasium,shotinfrontofawaterfountain.

The leader of the Gay and Lesbian Alliance was still in the hospital: NatalieZlenko,ayearbookphotographer,hadcomeoutasalesbianafterherfreshmanyear, when she’d wandered into the GLAADmeeting in Room 233 to see iftherewasanyoneelseonthisplanetlikeherself.

“We’re not supposed to give out names.”Natalie’s voicewas so faint thatPatrickhadtoleanoverthehospitalbedtohearher.Natalie’smotherhoveredathis shoulder.Whenhe’dcome in to askNatalie a fewquestions, she said thathe’dbetterleaveorelseshe’dcallthepolice.Heremindedherthathewasthepolice.

“I’mnot asking for names,”Patrick said. “I’m just asking you to helpmehelpajuryunderstandwhythishappened.”

Natalienodded.Sheclosedhereyes.“PeterHoughton,”Patricksaid.“Didheeverattendameeting?”“Once,”Nataliesaid.“Didhesayordoanythingthatsticksinyourmind?”“Hedidn’t sayordoanything,period.Heshowedup theone time,andhe

nevercameback.”“Doesthathappenoften?”“Sometimes,” Natalie said. “People wouldn’t be ready to come out. And

sometimes we got jerks who just wanted to know who was gay so that theycouldmakelifehellforusinschool.”

“Inyouropinion,didPeterfitintoeitheroneofthesecategories?”She was silent for a long time, her eyes still closed. Patrick drew away,

thinkingthatshe’dfallenasleep.“Thanks,”hesaidtohermother,justasNataliespokeagain.

“Peterwasgettingraggedonlongbeforeheevershowedupatthatmeeting,”shesaid.

Jordanwasondiaper detailwhileSelena interviewedLacyHoughton, andSamwasappallinglybadatgoing tosleeponhisown.However,a ten-minuterideinthecarcouldknockthekidoutlikeaprizefighter,soJordanbundledthebabyupandstrappedhimintothecarseat.Itwasn’tuntilheputtheSaabintoreverse thathe realizedhiswheel rimsweregrindingagainst thedriveway;allfourofhistireshadbeenslashed.

“Fuck,”Jordansaid,asSamstartedtowailagaininthebackseat.Hepluckedthe baby out, carried him back inside, and tethered him into the Snugli thatSelenaworearoundthehouse.Thenhecalledthepolicetoreportthevandalism.

Jordanknewhewas in troublewhen thedispatchofficerdidn’taskhim tospell his last name-he alreadyknew it. “We’ll get to it,” theofficer said. “Butfirstwe’vegotasquirrelupatreethatneedsahandclimbingdown.”Theline

wentdead.Couldyousuethecopsforbeingunsympatheticbastards?Throughsomemiracle-pheromonesof stress,probably-Samfell asleep,but

startled,bawling,whenthedoorbell rang.JordanyankedthedooropentofindSelenaoutside.“Youwokeupthebaby,”heaccusedassheliftedSamoutofthecarrier.

“Thenyoushouldn’thavelockedthedoor.Oh,hi,yousweetman,”Selenacooed.“HasDaddybeenamonsterthewholetimeI’vebeengone?”

“Someoneslashedmytires.”Selenaglancedathimover thebaby’shead. “Well,you sureknowhow to

win friends and influence people. Let me guess-the cops aren’t exactlyscramblingtotakeyourreport?”

“Notquite.”“Comeswith the territory, Iguess,”Selenasaid.“You’re theonewho took

thiscase.”“Howaboutalittlespousalunderstanding?”Selena shrugged. “Wasn’t in the vows I took. If you want to have a pity

party,setthetableforone.”Jordanranahandthroughhishair.“Well,didyouatleastgetanythingoutof

themother?Like,forexample,thatPeterhadapsychiatricdiagnosis?”ShepeeledoffherjacketwhilejugglingSaminonehandandthentheother,

unbuttonedherblouse,andsatdownonthecouchtonurse.“No.Buthedidhaveasibling.”

“Really?”“Yeah.Adeadone,who-priortobeingkilledbyadrunkdriver-wastheAll-

AmericanSon.”Jordansankdownbesideher.“Icanusethis…”Selenarolledhereyes.“Justforonce,couldyounotbealawyerandfocus

insteadonbeingahuman?Jordan,thisfamilywasinsodeeptheydidn’thaveachance. The kidwas a powder keg. The parentswere dealingwith their owngriefandwereasleepatthewheel.Peterhadnoonetoturnto.”

Jordanglancedupather,agrinsplittinghisface.“Excellent,”hesaid.“Ourclient’sjustbecomesympathetic.”

One week after the school shooting at Sterling High, theMount LebanonSchool-aprimarygradeschoolthathadbecomeanadministrativebuildingwhenthepopulationofstudentsinLebanondipped-wasoutfittedtobethetemporaryhomeforhighschoolkidstofinishouttheirschoolyear.

Onthedaythatclasseswerebeginningagain,Josie’smothercameintoherbedroom.“Youdon’thavetodothis,”shesaid.“Youcantakeafewmoreweeks

off,ifyouwant.”Therehadbeenaflurryofphonecalls,apulseofpanicthatbeganafewdays

agowheneachstudentreceivedthewrittenwordthatschoolwouldbestartingagain. Are you going back? Are you? There were rumors: whose motherwouldn’t let them return;whowas getting transferred toSt.Mary’s;whowasgoingtotakeoverMr.McCabe’sclass.Josiehadnotcalledanyofherfriends.Shewasafraidtoheartheiranswers.

Josie did notwant to go back to school. She could not imagine having towalk down a hallway, even one not physically located at Sterling High. Shedidn’tknowhowthesuperintendentandtheprincipalexpectedeveryonetoact-andtheywouldallbedoingthat:acting-becausetofeelanythingrealwouldbedevastating.AndyettherewasanotherpartofJosiethatunderstoodshehadtogo back to school; it was where she belonged. The other students at SterlingHighweretheonlyoneswhoreallyunderstoodwhatitwasliketowakeupinthe morning and crave those three seconds before you remembered your lifewasn’twhat itused tobe;whohad forgottenhoweasy itwas to trust that thegroundbeneathyourfeetwassolid.

Ifyouweredriftingwithathousandotherpeople,couldyoureallystillsayyouwerelost?

“Josie?”hermothersaid,prompting.“It’sfine,”shelied.Hermotherleft,andJosiestartedtogatherherbooks.Sherealized,suddenly,

thatshe’dnevertakenhersciencetest.Catalysts.Shedidn’trememberanythingaboutthemanymore.Mrs.Duplessierswouldn’tbeevilenoughtohandouttheteston their firstdayback,would she? Itwasn’t like timehad stoppedduringthesethreeweeks-ithadchangedcompletely.

The last morning she had gone to school, she hadn’t been thinking ofanythinginparticular.Thattest,maybe.Matt.Howmuchhomeworkshe’dhavethatnight.Normalthings,inotherwords.Anormalday.Therehadbeennothingtosetitapartfromanyothermorningatschool;sohowcouldJosiebesurethattodaywouldn’tdissolveattheseams,too?

WhenJosiereachedthekitchen,hermotherwaswearingasuit-workclothes.Ittookherbysurprise.“You’regoingbacktoday?”sheasked.

Hermotherturned,holdingaspatula.“Oh,”sheanswered,faltering.“Ijustfigured that since you were…You can always reach me through the clerk, ifthere’saproblem.IsweartoGod,Josie,I’llbethereinlessthantenminutes….”

Josie sank intoachairandclosedhereyes.Somehow, itdidn’tmatter thatJosieherselfwasleavingthehousefortheday-she’dstill imaginedhermothersittinghomewaitingforher,justincase.Butthatwasstupid,wasn’tit?Ithad

neverbeenlikethat,sowhyshouldnowbeanydifferent?Because,avoicewhisperedinJosie’shead.Everythingelseis.“I’verearrangedmyschedulesoI’llbeabletopickyouupfromschool.And

ifthere’sanyproblem-”“Yeah.Calltheclerk.Whatever.”Hermothersatdownacrossfromher.“Honey,whatdidyouexpect?”Josieglancedup.“Nothing. I stopped thata long timeago.”Shestoodup.

“You’reburningyourpancakes,”shesaid,andshewalkedbackupstairs toherbedroom.

Sheburiedherfaceinherpillow.Shedidn’tknowwhatthehellwaswrongwithher.Itwasasif,after,thereweretwoJosies-thelittlegirlwhokepthopingitmight be a nightmare,might never have happened, and the realistwho stillhurtsobadlyshelashedoutatanyonewhogottooclose.Thethingwas,Josiedidn’tknowwhichpersonawasgoingto takeoveratanygivenmoment.Herewashermother,forGod’ssake,whocouldn’tboilwaterbutwasnowattemptingpancakesforJosiebeforeshewentbacktoschool.Whenshewasyounger,shehadimaginedlivinginthekindofhousewhereonthefirstdayofschoolyourmotherhadawholespreadofeggsandbaconandjuicetostartthedayoffright-insteadofalineupofcerealboxesandapapernapkin.Well,she’dgottenwhatshe wished for, hadn’t she? A mother who sat at her bedside when she wascrying, a mother who had temporarily abandoned the job that defined her tohoveroverJosieinstead.AndwhatdidJosiedo?Shepushedheraway.Shesaid,in all the spaces between her words, You never cared about anything thathappenedinmylifewhennobodywaswatching,sodon’tthinkyoucanjuststartnow.

Suddenly,Josieheardtheroarofanenginepullingintothedriveway.Matt,shethought,beforeshecouldstopherself;andbythen,everynerveinherbodywas stretched to the point of pain. Somehow, she hadn’t really thought abouthowshewouldphysicallybetransportedtoschool-Matthadalwayspickedherupenroute.Hermother,ofcourse,wouldhavedrivenher.ButJosiewonderedwhy shehadn’tworked through these logistics earlier.Because shewas afraidto?Didn’twantto?

FromherbedroomwindowshewatchedDrewGirardgetoutofhisbatteredVolvo.Bythetimeshereachedthefrontdoortoopenit,hermotherhadcomeoutofthekitchen,too.Sheheldthesmokedetectorinherhand,poppedoffitsplasticsnapontheceiling.

Drewstood ina shaftof sunlight, shadinghiseyeswithhis freehand.Hisotherarmwasstillinasling.“Ishouldhavecalled.”

“That’sokay,”Josiesaid.Shefeltdizzy.Sherealizedthat,inthebackground,

thebirdshadcomebackfromwherevertheywentinthewinter.Drew looked from Josie to hermother. “I thoughtmaybe, you know, you

mightneedaride.”SuddenlyMattwasstandingtherewiththem;Josiecouldfeelhisfingerson

herback.“Thanks,”hermothersaid,“butI’mgoingtotakeJosieintoday.”ThemonsterinJosieuncoiled.“I’drathergowithDrew,”shesaid,grabbing

herbackpackoffthenewelpostofthebanister.“I’llseeyouatpickup.”Withoutturningaroundtoseehermother’sface,Josierantothecar,whichgleamedlikeasanctuary.

Inside, she waited for Drew to turn over the ignition and pull out of thedriveway. “Are your parents like that?” Josie asked, closing her eyes as theyspeddownthestreet.“Likeyoucan’tbreathe?”

Drewglancedather.“Yeah.”“Haveyoutalkedtoanyone?”“Likethepolice?”Josieshookherhead.“Likeus.”Hedownshifted.“IwentovertothehospitaltoseeJohnacoupleoftimes,”

Drewsaid.“Hecouldn’tremembermyname.Hecan’trememberthewordsforthingslikeforksorhairbrushesorstairs.Ikindofsatthereandtoldhimstupidthings-who’dwonthelastfewBruinsgames,thingslikethat-butthewholetimeIwaswonderingifheevenknowshecan’twalkanymore.”Atastoplight,Drewturnedtoher.“Whynotme?”

“What?”“Howcomewegottobetheluckyones?”Josiedidn’tknowwhattosaytothat.Shelookedoutthewindow,pretending

tobe fascinatedby adog thatwaspulling its owner, insteadof theotherwayaround.

Drewpulled into theparking lotof theMountLebanonSchool.Beside thebuilding was a playground-this had been an elementary school, after all, andevenonceitbecameadministrative,neighborhoodkidswouldstillcometousethemonkeybarsand theswings. In frontof theschool’smaindoorsstood theprincipalandalineofparents,callingoutthenamesofstudentsandencouragingthemastheywalkedinside.

“Ihavesomethingforyou,”Drewsaid,andhereachedbehindhisseatandheld out a baseball cap-one Josie recognized.Whatever embroidery had oncebeenon ithad longsinceunraveled; thebrimwasfrayedandcurled tightasafiddlehead.HehandedittoJosie,whoranafingergentlyalongtheinsideseam.

“He left it in my car,” Drew explained. “I was going to give it to his

parents…after.ButthenIkindofthoughtyoumightwantitinstead.”Josienodded,astearsrosealongthewatermarkofherthroat.Drewbenthisheadagainstthewheel.IttookJosieamomenttorealizethat

hewascrying,too.She reached out and put her hand on his shoulder. “Thank you,” Josie

managed, and she settledMatt’s baseball cap onto her head. She opened thepassengerdoorandreachedforherknapsack,butinsteadofheadingtowardtheschoolshewalkedthroughtherustedgatesontotheplayground.Shestrodeintothemiddle of the sandbox and stared at her shoe prints,wondered howmuchwindorweatheritwouldtaketomakethemdisappear.

TwiceAlexhadexcusedherselffromthecourtroomtocallJosie’scell,eventhoughsheknewJosiekept it turnedoffduringclassroomhours.Themessagesheleftbothtimeswasthesame:

It’sme.Ijustwantedtoknowhowyouwereholdingup.Alex told her clerk, Eleanor, that if Josie called back, she was to be

disturbed.Nomatterwhat.Shewasrelievedtobebackatwork,buthadtoforceherselftopayattention

tothecaseinfrontofher.Therewasadefendantonthestandwhoclaimedtohave no experience with the criminal justice system. “I don’t understand thecourtprocess,”thewomansaid,turningtoAlex.“CanIgonow?”

Theprosecutorwasinthemiddleofhiscross-examination.“First,whydon’tyoutellJudgeCormieraboutthelasttimeyouwereincourt.”

Thewomanhesitated.“Maybeforaspeedingticket.”“Whatelse?”“Ican’tremember,”shesaid.“Aren’tyouonprobation?”theprosecutorasked.“Oh,”thewomanreplied.“That.”“Whatareyouonprobationfor?”“I can’t remember.” She looked up at the ceiling, her brow wrinkling in

thought.“ItbeginswithanF.F…F…F…felony!That’sit!”Theprosecutorsighed.“Didn’tithavetodowithacheck?”Alexlookedatherwatch,thinkingthatifshegotthiswomanoffthedamn

stand, she could see if Josie had called in yet. “How about forgery,” sheinterrupted.“ThatstartswithanF.”

“Sodoesfraud,”theprosecutorpointedout.ThewomanfacedAlexblankly.“Ican’tremember.”“I’m calling a one-hour recess,” Alex announced. “Court will resume at

elevena.m.”As soon as she was through the door that took her to her chambers, she

strippedoff her robes.They felt suffocating today, something thatAlexdidn’treallyunderstand-thiswaswhereshehadalwaysfeltcomfortable.Lawwasasetof rules she understood-a code of behavior where certain actions had certainconsequences.Shecouldnotsay thesameofherpersonal life,whereaschoolthat was supposed to be safe turned into a slaughterhouse, where a daughtercarvedfromherownbodyhadbecomesomeoneAlexnolongerunderstood.

Okay,ifshewasgoingtobehonest,thatshe’dneverunderstood.Frustrated,shestoodupandwalkedintoherclerk’soffice.Twice,beforethe

trial began, she’d called on Eleanor for trivial things, hoping that instead ofhearing “Yes,YourHonor,” the clerkwould let downher guard and askAlexhow she was doing, how Josie was doing. That for a half a moment, shewouldn’t be a judge to someone, just anotherparentwho’dhad the scareof alifetime.

“Ineedacigarette,”Alexsaid.“I’mgoingdownstairs.”Eleanorglancedup.“Allright,YourHonor.”Alex,shethought.AlexAlexAlex.Outside,Alexsatdownonthecementblockneartheloadingzoneandlita

cigarette.Shedrewindeeply,closedhereyes.“Those’llkillyou,youknow.”“So will old age,” Alex replied, and she turned around to see Patrick

Ducharme.Heturnedhisfaceuptothesun,squinted.“Iwouldn’thaveexpectedajudge

tohavevices.”“Youprobablythinkwesleepunderthebench,too.”Patrick grinned. “Well, that would be just plain silly. There’s not enough

roomforamattress.”Sheheldoutthepack.“Bemyguest.”“Ifyouwanttocorruptme,therearemoreinterestingways.”Alexfeltherfaceflame.Hehadn’tjustsaidthat,hadhe?Toajudge?“Ifyou

don’tsmoke,why’dyoucomeouthere?”“Tophotosynthesize.WhenI’mstuckincourtalldayitruinsmyfengshui.”“Peopledon’thavefengshui.Placesdo.”“Doyouknowthatforafact?”Alexhesitated.“Well.No.”“Thereyougo.”Heturnedtoher,andfor thefirst timeshenoticedthathe

hadawhitestreakinhishair,rightatthewidow’speak.“You’restaring.”Aleximmediatelyjerkedhergazeaway.“It’sallright,”Patricksaid,laughing.“It’salbinism.”“Albinism?”

“Yeah,youknow.Paleskin,whitehair.It’srecessive,soIgotaskunkstreak.I’monegeneawayfromlookinglikearabbit.”Hefacedher,sobering.“How’sJosie?”

SheconsideredputtingupthatChinesewall, tellinghimshedidn’twant totalkaboutanythingthatcouldcompromisehercase.ButPatrickDucharmehaddonetheonethingAlexhadwishedfor-he’dtreatedherlikeapersoninsteadofapublicfigure.“Shewentbacktoschool,”Alexconfided.

“Iknow.Isawher.”“You…Wereyouthere?”Patrickshrugged.“Yeah.Justincase.”“Didanythinghappen?”“No,”hesaid.“Itwas…ordinary.”Thewordhungbetweenthem.Nothingwasgoingtobeordinaryagain,and

bothofthemknewit.Youcouldpatchupwhateverwasbroken,butifyouweretheonewhohadfixedit,you’dalwaysknowinyourheartwherethefaultlineslay.

“Hey,”Patricksaid,touchinghershoulder.“Areyouallright?”She realized,mortified, that shewascrying.Wipinghereyes,Alexmoved

outofhisreach.“There’snothingwrongwithme,”shesaid,daringPatricktochallengeher.Heopenedhismouthasifhewasabouttospeak,butthensnappeditshut.

“I’llleaveyoutoyourvices,then,”hesaid,andwalkedbackinside.Itwasn’tuntilAlexwasbackinchambersthatsherealizedthedetectivehad

usedtheplural.Thathe’dnotonlycaughthersmoking,butalsolying.Therewerenewrules:Allthedoorsexceptforthemainentrancewouldbe

locked after school began, even though a shooter who was a student mightalreadybeinside.Nobackpackswereallowedinclassroomsanymore,althoughaguncouldbesneakedinunderacoatorinapurseoreveninazipperedthree-ringbinder.Everyone-studentsandstaff-wouldgetIDcardstoweararoundtheirnecks. Itwas supposed tomake everyone accountable, but Josie couldn’t helpbutwonderifthisway,nexttime,itwouldbeeasiertotellwho’dbeenkilled.

The principal got on the loudspeaker during homeroom and welcomedeveryonebacktoSterlingHigh,evenifitwasn’tSterlingHigh.Hesuggestedamomentofsilence.

Whileotherkidsinherhomeroombowedtheirheads,Josieglancedaround.Shewasnottheonlyonewhowasn’tpraying.Somekidswerepassingnotes.Acouplewere listening to their iPods.A guywas copying someone else’smathnotes.

She wondered if they, like her, were afraid to honor the dead, because it

madethemfeelmoreguilty.Josie shifted,bangingherkneeagainst thedesk.Thedesksandchairs that

hadbeenbroughtbacktothismakeshiftschoolwereforlittlechildren,nothighschoolrefugees.Asaresult,nobodyfit.Josie’skneeswerebentuptoherchin.Somekidscouldn’tevensitatthedesks;theyhadtowritewiththeirbindersontheirlaps.

IamAliceinWonderland,Josiethought.Watchmefall.

Jordanwaited forhis client to sitdownacross fromhim in theconferenceroomofthejail.“Tellmeaboutyourbrother,Peter,”hesaid.

He scrutinized Peter’s face-saw the disappointment flash across it as herealized that Jordan had again unearthed something he’d hoped would stayhidden.“Whatabouthim?”Peterreplied.

“Youtwogetalong?”“Ididn’tkillhim,ifthat’swhatyou’reasking.”“I wasn’t.” Jordan shrugged. “I’m just surprised you didn’t mention him

earlier.”Peter glared at him. “Likewhen?When Iwas supposed to shut up at the

arraignment?Orafterthat,whenyoucamehereandtoldmeyouweregoingtodoallthetalkingandIwasgoingtolisten?”

“Whatwashelike?”“Look. Joey’s dead,which youobviously know.So I don’t really getwhy

talkingabouthimisgoingtohelpme.”“Whathappenedtohim?”Jordanpressed.Peterrubbedhisthumbnailagainstthemetaledgingofthetable.“Hegothis

goldenboystraight-Aselframmedbyadrunkdriver.”“Hardtobeatthat,”Jordansaidcarefully.“Whatdoyoumean?”“Well,yourbrotheristheperfectkid,right?That’stoughenoughrightthere,

butthenhediesandturnsintoasaint.”Jordanhadbeenplayingdevil’sadvocate,toseeifPeterwouldtakethebait,

and sure enough the boy’s face transformed. “You can’t beat it,” Peter saidfiercely.“Youcan’tmeasureup.”

Jordantappedhispencilontheedgeofhisbriefcase.HadPeter’sangerbeenbornof jealousyor loneliness?Orwashismassacreaway to turnattention tohimself,finally,insteadofJoey?HowcouldheformulateadefensethatPeter’sactwasoneofdesperation,notanattempttoone-uphisbrother’snotoriety?

“Doyoumisshim?”Jordanasked.Petersmirked.“Mybrother,”hesaid,“mybrother,thecaptainofthebaseball

team; my brother who placed first in the state in a French competition; mybrother whowas friends with the principal; my brother,my fabulous brother,usedtodropmeoffahalfmileawayfromthegatesofthehighschoolsothathedidn’thavetobeseendrivingallthewayinwithme.”

“Howcome?”“Youdon’texactlygetanyperksforhangingaroundwithme,orhaven’tyou

noticedyet.”Jordan had a flash of his car tires, slashed to theirmetal haunches. “Joey

wouldn’tstickupforyouifyouwerebeingbullied?”“Areyoukidding?Joeywastheonetostartit.”“How?”Peterwalkedtowardthewindowinthesmallroom.Amottledflushroseup

hisneck,asifmemorycouldbeburnedintotheflesh.“HeusedtotellpeopleIwasadopted.Thatmymotherwasacrackwhore,andthat’swhymybrainwasallfuckedup.Sometimeshediditrightinfrontofme,andwhenI’dgetpissedoff andwhaleonhimhe’d just laugh andknockmeonmyass and thenhe’dlookbacktohisfriends,asif thiswasproofofeverythinghe’dbeensayinginthe first place. So, do Imiss him?”Peter repeated, and he faced Jordan. “I’mgladhe’sdead.”

Jordan wasn’t often surprised, and yet Peter Houghton had shocked himseveral timesalready.Peterwas, simply,whatapersonwould look like ifyouboileddownthemostrawemotionsandfilteredthemofanysocialcontract.Ifyouhurt,cry.Ifyourage,strikeout.

Ifyouhope,getreadyforadisappointment.“Peter,”Jordanmurmured,“didyoumeantokillthem?”Immediately Jordan cursed himself-he’d just asked the one question a

defense attorney is never supposed to ask, setting Peter up to admit topremeditation.Butinsteadofanswering,Peterthrewaquestionbackathimthathadjustasunsettlingananswer.“Well,”hesaid,“whatwouldyouhavedone?”

Jordan stuffed another bite of vanilla pudding into Sam’smouth and thenlickedthespoonhimself.

“That’snotforyou,”Selenasaid.“Ittastesgood.Unlikethatpeacrapyoumakehimeat.”“Excuse me for being a good mother.” Selena took a wet washcloth and

wiped down Sam’s mouth, then applied the same treatment to Jordan, whosquirmedawayfromherhand.

“Iamtotallyscrewed,”hesaid.“Ican’tmakePetersympatheticoverlosinghisbrother,becausehehated Joey. Idon’t evenhaveavalid legaldefense forhim,unlessItryforinsanity,andit’sgoingtobeimpossibletoprovethatwiththemountainofevidencetheprosecution’sgotforpremeditation.”

Selenaturnedtohim.“Youknowwhattheproblemishere,don’tyou?”“What?”“Youthinkhe’sguilty.”“Well, forChrist’s sake. So are ninety-nine percent ofmy clients, and it’s

neverstoppedmefromgettingacquittalsbefore.”“Right.Butdeepdown,youdon’twantPeterHoughtontogetacquitted.”Jordanfrowned.“That’scrap.”

“It’struecrap.You’rescaredofsomeonelikehim.”“He’sakid-”“-whofreaksyouout,justalittlebit.Becausehewasn’twillingtositdown

andlettheworldshitonhimanymore,andthat’snotsupposedtohappen.”Jordan looked up at her. “Shooting ten students doesn’tmake you a hero,

Selena.”“Itdoestothemillionsofotherkidswhowishthey’dhadthegutstodoit,”

shesaidflatly.“Excellent.YoucanbetheleaderofPeterHoughton’sfanclub.”“Idon’tcondonewhathedid,Jordan,butIdoseewherehe’scomingfrom.

Youwerebornwith six silver spoonsupyourass. Imean,honestly,haveyouever not been in the elite group?At school, or in court, orwherever? Peopleknowyou,people lookup toyou.You’regrantedpassageandyoudon’t evenrealizethatotherpeoplenevergettowalkthatway.”

Jordanfoldedhisarms.“AreyouabouttodoyourAfricanpridethingagain?Becausetotellyouthetruth-”

“You’venevergonedownthestreetandhadsomeonecross it justbecauseyou’re black. You’ve never had someone look at you with disgust becauseyou’reholdingababyandyouforgottoputonyourweddingring.Youwanttodo something about it-take action, screamat them, tell them they’re idiots-butyoucan’t.Beingon thefringe is themostdisempoweringfeeling,Jordan.Yougetsousedtotheworldbeingacertainway,thereseemstobenoescapefromit.”

Jordan smirked. “You took that last part from my closing in the KatieRiccobonocase.”

“Thebatteredwife?”Selenashrugged.“Well,evenifIdid,itfits.”Suddenly Jordan blinked. He stood up, grabbed his wife, and kissed her.

“Youaresofuckingbrilliant.”“I’mnotgoingtoargue,butdotellmewhy.”“Batteredwomansyndrome. It’savalid legaldefense.Batteredwomenget

stuck in a world that slams them down; eventually they feel so constantlythreatenedthattheytakeaction,andtrulybelievethey’reprotectingthemselves-eveniftheirhusbandsarefastasleep.ThatfitsPeterHoughton,toaT.”

“Farbeitfrommetopointthisouttoyou,Jordan,”Selenasaid,“butPeter’snotfemale,andhe’snotmarried.”

“That’snotthepoint.It’spost-traumaticstressdisorder.Whenthesewomengoballisticandshoottheirhusbandsorsliceofftheirdicks,theyaren’tthinkingabouttheconsequences…justaboutstoppingtheaggression.That’swhatPeter’sbeensayingallalong-hejustwantedittostop.Andthisisevenbetter,becauseI

don’thave tofight theprosecutor’susualrebuttalaboutagrownwomanbeingoldenough toknowwhat she’sdoingwhenshepicksup theknifeor thegun.Peter’sakid.Bydefinition,hedoesn’tknowwhathe’sdoing.”

Monsters didn’t grow out of nowhere; a housewife didn’t turn into amurdererunlesssomeoneturnedherintoone.TheDr.Frankenstein,inhercase,wasacontrollinghusband.AndinPeter’scase,itwasthewholeofSterlingHighSchool.Bullieskickedandteasedandpunchedandpinched,allbehaviorsmeanttoforcesomeonebackwherehebelonged.ItwasatthehandsofhistormentorsthatPeterlearnedhowtofightback.

In the high chair, Sam started to fuss. Selena pulled him out and into herarms. “No one’s ever done this,” she said. “There is no bullied victimsyndrome.”

JordanreachedforSam’sjarofvanillacustardandscrapedouttheleftoverswithhisforefinger.“Thereisnow,”hesaid,andhesavoredthelastofthesweet.

Patrick sat athisofficecomputer in thedark,movingacursor through thevideogamecreatedbyPeterHoughton.

Youstartedbypickingacharacter-oneofthreeboys:thespellingbeechamp,themath genius, the computer nerd.Onewas small and thin,with acne.Oneworeglasses.Onewasgrosslyoverweight.

Youdidnotcomeequippedwithaweapon.Instead,youhadtogotovariousroomsoftheschoolanduseyourwits:theteachers’loungehadvodka,tomakehand grenades. The boiler room had a bazooka. The science lab had burningacid.TheEnglish classroomhadheavybooks.Themath roomhadcompassesfor stabbing and metal rulers for slicing. The computer room had wires, forgarrotes.Thewoodshophadchainsaws.Thehomeartsclasshadblendersandknittingneedles.Theartroomhadakiln.Youcouldcombinematerialstomakecombo assault weapons: flaming bullets from the bazooka and vodka, aciddaggersfromthechemicalsandcompasses,snaresfromthecomputerwiresandtheheavybooks.

Patrickmaneuvered thecursor throughhallwaysandupstaircases, throughlockerroomsandintothejanitor’soffice.Itstruckhim,ashewasturningvirtualcorners,thathe’dwalkedthismapbefore.ItwasthefloorplanofSterlingHigh.

Theobjectofthegamewastoaimforthejocks,thebullies,andthepopularkids.Eachwasworthacertainamountofpoints.Killtwoatonce,yougottriplethepoints.However,youcouldbewounded,too.Youmightbesucker-punched,slammedintoawall,shovedinalocker.

If you accrued 100,000 points, you got a shotgun. If you reached 500,000points, you received amachine gun. Cross amillion, and you’d find yourselfstraddlinganuclearmissile.

Patrick watched a virtual door fly open. Freeze, his speakers cried, and aphalanxofpolicemeninSWATjacketsstormedonto thescreen.Hepositionedhishandonthearrowkeysagain,readyinghimself.Twicenow,he’dgottenthisfarandhadbeenkilledorhadkilledhimself-whichmeantlosing.

Thistime,though,heraisedhisvirtualmachinegunandwatchedtheofficersfallinasprayofbrightblood.

CONGRATULATIONS!YOUHAVEWONHIDE-N-SHRIEK! the screenread.

DOYOUWANTTOPLAYAGAIN?OnthetenthdayaftertheshootingatSterlingHigh,JordansatinhisVolvo

intheparkinglotofthedistrictcourthouse.Ashe’dexpected,therewerewhitenews vans everywhere, their satellites pointed to the sky like the faces ofsunflowers.Hetappedhisfingersonthesteeringwheel in timeto theWigglesCD,whichwasdoingitseffortlessjobofkeepingSamfromthrowingafitinthebackseat.

Selena had already slipped into the court undeterred-no one in the mediawouldrecognizeherasanyoneconnectedtothiscase.Assheapproachedthecaragain, Jordangotoutand took thepieceofpapersheofferedhim.“Great,”hesaid.

“Seeyoulater.”ShebentdowntounbuckleSamfromthecarseatasJordanheaded into the courthouse. As soon as one reporter saw him, there was adomino effect-flashbulbs burst like a string of fireworks; microphones werethrustinfrontofhim.Hepushedthemawaywithoneoutstretchedarm,muttered“Nocomment,”andhustledinside.

Peter had already been brought to the holding cell of the sheriff’s office,awaiting his appearance in court. He was pacing in a small circle, talking tohimself,whenJordanwasbroughtintothecell.“Sotoday’stheday,”Petersaid,alittlenervous,alittlebreathless.

“Funny you should mention that,” Jordan said. “Do you remember whywe’reheretoday?”

“Isthissomekindoftest?”Jordanjuststaredathim.“Aprobablecausehearing,”Petersaid.“That’swhatyoutoldmelastweek.”“Well.WhatIdidn’ttellyouisthatwe’regoingtowaiveit.”“Waiveit?”Petersaid.“Whatdoesthatmean?”“Itmeanswefoldbeforethehand’sevenplayed,”Jordanreplied.Hehanded

PeterthepieceofpaperSelenahadbroughthiminthecar.“Signit.”Petershookhishead.“Iwantanewlawyer.”“Anyoneworththeirsaltisgoingtotellyouthesamething-”

“What?Togiveupwithouteventrying?Yousaid-”“I said I’d give you the best defense I can,” Jordan interrupted. “There’s

already probable cause to believe that you committed a crime, since there arehundredsofwitnessesclaimingtohaveseenyoushootingintheschoolthatday.The issue isn’twhether or not you did it, Peter, it’swhyyou did it.Having aprobable cause hearing todaymeans they score a lot of points, and we scorenone-itwouldjustbeawayfortheprosecutiontoreleaseevidencetothemediaandthepublicbeforetheygetachancetohearoursideofthestory.”HethrustthepaperatPeteragain.“Signit.”

Petermethisgaze,fuming.ThenhetookthepaperfromJordan,andapen.“Thissucks,”hesaidashescrawledhissignature.

“Itwouldsuckmoreifwedidtheprobablecausehearing.”Jordantookthepaperandleftthecell,headingoutofthesheriff’sofficetogivethewaivertotheclerk.“I’llseeyouinthere.”

By the time he reached the courtroom, it was packed to the rafters. Themedia that had been allowed in stood in the back row, their cameras ready.JordansoughtoutSelena-shewas jugglingSamin themiddleof the third rowbehindtheprosecution’stable.So?sheasked,ashorthandliftofherbrows.

Jordannoddedtheslightestbit.Done.The judge presiding was inconsequential to him: someone who would

rubber-stampthisprocessandturnitovertothecourtwhereJordanwouldhavetoputonhisdog-and-ponyshow.TheHonorableDavidIannucci:whatJordanremembered about him was that he had hair plugs, and when you appearedbefore himyouhad to doyour absolute best to keepyour eyes trainedonhisferret-faceinsteadofontheseededlineofhisscalp.

The clerk calledPeter’s case, and twobailiffs led him through a doorway.Thegallery,whichhadbeenbuzzingwithquiet conversation, fell silent.Peterdidn’tlookupasheentered;hecontinuedtostareatthegroundevenashewasshuttledintoplacebesideJordan.

JudgeIannucciscanned thepaper thathadbeenset in frontofhim.“Isee,Mr. Houghton, that you wish to waive your probable cause hearing.” At thisnews-asJordanhadexpected-therewasacollectivesighfromthemedia,allofwhomhadbeenhopingforaspectacle.

“Do you understand that I would have had the obligation today to findwhetherornottherewasprobablecausetobelievethatyoucommittedtheactsforwhichyouarecharged,andthatbywaivingtheprobablecausehearing,youarenotrequiringmetofindthatprobablecause;youwillnowbeboundovertothegrandjury,andIwillbindthiscaseovertothesuperiorcourt?”

PeterturnedtoJordan.“WasthatEnglish?”

“Sayyes,”Jordananswered.“Yes,”Peterrepeated.JudgeIannuccistaredathim.“Yes,YourHonor,”hecorrected.“Yes, Your Honor.” Peter turned to Jordan again and, under his breath,

muttered,“Thisstillsucks.”“You’reexcused,”thejudgesaid,andthebailiffsheftedPeteroutofhisseat

again.Jordanstood,givingwaytothenextdefenseattorneyforthenextcase.He

approachedDianaLevenat theprosecutor’s table, stillorganizing the filessheneverhadachancetouse.“Well,”shesaid,notbotheringtolookupathim.“Ican’tsaythatwasasurprise.”

“Whenareyougoingtosendmediscovery?”Jordanasked.“Idon’tremembergettingyourletterrequestingityet.”Shepushedpasthim,

hurryinguptheaisle.JordanmadeamentalnotetogetSelenatotypesomethingupandsend itoff to theprosecutor’soffice,a formality,butone thatheknewDianawoulduphold.Inacasethisbig,theDAfollowedeveryruletotheletter,sothatifthecaseeverwentuponappeal,procedurewouldnotbethedownfalloftheoriginalverdict.

Just outside the double doors of the courtroom, he was waylaid by theHoughtons.“Whatthehellwasthat?”Lewisdemanded.“Aren’twepayingyoutoworkincourt?”

Jordancountedtofiveunderhisbreath.“Ispokeaboutthiswithmyclient,Peter.Hegavemepermissiontowaivethehearing.”

“But you didn’t say anything,” Lacy argued. “You didn’t even give him achance.”

“Today’shearingwouldn’thavebenefitedPeter.Itwould,however,haveputyourfamilyunderthemicroscopeofeverycameraoutsidethecourthousetoday.That’sgoingtohappenanyway.Didyoureallywantittobesoonerratherthanlater?”HelookedfromLacyHoughtontoherhusband,andthenbackagain.“Ididyouafavor,”Jordansaid,andheleftthemholdingthetruthbetweenthem,astonethatgotheavierwitheverypassingmoment.

PatrickhadbeenheadingtotheprobablecausehearingforPeterHoughtonwhen he received a cell phone call that sent him screaming in the oppositedirection, toSmyth’sGunShop inPlainfield.Theownerof the store, a roundlittlemanwithatobacco-stainedbeard,wassittingoutsideonthecurb,sobbing,whenPatrickarrived.Besidehimwasapatrolofficer,whojerkedhischininthedirectionoftheopendoor.

Patricksatdownbesidetheowner.“I’mDetectiveDucharme,”hesaid.“Canyoutellmewhathappened?”

Themanshookhishead.“Itwassofast.Sheaskedtoseeapistol,aSmithandWesson.Saidshewantedtokeepitinthehouse,forprotection.SheaskedifIhadany literatureon thatmodel,andwhenI turnedmyback to findsome…she…”Heshookhisheadandwentsilent.

“Wheredidshegetthebullets?”Patrickasked.“Ididn’tsellthemtoher,”theownersaid.“Shemusthavehadtheminher

purse.”Patricknodded.“YoustayherewithOfficerRodriguez. Imighthavesome

morequestions.”Insidethegunshop,therewasasprayofbloodandbrainmatterontheright-

handwall.Themedicalexaminer,GuentherFrankenstein,wasalreadybentoverthebody,lyingsidewaysonthefloor.“Howthehelldidyougetheresofast?”Patrickasked.

Guenthershrugged.“Iwasintownatabaseballcardcollectors’show.”Patricksquattedbesidehim.“Youcollectbaseballcards?”“Well, I can’t verywell collect livers, can I?”He glanced at Patrick. “We

reallyhavetostopmeetinglikethis.”“Iwish.”“Pretty self-explanatory,”Guenther said. “She stuck the gun in hermouth

andpulledthetrigger.”Patricknoticedthepurseontheglasscounter.Herifledthroughit,findinga

box of ammunition and the Wal-Mart receipt for them. Then he opened thewoman’swallet to findher ID, justat thesame timeGuenther rolled thebodyover.

Evenwith the gunshot residue blackening her features, Patrick recognizedherbeforehesawhername.He’dspokentoYvetteHarvey;he’dbeentheonetotellherthatheronlychild-adaughterwithDownsyndrome-hadnotsurvivedtheshootingatSterlingHigh.

Indirectly,Patrickrealized,PeterHoughton’scasualtycountwasstillrising.“Justbecausesomeonecollectsgunsdoesn’tmeantheyintendtousethem,”

Petersaid,scowling.ItwasunseasonablywarmforlateMarch-afreakisheighty-fivedegrees-and

theair-conditioningatthejailwasbroken.Theinmateswerewalkingaroundintheir boxers; the guardswere all on edge. TheHVACpatrol,which had beencalled inon thepretenseofhumane incarceration,wasworking so slowly thatJordanfiguredthey’dmastertheirtradejustintimeforthesnowtostartfallingagainoutside.He’dbeensittinginasweatboxofaconferenceroomwithPeterforovertwohoursnow,andfeltasifhe’dsoakedthrougheverylastfiberofhissuit.

He wanted to quit. He wanted to go home and tell Selena that he nevershouldhavetakenthiscase,andthenhewantedtodrivewithhisfamilytotheeighteenstingymilesofbeachthatNewHampshirewasblessedwithandjumpfully clothed into the frigid Atlantic. Dying of hypothermia couldn’t be anyworsethantheslowkillDianaLevenandtheDA’sofficehadinstoreforhimincourt.

Whatever small hope Jordan had kindled by discovering a valid defense-albeitonethathadneverbeenusedbeforea judge-hadbeensteadilyerodedintheweeksfollowingthehearingbythediscoverythathadarrivedfromtheDA’soffice:stacksofpaperwork,photos,andevidence.Givenallthisinformation,itwashard to imaginea jurycaringwhyPeterhadkilled tenpeople-just thathehad.

Jordan pinched the bridge of his nose. “You were collecting guns,” herepeated.“Isupposeyoujusthappenedtobestoringthemunderyourbeduntilyoucouldgetaniceglassdisplaycase.”

“Don’tyoubelieveme?”“Peoplewhocollectgunsdonothidethem.Peoplewhocollectgunsdonot

havehitlistswithphotoscircled.”Perspiration beaded on Peter’s forehead, around the collar of his prison

uniform,andhismouthtightened.Jordanleanedforward.“Who’sthegirlthatgoterased?”“Whatgirl?”“Inthephotos.Youcircledher,andthenyouwroteLETLIVE.”Peterlookedaway.“She’sjustsomeoneIusedtoknow.”“What’shername?”“Josie Cormier.” Peter hesitated, then faced Jordan again. “She’s okay,

right?”Cormier,Jordanthought.TheonlyCormierheknewwasthejudgesittingon

Peter’scase.Itcouldn’tbe.“Why?”heasked.“Didyouhurther?”Petershookhishead.“That’saloadedquestion.”HadsomethinghappenedherethatJordandidn’tknowabout?“Wassheyourgirlfriend?”Petersmiled,butitdidn’treachhiseyes.“No.”JordanhadbeeninJudgeCormier’sdistrictcourtafewtimes.Helikedher.

Shewastough,butshewasfair.Infact,shewasthebestjudgePetercouldhavedrawnforhiscase-thealternativesuperiorcourtjusticewasJudgeWagner,whowasaveryold,prosecution-biasedjudge.JosieCormierhadnotbeenavictimof

the shooting, but that wasn’t the only scenario that would compromise JudgeCormier as the justice for the trial. Suddenly Jordan was thinking of witnesstampering,of thehundred things thatcouldgowrong.HewaswonderinghowhecouldfindoutwhatJosieCormierknewabouttheshooting,withoutanyoneelselearningthathe’dbeenlookingintoit.

HewaswonderingwhatsheknewthatmighthelpPeter’scase.“Haveyoutalkedtohersinceyou’vebeeninhere?”Jordansaid.“IfI’dtalkedtoher,wouldIbeaskingyouifshewasokay?”“Well, don’t talk to her,” Jordan instructed. “Don’t talk to anyone except

me.”“That’sliketalkingtoabrickwall,”Petermuttered.“You know, I could rattle off a thousand things I’d rather be doing than

sittingwithyouinaconferenceroomthat’sashotashell.”Peter narrowed his eyes. “Thenwhy don’t you go do some of them?You

don’tlistentoawordIsay,anyway.”“Ilistentoeveryword,Peter.Ilistentoit,andthenIthinkabouttheboxesof

evidence theDAdroppedatmydoor,allofwhichmakeyou look likeacold-blooded killer. I hear you tellme youwere collecting guns, like you’re somekindofCivilWarbuff.”

Peter flinched. “Fine. You want to know if I was going to use the guns?Yeah,Iwas.Iplannedit.Iranthroughthewholethinginmyhead.Iworkedoutthedetails, down to the last second. Iwasgoing tokill theperson Ihated themost.ButthenIdidn’tgettodoit.”

“Thosetenpeople-”“Justgotintheway,”Petersaid.“Thenwhowereyoutryingtokill?”Ontheoppositesideoftheroom,theairconditionersuddenlychokedtolife.

Peterturnedaway.“Me,”hesaid.OneYearBeforeIstilldon’tthinkthisisagoodidea,”Lewissaidasheopenedthebackdoor

ofthevan.Thedog,Dozer,waslyingonhisside,fightingtobreathe.“You heard the vet,” Lacy said, stroking the retriever’s head. Good dog.

They’dgottenhimwhenPeterwas three;now,at twelve,hiskidneyshadshutdown.Keepinghimalivewithmedicationswasonlyfortheirbenefit,nothis:itwastoohardtoimaginetheirhousewithoutthedogpaddingthroughitshalls.

“Iwasn’t talking about puttinghimdown,”Lewis clarified. “Iwas talkingaboutbringingeveryonealong.”

Theboysfelloutofthebackofthevanlikeheavystones.Theysquintedinthesunlight,hunchedtheirshoulders.TheirbroadbacksmadeLacythinkofoak

treesthattaperedtotheground;theybothhadthesamehabitofturningintheirleft footwhen theywalked. Shewished they could have seen how very aliketheywere.

“Ican’tbelieveyoudraggedushere,”Joeysaid.Peterkickedatthegravelintheparkinglot.“Thissucks.”“Language,”Lacywarned.“Andasforallofusbeinghere,Icannotbelieve

you’dbeselfishenoughtonotwanttosaygood-byetoamemberofthefamily.”“Wecouldhavesaidgood-byeathome,”Joeymuttered.Lacy put her hands on her hips. “Death is a part of life. I’d want to be

surroundedbypeople I lovewhen it’smy time, too.”Shewaited forLewis tohaulDozerintohisarms,thenclosedthehatchofthedoor.

Lacy had requested the last appointment of the day, so that the doctorwouldn’tbe rushed.Theysatalone in thewaiting room, thedogdraped likeablanket over Lewis’s legs. Joey picked up a Sports Illustratedmagazine fromthreeyears ago and started to read.Peter foldedhis arms and staredup at theceiling.

“Let’salltalkaboutourbestDozermemory,”Lacysaid.Lewissighed.“ForGod’ssake…”“Thisislame,”Joeyadded.“Forme,”Lacysaid,asiftheyhadn’tevenspoken,“itwaswhenDozerwas

apuppy,andIfoundhimonthediningroomtablewithhisheadstuckinsidetheturkey.” She stroked the dog’s head. “That was the year we had soup forThanksgiving.”

Joeyslappedthemagazinebackontheendtableandsighed.Marcia,thevet’sassistant,wasawomanwithalongbraidthatreachedpast

herhips.Lacyhaddeliveredhertwinsonsfiveyearsago.“Hi,Lacy,”shesaid,andshecamerightupandfoldedherinherarms.“Youokay?”

Thethingaboutdeath,Lacyknew,wasthatitrobbedyouofyourvocabularyforcomfort.

MarciawalkeduptoDozerandrubbedhimbehindtheears.“Didyouwanttowaitouthere?”

“Yes,”JoeymouthedtowardPeter.“We’reallcomingin,”Lacysaidfirmly.TheyfollowedMarciaintooneofthetreatmentroomsandsettledDozeron

theexaminationtable.Hescrabbledforpurchase,hisclawsclickingagainstthemetal.“That’sagoodboy,”Marciasaid.

Lewis and the boys filed into the room, standing against the wall like apolicelineup.Whenthevetwalkedin,bearinghishypodermic,theyshrankbackevenfurther.“Wouldyouliketohelpholdhim?”thevetasked.

Lacymovedforward,nodding,andsettledherarmsaroundMarcia’s.“Well,Dozer,youputupa finefight,” thevetsaid.He turned to theboys.

“Hewon’tfeelthis.”“Whatisit?”Lewisasked,staringattheneedle.“A combination of chemicals that relax the muscles and terminate nerve

transmission.Andwithoutnervetransmission,there’snothought,nofeeling,nomovement.It’sabit likedriftingoff tosleep.”Hefeltaroundforaveininthedog’sleg,whileMarciakeptDozersteady.HeinjectedthesolutionandrubbedDozer’shead.

The dog took a deeper breath, and then stopped moving. Marcia steppedaway, leavingDozer inLacy’s arms. “We’llgiveyouaminute,” she said, andsheandthevetlefttheroom.

Lacywasusedtoholdingnewlifeinherhands,notfeelingitpassfromthebodyinherarms.Itwasjustanothertransition-pregnancytobirth,childtoadult,lifetodeath-buttherewassomethingaboutlettinggoofthefamilypetthatwasevenmoredifficult,asifitweresillytohavefeelingsthisstrongforsomethingthatwasn’t human.As if admitting that you loved a dog-one thatwas alwaysunderfootandscratchingtheleatherandtrackingmudintothehouse-asmuchasyoulovedyourbiologicalchildrenwerefoolish.

Andyet.Thiswasthedogwhohadstoicallyandsilentlyallowedtwo-year-oldPeter

toridehimlikeahorsearoundtheyard.Thiswasthedogwhohadbarkedthehouse down when Joey had fallen asleep on the couch while his dinner wascooking,untiltheentireovenwasonfire.ThiswasthedogwhosatbeneaththedeskonLacy’sfeetinthedeadofwinterassheansweredemail,sharingtheheatofhispale,pinkenedbelly.

Shebent over thedog’sbody andbegan toweep-quietly, at first, and thenwithloudsobsthatmadeJoeyturnawayandLewiswince.

“Dosomething,”sheheardJoeysay,hisvoicethickandropy.She felt a handonher shoulder and assumed itwasLewis, but thenPeter

begantospeak.“Whenhewasapuppy,”Petersaid.“Thetimewewenttopickhimoutfromthelitter.Allhisbrothersandsistersweretryingtoclimboverthepen,andhewasonthetopofthestairs,andhelookedatusandtrippedandfelldownthem.”Lacyraisedherfaceandstaredathim.“That’smybestmemory,”Petersaid.

Lacyhadalwaysconsideredherselfluckytohavesomehowreceivedachildwho was not the cookie-cutter American boy, one who was sensitive andemotionalandsointunewithwhatothersfeltandthought.Sheletgoofherfist-griponthedog’sfurandopenedherarmssothatPetercouldmoveintothem.

Unlike Joey, whowas already taller than her andmoremuscular than Lewis,Peterstillfit intoherembrace.Eventhatsquarespanofhisshoulderblades-soexpansiveunderneathacottonshirt-seemedmoredelicateunderneathherhands.Unfinishedandrough-hewn,amanstillwaitingtohappen.

Ifonlyyoucouldkeepthemthatway:castinamber,nevergrowingup.AteveryschoolconcertandplayinJosie’slife,she’dhadonlyoneparentin

the audience. Her mother-to her credit-had rearranged court dates so that shecouldwatchJosiebeplaqueintheschooldentalhygieneplay,orhearherfive-note solo in theChristmaschorale.Therewereotherkidswhoalsohadsingleparents-theoneswho came fromdivorced families, for example-but Josiewastheonlypersonintheschoolwhohadnevermetherfather.Whenshewaslittleandhersecond-gradeclasswasmakingnecktiecardsforFather’sDay,shewasrelegatedtosittinginthecornerwiththegirlwhosedadhaddiedprematurelyatageforty-twoofcancer.

Like any curious kid, she’d asked her mother about this when she wasgrowing up. Josiewanted to knowwhyher parentsweren’tmarried anymore;she hadn’t expected to hear that they were never married. “He wasn’t themarrying type,” she’d told Josie, and Josie hadn’t understood why that alsomeant he wasn’t the type to send a present for his daughter’s birthday, or toinvitehertohishomeforaweekduringthesummer,ortoevencalltohearhervoice.

This year, she was supposed to be taking biology, and she was alreadynervous about the unit on genetics. Josie didn’t know if her father had browneyesorblueones; ifhehadcurlyhairor frecklesor six toes.Hermotherhadshrugged off Josie’s concerns. “Surely there’s someone in your class who’sadopted,” shesaid.“Youknowfiftypercentmoreaboutyourbackground thantheydo.”

ThisiswhatJosiehadpiecedtogetheraboutherfather:His name was Logan Rourke. He’d been a teacher at the law school her

motherhadattended.Hishairhadgonewhiteprematurely,but-hermotherassuredher-inacool,

notcreepy,way.Hewastenyearsolderthanhermother,whichmeanthewasfifty.Hehadlongfingersandplayedthepiano.Hecouldn’twhistle.Not quite enough to fill a standard biography, if you asked Josie, not that

anyoneeverbotheredto.ShewassittinginbiolabnexttoCourtney.Josieordinarilywouldnothave

pickedCourtneyasalabpartner-shewasn’tthebrightestbulbinthechandelier-

but that didn’t seem to matter. Mrs. Aracort was the teacher-adviser to thecheerleaders, andCourtneywasoneof those.Nomatterhowskimpy their labreportsturnedout,theystillalwaysmanagedtogetA’s.

Adissectedcatbrainwas sittingon the frontdesknext toMrs.Aracort. Itsmelledofformaldehydeandlookedlikeroadkill,whichwouldhavebeenbadenough,butinaddition,lastperiodhadbeenlunchtime.(“Thatthing,”Courtneyhadshuddered,“isgoingtomakemeevenmorebulimic.”)Josiewastryingnottolookatitwhilesheworkedonherclassproject:eachstudenthadbeengivenawireless-enabled Dell laptop to surf the Net for examples of humane animalresearch.SofarJosiehadcataloguedaprimatestudybeingdonebyanallergypill manufacturer, where monkeys were made asthmatic and then cured, andanotheronethatinvolvedSIDSandpuppies.

Shehit a browser buttonbymistake andgot a homepage forTheBostonGlobe.Splashedacross thescreenwaselectioncoverage: theracebetween theincumbentdistrict attorneyandhis challenger, thedeanof studentsatHarvardLawSchool,amannamedLoganRourke.

ButterfliesroseinsideJosie’schest.Therecouldn’tbemorethanone,couldthere?Shesquinted,leaningclosertothescreen,butthephotographwasgrainyandtherewasasunlightglare.“What’swrongwithyou?”Courtneywhispered.

Josieshookherheadandclosedthecoverofher laptop,as if it, too,couldholdfasttothissecret.

Heneverusedaurinal.EvenifPeterjusthadtopee,hedidn’twanttodoitstanding next to some gargantuan twelfth graderwhomightmake a commentabout,well, the fact thathewasapunyninthgrader,particularly inhisnetherregions.Instead,he’dgointoastallandclosethedoorforprivacy.

Helikedtoreadthebathroomwalls.Oneofthestallshadarunningseriesofknock-knockjokes.Othersblurtedthenamesofgirlswhogaveblowjobs.Therewas one scribble that Peter found his eye veering toward repeatedly: TREYWILKINS IS A FAGGOT. He didn’t know TreyWilkins-didn’t think he wasevenastudentatSterlingHighanymore-butPeterwondered ifTreyhadcomeintothebathroomandusedthestallstopee,too.

Peter had left English in the middle of a pop quiz on grammar. He trulydidn’t thinkthat inthegrandschemeof life, itwasgoingtomatterwhetherornot an adjectivemodified anounor averbor justdroppedoff the faceof theearth,whichiswhathewassincerelyhopingwouldhappenbeforehehadtogobacktoclass.Hehadalreadydonehisbusinessinthebathroom;nowhewasjustwasting time. Ifhe failed thisquiz, itwouldbe the second ina row. Itwasn’tevenhisparents’angerthatPeterwasworriedabout.Itwasthewaythey’dlookathim,disappointedthathehadn’tturnedoutmorelikeJoey.

Heheardthedoorofthebathroomopen,andthebusysliceofhallwaynoisethat trailed on the heels of the two kids who entered. Peter ducked down,scanningbeneaththestalldoor.Nikes.“I’msweatinglikeapig,”saidonevoice.

Thesecondkidlaughed.“That’sbecauseyou’realard-ass.”“Yeah,right.Icouldbeatyouonabasketballcourtwithonehandtiedbehind

myback.”Petercouldhearafaucetrunning,watersplashing.“Hey,you’regettingmesoaked!”“Aaaah,muchbetter,” thefirstvoicesaid.“At leastnowI’mnotsweating.

Hey,checkoutmyhair.IlooklikeAlfalfa.”“Who?”“Whatareyou, retarded?Thekid from theLittleRascalswith thecowlick

thingonthebackofhishead.”“Actually,youlooklikeatotalfag…”“Youknow…”Morelaughter.“IdosortoflooklikePeter.”AssoonasPeterheardhisname,hisheart thumpedhard.Heslidopenthe

boltinthestalldoorandsteppedoutside.Standinginfrontofthebankofsinkswasafootballplayerheknewonlybysight,andhisownbrother.Joey’shairwasdrippingwet,standinguponthebackofhisheadthewayPeter’ssometimesdid,evenwhenhetriedtoslickitdownwithhismother’shairgel.

Joeyflickedaglancehisway.“Getlost,freak,”heordered,andPeterhurriedout of the bathroom, wondering if that was even possible when you’d beenmissingmostofyourlife.

The twomen standing in frontofAlex’sbench sharedaduplex,buthatedeachother.ArlissUndergrootwasaSheetrockinstallerwithtattoosupanddownbotharms,ashavedhead,andenoughpiercingsinhisheadtohavesetoff themetaldetectorsatthecourthouse.RodneyEakeswasaveganbanktellerwithaprizedrecordcollectionoforiginalcastrecordingsfromBroadwayshows.Arlisslived downstairs, Rodney lived upstairs. A few months back, Rodney hadbroughthomeabaleofhay,planningtouseitformulchinghisorganicgarden,buthenevergotaroundtoitandthehaybaleremainedonArliss’sporch.ArlissaskedRodney toget ridof thehay,butRodneyhadn’tmovedfastenough.Soonenight,Arlissandhisgirlfriendcutthetwineandspreadthehayoutoverthefrontlawn.

Rodney called the police, and they had actually arrested Arliss on thegroundsofcriminalmischief:legalspeakfordestroyingabaleofhay.

“Why are the taxpayers ofNewHampshire shelling outmoney for a caselikethistobetriedincourt?”Alexasked.

Thepoliceprosecutorshrugged.“TheChiefaskedmetopursueit,”hesaid,

butthenherolledhiseyes.He had already proven thatArliss had taken the bale of hay and spread it

overthelawn-theburdenofprooffulfilled.ButaconvictioninthiscasewouldmeanArlisswouldhaveacriminalrecordfortherestofhislife.

Hemighthavebeenalousyneighbor,buthedidn’tdeservethat.Alexturnedtotheprosecutor.“Howmuchdidthevictimpayforthatbaleof

hay?”“Fourdollars,YourHonor.”Thenshefacedthedefendant.“Doyouhavefourdollarswithyoutoday?”Arlissnodded.“Good.Yourcaseisfiledwithoutafindingconditionaluponyourpayingthe

victim.Takefourdollarsoutofyourwalletandgiveittothepoliceofficeroverthere,whowillbringittoMr.Eakesinthebackofthecourtroom.”Sheglancedatherclerk.“We’retakingafifteen-minuterecess.”

Inchambers,Alexstrippedoffherrobeandgrabbedapackofcigarettes.Shetook the back stairs to the bottom floor of the building and lit up, inhalingdeeply.Therewere dayswhen shewas proud of her job, and then therewereothers,liketoday,whenshewonderedwhysheevenbothered.

ShefoundLiz,thegroundskeeper,rakingthelawninfrontofthecourthouse.“Ibroughtyouacigarette,”Alexsaid.

“What’swrong?”“Howdidyouknowsomethingwaswrong?”“Becauseyou’vebeenworkinghereforhowmanyyears,andyou’venever

broughtmeacigarette.”Alexleanedagainstthetree,watchingleavesasbrightasjewelscatchinthe

tinesofLiz’srake.“I justwastedthreehoursonacase thatnevershouldhavemadeittoacourthouse.Ihaveasplittingheadache.AndIranoutoftoiletpaperin thebathroominchambersandhad tocall theclerk in togetmea roll frommaintenance.”

Lizglancedupatthetreeasagustofwindsentanewscoreofleavesontotherakedgrass.“Alex,”shesaid.“CanIaskyouaquestion?”

“Sure.”“Whenwasthelasttimeyougotlaid?”Alexturned,hermouthdroppingopen.“Whatdoesthathaveto-”“Mostpeoplewhogotoworkspendtheirtimewonderinghowlongtillthey

getbackhometodowhateveritistheyreallywanttodo.Foryou,it’stheotherwayaround.”

“That’snottrue.JosieandI-”“Whatdidyoutwodoforfunthisweekend?”

Alex plucked a leaf and shredded it. In the past three years, Josie’s socialcalendar had become crammedwith phone calls and sleepovers and packs ofkidsgoingtoamovieorhangingoutinsomeone’sbasementlair.Thisweekend,Josie had gone shopping with Haley Weaver, a junior who’d just gotten herdriver’s license.Alex hadwritten two decisions and cleaned out the fruit andvegetabledrawersinherrefrigerator.

“I’msettingyouuponablinddate,”Lizsaid.There were a number of business establishments in Sterling that hired

teenagers for after-school employment. After his first summer at QuikCopy,Peter had deduced that this was because the jobs mostly sucked, and theycouldn’tfindanyoneelsetodothem.

HewasresponsibleforphotocopyingmostofthecoursematerialforSterlingCollege,whichprofessorsbroughtin.Heknewhowtoshrinkadocumentdowntoone-thirty-secondofitsoriginalsize,andhowtoaddtoner.Whencustomerspaid,helikedtoguesswhatsizebilltheyweregoingtopulloutoftheirwalletsjust by the way they dressed or wore their hair. College kids always usedtwenties. Moms with strollers whipped out a credit card. Professors usedcrumpledsingles.

Thereasonhewasworkingwasbecauseheneededanewcomputerwithabetter graphics card, so that he could do some of the gaming design he andDerekhadbeenintolately.ItneverfailedtoamazePeterhowyoucouldtakeaseeminglysenselessstringofcommandsand-magic!-itwouldbecomeaknightoraswordoracastleonthescreen.Helikedtheveryconcept:thatsomethingthe ordinary personmight dismiss as gibberish was actually vibrant and eye-catching,ifyouknewhowtolookatit.

Lastweek,whenhisbosssaidhe’dhiredanotherhighschoolstudent,Peterhadbecomesonervousthatheactuallyhadtolockhimselfinthebathroomfortwentyminutesuntilhecouldactlikeitwasnobigdeal.Asstupidandboringasthis job was, it was a haven. Peter was alone heremost of the afternoon; hedidn’thavetoworryaboutcrossingpathswiththecoolkids.

But ifMr.Cargrewwashiring someoneelse fromSterlingHigh, then thatperson knew who Peter was. And even if the kid wasn’t part of the popularcrowd, the copy center would no longer be a comfortable place. Peter wouldhave to think twice about what he said or did, because otherwise, it wouldbecomefodderforrumorsaroundschool.

To Peter’s great surprise, however, his co-worker turned out to be JosieCormier.

ShehadwalkedinbehindMr.Cargrew.“ThisisJosie,”hesaid,bywayofintroduction.“Youtwoknoweachother?”

“Sortof,”Josiehadreplied,asPeteranswered,“Yeah.”“Peterwill showyou the ropes,”Mr.Cargrew said, and then he left to go

playgolf.OccasionallywhenPeterwalkeddown thehall in school andhe sawJosie

withhernewgroupof friends,hedidn’t recognizeher.Shedresseddifferentlynow-injeansthatshowedoffherflatbellyandarainbowofT-shirtslayeredoneovertheother.Sheworemakeupthatmadehereyeslookenormous.Andalittlesad,hesometimesthought,buthedoubtedsheknewthat.

The lastmajor conversation he’d hadwith Josie had been five years ago,when theywere in sixth grade.He had been certain that the real Josiewouldcomeoutof this fogofpopularityandrealize that thepeopleshewashangingaroundwithwereaboutasscintillatingascardboardcutouts.Hewassurethatassoonastheystartedrippingonotherpeople,she’dcomebacktoPeter.OhmyGod,shewouldsay,andthey’dlaughaboutherjourneytotheunderworld.WhatwasIthinking?

ButJosienevercamecrawlingbacktohim,andthenhestartedtohangoutwithDerek from the soccer team,andby the timehewas in seventhgradehefound it really hard to believe that once, he and Josie had spent two weekscoming up with a secret handshake that no one else would ever be able toduplicate.

“So,”Josiehadsaidthatfirstday,asifshe’dnevermethimbefore,“whatdowedo?”

Theyhadbeenworking together foraweeknow.Well,not together-itwasmore like they were doing a dance punctuated with the sighs and throatygrumbles of the copiers and the shrill ring of the telephone. Mostly, if theyspoke, itwas informational:Dowehave anymore toner for the color copier?HowmuchdoIchargesomeonetoreceiveafaxhere?

Thisafternoon,Peterwasphotocopyingarticles forapsychologycourseatthe college.Every nowand then, as the pageswhipped through the automaticcollatingmachine,he’dseebrainscansofschizophrenics-brightpinkcirclesatthe frontal lobes that reproduced inshadesofgray.“What’s thatwordyouusewhenyoucallsomethingbyitsbrandnameinsteadofwhatitreallyis?”

Josiewasstaplingtogetheranotherjob.Sheshrugged.“LikeXerox,”Petersaid.“OrKleenex.”“Jell-O,”Josieansweredafteramoment.“Google.”Josieglancedup.“Band-Aid,”shesaid.“Q-tip.”She thought for a second, a grin spreading over her face. “FedEx.Wiffle

ball.”Petersmiled.“Rollerblade.Frisbee.”“Crock-Pot.”“That’snot-”“Golookitup,”Josiesaid.“Jacuzzi.Post-it.”“MagicMarker.”“Ping-Pong!”Bynowthey’dbothstoppedworking.Theywerestandingnexttoeachother,

laughing,whenthebelloverthedoorchimed.MattRoystonwalkedintothestore.HewaswearingaSterlinghockeycap-

even though the season wouldn’t start for another month, everyone knew hewouldbe tapped forvarsity,evenasa freshman.Peter-who’dbeen reveling inthemiracle thatherewas Josie, again, like sheused tobe-watchedher turn toMatt.Her cheeks pinkened; her eyes leaped like the brightest part of a flame.“Whatareyoudoinghere?”

Heleanedagainstthecounter.“Isthathowyoutreatallyourcustomers?”“Doyouneedsomethingcopied?”Matt’smouth cocked up in a grin. “Noway. I’m an original.”He glanced

aroundthestore.“Sothisiswhereyouwork.”“No,Ijustcomehereforthefreecaviarandchampagne,”Josiejoked.Peterwatchedthisexchangefrombehindthecounter.HewaitedforJosieto

tell Matt that she was in the middle of doing something, which might notnecessarilybetrue,buttheyhadbeenhavingaconversation.Sortof.

“Whendoyougetoff?”Mattasked.“Five.”“SomeofusaregoingovertoDrew’stonighttohangout.”“Is that an invitation?” she said, and Peter noticed that when she smiled,

really hard, she had a dimple he’d never noticed before. Or maybe she justhadn’tsmiledthatwayaroundhim.

“Doyouwantittobe?”Mattanswered.Peterwalkedtowardthecounter.“Wehavetogetbacktowork,”heblurted

out.Matt’seyesflickedoverPeter.“Stoplookingatme,homo.”Josie moved so that her body was blocking Peter’s view of Matt. “What

time?”“Seven.”“I’llseeyouoverthere,”shesaid.Mattrappedhishandsagainstthecounter.“Cool,”hereplied,andhewalked

outofthestore.

“SaranWrap,”Petersaid.“Vaseline.”Josie turned to him, confused. “What? Oh. Right.” She picked up the

materialsshe’dbeenstapling,stackedafewmorepacketsontopofeachother,alignedtheiredges.

Peteraddedpapertothemachinethatwasworkingonhisjob.“Doyoulikehim?”heasked.

“Matt?Iguess.”“Notlikethat,”Petersaid.HepressedtheCopybutton,watchedthemachine

begintobirthahundredidenticalbabies.WhenJosiedidn’tanswer,hewenttostandnexttoherat thesortingtable.

Hegatheredapacketofpapersinhishandsandstapledit,thenhandedittoher.“Whatdoesitfeellike?”heasked.

“Whatdoeswhatfeellike?”Peterthoughtforamoment.“Beingatthetop.”Josie reached across him for another packet ofmaterial and fed it into the

stapler.Shedidthreeofthese,andPeterwascertainthatshewasgoingtoignorehim,but then she spoke. “Like if you takeonewrong step,” she said, “you’regoingtofall.”

When she said that, Peter could hear a note in her voice that was like alullaby.He could vividly remember sitting on Josie’s driveway in the heat ofJuly,tryingtomakeafirewithsawdust,sunlight,andhisglasses.Hecouldhearheryellingoverhershoulderastheyranhomefromschool,daringPetertocatchup.HesawafaintflushpaintherfaceandrealizedthattheJosiewhousedtobehis friend was still there, trapped inside several cocoons, like one of thoseRussiannestingdollsthathidesanotherandanother,untilyoureachtheonethatfitssnuginthepalmofyourhand.

Ifhecouldjustsomehowmakeherrememberthosethings,too.Maybebeingpopularwasn’twhathadmadeJosiestarthangingoutwithMattandCompany.Maybeitwasjustbecauseshe’dforgottenthatshelikedhangingoutwithPeter.

Fromthecornerofhiseye,helookedatJosie.Shewasbitingherlowerlip,concentratinghardongettingthestaplestraight.PeterwishedheknewhowtobeaseasyandnaturalasMatt,butallhislife,he’dalwaysseemedtolaughjustalittle too loudor too late; tobeoblivious to thefact thathewas theonebeinglaughedat.Hedidn’tknowhowtobeanyoneexceptwhohe’dalwaysbeen,sohetookadeepbreathandtoldhimselfthatnottoolongago,thathadbeengoodenoughforJosieanyway.

“Hey,” he said. “Check this out.”Hewalked into the adjoining office, theonewhereMr.Cargrewkept a picture of hiswife and kids and his computer,whichwasfirmlyoff-limitsandpassword-encoded.

JosiefollowedhimandstoodbehindthechairasPetersatdown.Hekeyedafewstrokes,andsuddenlythescreenopenedupforaccess.

“Howdidyoudothat?”Josieasked.Peter shrugged. “I’ve been playing aroundwith computers a lot. I hacked

intoCargrew’slastweek.”“Idon’tthinkweshould-”“Wait.”Peterpickedhiswaythroughthecomputeruntilhereachedawell-

hiddenfileofdownloadsandopenedupthefirstpornsite.“Isthat…adwarf?”Josiemurmured.“Andadonkey?”Petertiltedhishead.“Ithoughtitwasareallybigcat.”“Eitherway, it’s totally gross.” She shuddered. “Ugh.How am I going to

take a paycheck from that guy’s hand now?”Then she looked down at Peter.“Whatelsecanyoudowiththatcomputer?”

“Anything,”hebragged.“Like…hackintootherplaces?Schoolsandstuff?”“Sure,” Peter said, although he didn’t really know about that.Hewas just

startingtolearnaboutencryptionandhowtomakewormholesthroughit.“Whataboutfindinganaddress?”“Pieceofcake,”Peteranswered.“Whose?”“Someone totally random,” she said, and she leaned over him to type.He

couldsmellherhair-apples-andfelt thepressofhershoulderagainsthis.Peterclosedhiseyes,waitingfor lightning tostrike.Josiewaspretty,andshewasagirl,andyet…hefeltnothing.

Wasthatbecauseshewastoofamiliar-likeasister?Orbecauseshewasn’tahe?Stoplookingatme,homo.HedidnottellJosiethis,butwhenhe’dfirstfoundMr.Cargrew’spornsite,

he’d found himself staring at the guys, not the girls. Did that mean he wasattracted to them?Thenagain,he’d lookedat theanimals, too.Couldn’t it justhavebeencuriosity?Comparison,even,betweenthemenandhim?

WhatifitturnedoutthatMatt-andeveryoneelse-wasright?Josie clickedon themousea few timesuntil the screenwas filledwith an

articlefromTheBostonGlobe.“There,”shesaid,pointing.“Thatguy.”Petersquintedatthecaption.“Who’sLoganRourke?”“Who cares,” Josie said. “Someone who looks like he has an unlisted

address,anyway.”Hedid,butthen,Peterfiguredthatanyonerunningforpublicofficeprobably

was smart enough to take theirpersonal informationoutof thephonebook. Ittookhimtenminutes tofigureout thatLoganRourkehadworkedforHarvard

LawSchool,andanotherfifteentohackintothehumanresourcesfilesthere.“Ta-da,”Petersaid.“HelivesinLincoln.ConantRoad.”He looked over his shoulder and saw his smile spread, contagious, over

Josie’s face. She stared at the screen for a longmoment. “You are good,” shesaid.

Economists,itwasoftensaid,knewthepriceofeverythingandthevalueofnothing.Lewisconsideredthisasheopeneduptheenormousfileonhisofficecomputer, theWorld Values Survey. Gathered by Norwegian social scientists,herewasdatacollectedfromhundredsofthousandsofpeoplearoundtheworld-an endless array of details. Simple ones-like age, gender, birth order, weight,religion, marital status, number of children-and more complex accounts, likepolitical viewsand religious affiliations.The surveyhadevenconsidered timeallocation:howlongapersonspentatwork,howoftenhewenttochurch,howmanytimesaweekhehadsexandwithhowmanypartners.

Whatwouldhaveseemedtedioustomostpeoplewas,toLewis,likearoller-coasterride.Whenyoustartedtosortoutthepatternsindatathismassive,youdidn’t knowwhere you’d twist or turn, how steep the fall or how soaring theheights.He’dexaminedthesenumbersoftenenoughtoknowthathe’dbeabletoquickly crank out a paper for next week’s conference. It didn’t have to beperfect-the gathering was small, and his higher-ranking peers wouldn’t bepresent.Hecouldalwaystakewhateverheekedoutnowandpolishitlaterforpublicationinanacademicjournal.

Thefocusofhispaperinvolvedputtingapriceonthevariablesofhappiness.Everyonealwayssaidthatmoneyboughthappiness,buthowmuch?Didincomehaveadirectorcausaleffectonhappiness?Werehappierpeoplemoresuccessfulin their jobs, or were they given a higher wage because they were happierpeople?

Happiness wasn’t limited to one’s income, either. Was marriage morevaluable inAmerica or Europe?Did sexmatter?Why did churchgoers reporthigher levels of happiness than nonchurchgoers?Why did Scandinavians-whoscoredhighon thehappinessscale-haveoneof thehighest suicide rates in theworld?

As Lewis set about picking through the variables of the survey usingmultivariateregressionanalysisonSTATA,hethoughtaboutthevaluehe’dhaveputonthevariablesofhisownhappiness.Whatmonetarycompensationwouldhavemadeup fornothavingawoman likeLacy inhis life?FornotgettingatenuredpositionatSterlingCollege?Forhishealth?

Itdidn’tdo theaveragepersonmuchgood toknowthatmarital statuswasassociatedwitha0.07levelincreaseinhappiness(withastandarderrorof0.02

percent).Ontheotherhand,telltheAverageJoethatbeingmarriedhadthesameeffect onoverall happiness as an additional $100,000 a year, and it put thingsintoperspective.

Thesewerethefindingshe’dreachedsofar:Higher income was associated with higher happiness, but in diminishing

returns.Forexample,someonewhomade$50,000reportedbeinghappier thanthemanwith a salary of $25,000. But the incremental gain in happiness thatcamefromgettingaraisefrom$50Kto$100Kwasmuchless.

In spite of material improvements, happiness is flat over time-relativeincomemightbemoreimportantthanabsoluteincomegains.

Well-beingwasgreatestamongwomen,marriedpeople,thehighlyeducated,andthosewhoseparentsdidn’tdivorce.

Women’s happiness was declining over time, possibly because they’dreachedgreaterequalitywithmeninthelabormarket.

Blacks in the U.S. were much less happy than whites, but their lifesatisfactionwasontheupswing.

Calculations indicated that “reparation” for being unemployed would take$60,000 per year. “Reparation” for being black would take $30,000 per year.“Reparation”forbeingwidowedorseparatedwouldtake$100,000peryear.

TherewasagameLewisusedtoplaywithhimself,afterthekidswereborn,when he was feeling so ridiculously lucky that surely tragedy was bound tostrike.He’dlie inbedandforcehimself tochoosewhathewasfirstwillingtolose: hismarriage, his job, a child.Hewouldwonder howmuch aman couldtakebeforehereducedhimselftonothing.

Heclosedthedatawindowandstaredatthescreensaveronhiscomputer.Itwas a picture taken when the kids were eight and ten, at a petting zoo inConnecticut.Joeyhadhoistedhisbrotherup,piggyback,andtheyweregrinning,with a striated pink sunset in the background.Moments later, a deer (deer onsteroids,Lacyhadsaid)hadknockedJoey’sfeetoutfrombeneathhimandbothboyshadfallenanddissolvedintotears…butthatwasnotthewayLewislikedtorecallit.

Happiness wasn’t just what you reported; it was also how you chose toremember.

There was one other finding he’d catalogued: happiness was U-shaped.People were happiest when they were very young and very old. The troughcame,roughly,whenyouhityourforties.

Orinotherwords,Lewisthoughtwithrelief,thisisasbadasitgets.AlthoughJosiegotA’sinmathandlikedthesubject,itwastheonegradeshe

hadtofightfor.Numbersdidnotcomeeasilytoher,althoughshecouldreason

with logicandwrite anessaywithoutbreakinga sweat. In this, she supposed,shewaslikehermother.

Orpossiblyherfather.Mr.McCabe, their math teacher, was walking through the rows of desks,

tossinga tennisballagainst theceilingandsingingabastardizedDonMcLeansong:

“Bye,bye,what’sthevalueofpiGottafidgetwiththedigitsTillthisclasshasgoneby…Themninthgraderswereworkin’hardwithasighSayin’,Mr.McCabe,comeon,why?OhMr.McCabe,comeon,why-y-y…”Josie erased a coordinate from the graph paper in front of her. “We’re not

evenusingpi,”onekidsaid.Theteacherwhirledaroundandtossedthetennisballsothatitbouncedon

theboy’sdesk.“Andrew,I’msogladtoseeyouwokeupintimetonoticethat.”“Doesthiscountasapopquiz?”“No.MaybeIshouldgoonTV,”Mr.McCabemused.“IsthereaMathIdol?”“God,Ihopenot,”MattmutteredfromthedeskbehindJosie.Hepokedher

shoulderandshepushedherpapertotheupperleftcornerofherdesk,becausesheknewhecouldseethehomeworkanswersbetterthere.

This week they were working on graphing. In addition to a bazillionassignmentsthatmadeyoutakedataandforceitintobargraphsandcharts,eachstudent had had to create and present a graph of something near and dear tothem. Mr. McCabe left ten minutes at the end of each class period for thepresentation.Yesterday,Matt had shownoff agraphof relative ageofhockeyplayers in theNHL. Josie,whowas presenting hers tomorrow, had polled herfriendstoseeiftherewasaratiobetweenthenumberofhoursyouspentdoingyourhomeworkandyourgradepointaverage.

TodaywasPeterHoughton’sturn.Shehadseenhimcarryinghisgraphintoschool,arolled-uppieceofposterboard.“Well,lookatthat,”Mr.McCabesaid.“Turnsoutwearetalkingaboutpie.Theotherone,thatis.”

Peter’s graphwas a pie chart. It had been clearly shadedwith colors, andcomputer labels identified each section. The title at the top of the chart saidPOPULARITY.

“Wheneveryou’reready,Peter,”Mr.McCabesaid.Peterlookedalittlebitlikehewasgoingtopassout,butthen,Peteralways

lookedlikethat.SinceJosiehadstartedworkingat thecopyshop, they’dbeentalkingagain,but-byunwrittenrule-onlyoutsideofschool.Insidewasdifferent:

a fishbowl where anything you said and did was being watched by everyoneelse.

When they were kids, Peter had never seemed to notice when he wasdrawingattentionjustbybeinghimself.Likewhenhe’ddecidetospeakMartianduring recess, for example. Josie supposed that the flip side of this, theoptimisticangle,wasthatPeternevertriedtobelikeanyoneelse.Shecouldn’tlayclaimtothatherself.

Peter cleared his throat. “My graph is about status in this school. Mystatisticalsamplecamefromthetwenty-fourstudentsinthisclass.Youcanseehere”-he pointed at onewedge of the pie-“that a little less than a third of theclassarepopular.”

Shaded violet-the color of popularity-were seven wedges, each sporting adifferentclassmate’sname.TherewasMatt,andDrew.AfewgirlswhohungoutatlunchtimewithJosie.Buttheclassclownwasalsolumpedinthatgroup,Josienoticed,andthenewkidwho’dtransferredfromWashington,D.C.

“Overherearethegeeks,”Petersaid,andJosiecouldseethenamesoftheclass brain and the girl who played tuba in the marching band. “The largestgroupiswhatIcallnormal.Androughlyfivepercentareoutcasts.”

Everyonehadgrownquiet.Thiswasoneof thosemoments,Josie realized,when the guidance counselorswould get called in to give everyone a boostershotoftolerancefordifferences.ShecouldseeMr.McCabe’sbrowfurrowlikeorigamiashe tried to figureouthowto turnPeter’spresentation intoanAfterSchool Special moment; she saw Drew andMatt grinning at each other; andmostofall,shenoticedPeter,whowasblissfullyunawarethatallhellwasabouttobreakloose.

Mr.McCabeclearedhisthroat.“Youknow,Peter,maybeyouandIshould-”Matt’shandshotup.“Mr.McCabe,Ihaveaquestion.”“Matt-”“No, seriously. I can’t read that skinny piece of the pie chart. The orange

one.”“Oh,”Petersaid.“That’sabridge.Youknow.Apersonwhocanfitintomore

thanonecategory,orwhohangsoutwithdifferentkindsofpeople.LikeJosie.”He turned to her, beaming, and Josie felt everyone’s eyes on her-a hail of

arrows.Shecurledoverherdesklikeamidnightrose,lettingherhairfalloverher face. To be honest, she was used to being stared at-walk anywhere withCourtneyanditwasboundtohappen-buttherewasadifferencebetweenpeoplelookingatyoubecause theywanted tobe likeyou,andpeople lookingatyoubecauseyourmisfortunebroughtthemonerunghigher.

Attheveryleast,kidswouldrememberthatonce,Josiehadbeenanoutcast

whoused tohangoutwithPeter.Or they’dassume thatPeterhadsomeweirdcrushonher,whichwasjustsick,andshe’dneverheartheendofit.Amurmurranthroughtheclassroomlikeanelectricshock.Freak,someonewhispered,andJosieprayedprayedprayedthattheywerenottalkingabouther.

BecausetherewasaGod,thebellrang.“So,Josie,”Drewsaid.“AreyoutheTobinortheGoldenGate?”Josie tried to stuff her books into her backpack, but they scattered to the

ground,pagessplayed.“London,”JohnEberhardsnickered.“Look,she’sfallingdown.”

Bynow,someoneinhermathclasshadsurelytoldsomeoneelsedownthehallwhathadhappened.Josiewouldhearlaughterfollowingherlikeakite’stailforthatwholeday-maybeevenlonger.

She realized that someone was trying to help her pick up her books, andthen-onebeatlater-thatthissomeonewasPeter.“Don’t,”Josiesaid,holdingupahand,aforcefieldthatstoppedPeterinhistracks.“Don’tevertalktomeagain,allright?”

Inthehallway,sheturnedcornersblindlyuntilshefoundthelittlealleythatled to the wood shop. Josie had been so naïve, thinking that once shebelonged,shewasfirmlyentrenched.ButInonlyexistedbecausesomeonehaddrawna line in thesand,so thateveryoneelsewasOut;and that linechangedconstantly. You might find yourself, through no fault of your own, suddenlystandingonthewrongside.

What Peter hadn’t graphedwas how fragile popularity was. Here was theirony:shewasn’tabridgeatall;she’dcompletelycrossedovertobecomepartofhergroup.She’dexcludedotherpeopletogettowhereshesobadlywantedtobe.Whywouldthosekidseverwelcomeherback?

“Hey.”At the sound of Matt’s voice, Josie drew in a sharp breath. “Just so you

know,I’mnotfriendswithhim.”“Well,actually,he’srightaboutyou.”Josie blinked at him. She’d witnessed, firsthand, Matt’s cruelty-how he’d

shootrubberbandsatESLstudentswhodidn’tknowthewordstoreporthimtothe faculty; how he called one overweight girl theWalking Earthquake; howhe’dhideashykid’smathtextbookinordertowatchhimfreakout,thinkingitwas lost. Itwas funny then, because it hadn’t been about Josie.But being theobjectofhishumiliationfeltlikeaslap.She’dthought,mistakenly,thathangingwith the right crowd granted her immunity, but that turned out to be a joke.They’d cut you down anyway, as long as it made them seem funnier, cooler,differentfromyou.

SeeingMattwiththatgrinonhisface,asifhe’dthoughtshewasatotaljokeall along, hurt evenmore, because she’d considered him a friend.Well, to behonest,sometimesshewishedforevenmorethanthat:whenafringeofhairfelloverhiseyesandhissmilelitasslowlyasafuse,shewenttotallymonosyllabic.ButMatthadthateffectoneveryone-evenCourtney,who’dgoneoutwithhiminsixthgradefortwoweeks.

“I never thought anything the homo saidwould beworth listening to, butbridgestakeyoufromoneplacetoanother,”Mattsaid.“Andthat’swhatyoudotome.”HetookJosie’shand,presseditupagainsthischest.

His heart was beating so hard she could feel it, as if possibility weresomethingyoumightcupinyourpalm.Shelookedupathim,keepinghereyeswide open as he leaned in to kiss her, so that she would not miss a single,startlingmoment.Josiecouldtastetheheatofhimlikecinnamoncandy,thekindthatburned.

Finally,whenJosierememberedthatshehadtobreathe,shetoreawayfromMatt. She had never been so aware of every inch of her skin; even the bitshiddenunderlayersofT-shirtandsweaterhadcomealive.

“Jesus,”Mattsaid,backingaway.Shepanicked.Maybehehadjustrememberedhewaskissingagirlwhofive

minutes agohadbeena social pariah.Ormaybe she’ddone somethingwrongduringthekiss.It’snotliketherewasamanualyoucouldreadsoyou’dknowhowtodoitright.

“I’mguessI’mnotverygoodatthat,”Josiestammered.Mattraisedhisbrows.“Ifyougetmuchbetter…youmightkillme.”Josiefeltasmilestartinsideherlikeacandleflame.“Really?”Henodded.“Thatwasmyfirstkiss,”sheadmitted.When Matt touched her lower lip with his thumb, Josie could feel it

everywhere-from her fingertips to her throat to the heat between her legs.“Well,”hesaid.“It’snotgoingtobeyourlast.”

AlexwasgettingreadyinherbathroomwhenJosiewanderedin,lookingfora new razor. “What’s that?” Josie had asked, scrutinizing Alex’s face in themirrorasifitbelongedtoastranger.

“Mascara?”“Well,Iknowwhatitis,”Josiesaid.“Imeant,what’sitdoingonyou?”“MaybeIfeltlikewearingmakeup.”Josiesankdownontothelipof thebathtub,grinning.“AndmaybeI’mthe

QueenofEngland.What is it…anewphoto for some law review?”Suddenly,hereyebrowsshotup.“You’renotgoingon,like,adate,areyou?”

“Not‘like’adate,”Alexsaid,brushingonblush.“It’sanhonest-to-goodnessone.”

“Oh,mygosh.Tellmeabouthim.”“Idon’tknowanything.Lizsetmeup.”“Lizthecustodian?”“She’sagroundskeeper,”Alexsaid.“Whatever. She must have told you something about this guy.” Josie

hesitated.“Itisaguy,right?”“Josie!”“Well,it’sbeenareallylongtime.ThelastdateyouwentoutonthatIcan

rememberwasthemanwhowouldn’teatanythinggreen.”“That wasn’t the issue,” Alex said. “It was that he wouldn’t let me eat

anythinggreen.”Josiestoodupand reached fora tubeof lipstick.“This isagoodcolor for

you,”shesaid,andshesweptthetubeoverAlex’smouth.Alex and Josie were exactly the same height; looking into her daughter’s

eyes,Alexcouldseeatinyreflectionofherself.Shewonderedwhyshe’dneverdonethiswithJosie:satherdowninthebathroomandplayedwitheyeshadow,painted her toenails, curled her hair. They were memories that every othermotherofadaughterseemed tohave;onlynowwasAlex realizing that ithadbeenuptohertocreatethem.

“There,”Josiesaid,turningAlextolookinthemirror.“Whatdoyouthink?”Alexwasstaring,butnotatherself.OverhershoulderwasJosie-andforthe

first time,Alexcouldreallyseeapieceofherself inherdaughter. Itwasn’tsomuchtheshapeofthefacebuttheshineofit;notthecoloroftheeyesbutthedreamcaught like smoke in them.TherewasnoamountofexpensivemakeupthatwouldmakeherlookthewayherJosiedid;thatwassimplywhatfallinginlovedidtoaperson.

Couldyoubejealousofyourownchild?“Well,” Josie said, pattingAlex’s shoulders. “I’d ask youout for a second

date.”Thedoorbellrang.“I’mnotevendressed,”Alexsaid,panicked.“I’llstallhim.”Josiehurrieddownthestairs;asAlexshimmiedintoablack

dressandheels,shecouldhearconversationstir,riseupthestairs.Joe Urquhardt was a Canadian banker who’d been roommates with Liz’s

cousininToronto.Hewas,shehadpromised,aniceguy.Alexaskedwhy,then,ifhewassonice,hewasstillsingle.

Howwouldyouanswerthatquestion?Lizhadasked,andAlexhadtothinkforamoment.

I’mnotthatnice,she’dsaid.Shewas pleasantly surprised to see that Joewas not troll-statured, that he

hadaheadofwavybrownhairthatdidnotseemtobeattachedbydouble-sidedtape,andthathehadteeth.HewhistledwhenhesawAlex.“Allrise,”hesaid.“Andbyall,IdomeanMr.Happy.”

ThesmilefrozeonAlex’sface.“Wouldyouexcusemeforamoment?”sheasked,andshedraggedJosieintothekitchen.“Shootmenow.”

“Okay,thatwasprettyawful.Butatleastheeatsgreenfood.Iasked.”“WhatifyougooutthereandsayI’mviolentlyill?”Alexsaid.“YouandI

cangettake-out.Rentamovieorsomething.”Josie’ssmilefaded.“But,Mom,I’vealreadygotplans.”Shepeeredoutthe

doorwaytowhereJoewaswaiting.“IcouldtellMattthat-”“No,no,”Alexsaid,forcingasmile.“Oneofusoughttobehavingagood

time.”She walked out of the kitchen and found Joe holding up a candlestick,

scrutinizingthebottom.“I’mverysorry,butsomething’scomeup.”“Tellmeaboutit,babe,”Joesaid,leering.“No,ImeanthatIcan’tgoouttonight.There’sacase,”shelied.“Ihaveto

gobackintocourt.”Maybe being from Canada was what kept Joe from understanding how

incrediblyunlikely itwouldbe for court to be in sessionon aSaturdaynight.“Oh,” he said. “Well, far be it fromme to keep thosewheels of justice fromgrinding.Someothertime?”

Alex nodded, ushering him outside. She took off her heels and paddedupstairs tochange intoher rattiest sweats.Shewouldeatchocolate fordinner;shewouldwatchchickflicksuntilshewascompletelysobbedout.Asshepassedthebathroom,shecouldheartheshowerrunning-Josiegettingreadyforherowndate.

For a moment Alex stood with her hand on the door, wondering whetherJosie would welcome her if she went in and guided her in putting on hermakeup,offeredtostyleherhair-justasJosiehaddoneforher.ButforJosie,thatwasnatural-she’dspentalifetimegrabbingmomentsofAlex’stime,whenAlexwasbusypreparingforsomethingelse.Somehow,Alexhadassumedthat timewas infinite, that Josiewould alwaysbe therewaiting.Sheneverguessed thatsheherselfwouldonedaybeleftbehind.

Intheend,Alexdrewawayfromthebathroomdoorwithoutknocking, tooafraidshemighthearJosiesayshedidnotneedhermother’shelptoevenriskmakingthatinitialoffer.

The one thing that had saved Josie from total social ruin in the wake of

Peter’s math presentation was her simultaneous anointing as Matt Royston’sgirlfriend.Unlikemostof theother sophomoreswhowereoccasionalcouples-random hookups at parties, best-friend-with-benefits situations-she and Mattwereanitem.Mattwalkedhertoherclassesandoftenleftheratthedoorwithakissthateveryonewatched.AnyonestupidenoughtomentionPeterHoughton’snameinconjunctionwithJosie’shadtoanswertohim.

Everyone, that is, except for Peter himself.Atwork, he didn’t seem to beabletopickuponthecluesthatJosiegavehim-turningherbackwhenhecameintotheroom,ignoringhimwhenheaskedheraquestion.Hefinallycorneredherinthesupplyroomoneafternoon.Howcomeyou’reactinglikethis?hesaid.

BecausewhenIwasnicetoyou,youthoughtwewerefriends.Butwearefriends,hereplied.Josiehadfacedhim.Youdon’tgettodecidethat,shesaid.Oneafternoonatwork,whenJosiewentouttotheDumpsterwithaloadof

trash,Peterwasalreadythere.Itwashisfifteen-minutebreak;usuallyhewalkedacross the street and bought himself an apple juice, but today hewas leaningoverthemetallipoftheDumpster.“Move,”shesaid,andsheheftedthebagsofgarbageupandover.

Assoonastheystruckbottom,ashowerofsparksrose.Almost immediately, fire climbed up the cardboard stacked inside the

Dumpster;itroaredagainstthemetal.“Peter,getdownfromthere,”Josieyelled.Peterdidn’tmove.Theflamesdancedinfrontofhisface,theheatdistortedhisfeatures.“Peter,now!”Shereachedup,grabbinghisarm,pullinghimdowntothepavementassomething-toner?oil?-explodedinsidetheDumpster.

“Wehavetocall911,”Josiecried,andshescrambledtoherfeet.The firemen arrived in minutes, spraying some noxious chemical into the

Dumpster.JosiepagedMr.Cargrew,who’dbeenonthegolfcourse.“ThankGodyouweren’thurt,”hesaidtobothofthem.

“Josiesavedme,”Peterreplied.WhileMr.Cargrewspoketothefiremen,shewentbackintothecopyshop

withPeterfollowing.“Iknewyou’dsaveme,”Petersaid.“That’swhyIdidit.”“Didwhat?”But Peter didn’t have to answer, because Josie already knew

whyPeterhadbeenupon theDumpsterwhenhe shouldhavebeenonbreak.She knewwho’d tossed thematch, themoment he heard her exiting the backdoorwithbagsofgarbage.

Josie toldherself,evenasshepulledMr.Cargrewaside, that shewasonlydoingwhatanyresponsibleemployeewoulddo: tell thebosswhohad tried todestroyhisproperty.Shedidnot admit that shewas scaredbywhatPeterhadsaid,by the truthof it.Andshepretendednot tofeel thatsmall fanning inher

chest-asmallerversionofthefirethatPeterhadstarted-whichsheidentified,fortheveryfirsttimeinherlife,asrevenge.

WhenMr.Cargrew firedPeter, Josie didn’t listen to the conversation. Shefelthisgazeonher-hot,accusing-ashe left,butshefocusedherattentiononajob from a local bank instead. As she stared at the papers coming out of themachine,sheconsideredhowstrangeitwastomeasuresuccessbyhowcloselyeachproductresembledtheonethathadcomebefore.

Afterschool,JosiewaitedforMattattheflagpole.He’dsneakupbehindherand she’d pretend she didn’t notice him coming, until he kissed her. Peoplewatched, and Josie loved that. In away, she thought of her status as a secretidentity:now,ifshegotstraightA’sorsaidsheactuallylikedtoreadforfun,shewouldn’t be thought of as a freak, simply becausewhen people sawher, theynoticed her popularity first. It was, she figured, a little like what her motherexperiencedwherevershewent:whenyouwere the judge,noother trait reallymattered.

SometimesshehadnightmaresinwhichMattrealizedshewasafraud-thatshewasn’tbeautiful;shewasn’tcool;shewasn’tanyoneworthyofadmiration.Whatwerewe thinking? she imagined her friends saying, andmaybe for thatreason,itwassohardevenwhenshewasawaketothinkofthemasfriends.

She and Matt had plans for this weekend-important plans that she couldhardlykeeptoherself.Asshesatonthestonestepsleadinguptotheflagpole,waiting for him, she felt someone tap her on the shoulder. “You’re late,” sheaccused,grinning,andthensheturnedaroundtoseePeter.

Helookedjustasshockedasshefelt,eventhoughhe’dbeentheonetoseekherout.InthemonthssinceJosiehadgottenPeterfiredfromthecopyshop,shehadgoneoutofherwaytoavoidcomingincontactwithhim-noeasyfeat,giventhattheywereinmathclasstogethereverydayandpassedinthehallsnumeroustimes.Josiewouldalwaysmakesureshehadhernoseinabookorherattentionfirmlyfocusedonanotherconversation.

“Josie,”hesaid,“canwetalkforaminute?”Studentswerestreamingoutoftheschool;shecouldfeeltheirglancesflick

over her like a whip. Were they staring at her because of who she was, orbecauseofwhoshewaswith?

“No,”shesaidflatly.“It’sjust…IreallyneedMr.Cargrewtogivememyjobback.Iknowitwas

amistake,whatIdid.Ithoughtmaybe-maybeifyoutoldhim…”Hebrokeoff.“Helikesyou,”Petersaid.

Josiewantedtotellhimtogoaway;thatshedidn’twanttoworkwithhimagain,much less be seen having a conversationwith him.But something had

happenedduringthemonthssincePeterhadsetthatDumpsterfire.Thepaybackshe’dthoughthewasdue,afterhismath-classelegytoJosie,hadburnedinherchesteverytimeshethoughtaboutit.AndJosiehadstartedtowonderifmaybePeterhadgottenthewrongideanotbecausehewascrazy,butbecauseshe’dledhimtoit.Afterall,whennoonewasaroundatthecopyshop,they’dtalkedtoeachother,they’dlaughed.Hewasanokaykid-justnotsomeoneyouwantedtobeassociatedwith,necessarily,inpublic.Butfeelingthatwaywasdifferentthanactingonit,right?Shewasn’tlikeDrewandMattandJohn,who’dshovePeterintothewallwhentheywalkedbyhiminthehalls,orwhostolehisbrown-baglunchandplayedmonkeyinthemiddlewithit,untilitrippedandthecontentsspilledontothefloor-wasshe?

Shedidn’twant to talk toMr.Cargrew.Shedidn’twantPeter to think thatshewantedtobehisfriend,thatsheevenwantedtobehisacquaintance.

But she didn’t want to be like Matt either, whose comments to Petersometimesmadeherfeelsickinside.

Peterwassittingacrossfromher,waitingforananswer,andthensuddenlyhewasn’t.HetumbleddownthestonestepsasMattstoodoverhim.“Getawayfrommygirlfriend,homo,”Mattsaid.“Gofindanicelittleboytoplaywith.”

Peterhadlandedfacedownonthepavement.Whenheliftedhishead,hislipwasbleeding.HelookedatJosiefirst,andtohersurprise,hedidn’tseemupsetorevenangry-justtruly,deeplytired.“Matt,”Petersaid,cominguponhisknees.“Doyouhaveabigdick?”

“Wouldn’tyouliketoknow,”Mattsaid.“Not really.” Peter staggered to his feet. “I just wondered if it was long

enoughforyoutogofuckyourself.”JosiefelttheairchargebetweenthemthemomentbeforeMattwasonPeter

likeahurricane,punchinghimintheface,wrestlinghimbodilytotheground.“Youlikethis,don’tyou,”MattspatashepinnedPeterdown.

Petershookhishead,tearsstreamingdownhischeeks,streakingtheblood.“Get…off…”

“Ibetyouwishyoucould,”Mattsneered.Bynowacrowdhadgathered.Josieglancedaroundfrantically,lookingfora

teacher,but itwasafter schooland therewerenonearound.“Stop,” shecried,watchingPetersquirmawayasMattwentafterhimagain.“Matt,juststopit.”

Hepulledhisnextpunchandgottohisfeet,leavingPetercurledonhissidelikeafiddlehead.“You’reright.Whywastemytime,”Mattsaid,andhestartedwalking,waitingforJosietofallintoplacebesidehim.

Theywereheading towardhiscar. Josieknew that they’dswing into townandgrabacoffeebeforegoingbacktoherhouse.There,Josiewouldfocuson

herhomeworkuntil itbecameimpossibletoignoreMattrubbinghershouldersorkissingherneck,andthenthey’dmakeoutuntiltheyheardhermother’scarpullingintothegarage.

TherewasstillanunleashedfurytoMatt;hisfistswerecurledathissides.Josiereachedforone,unfurledhishand,threadedtheirfingerstogether.“CanIsaysomethingwithoutmakingyoumad?”sheasked.

Thiswasrhetorical,Josieknew:Mattwasalreadyangry.Itwastheflipsideto the passion thatmadeher feel as if she’dgone electric inside-just directed,negatively,atsomeoneweak.

When he didn’t answer, Josie forged ahead. “I don’t getwhy you have topickonPeterHoughton.”

“Thehomowas theonewho started it,”Matt argued. “Youheardwhat hesaid.”

“Well,yeah,”Josiesaid.“Afteryoupushedhimdownthesteps.”Mattstoppedwalking.“Sincewhendidyoubecomehisguardianangel?”Hewasstaringinawaythatcuthertothequick.Josieshivered.“I’mnot,”

shesaidquickly,andshe tookadeepbreath.“I just…Idon’t like thewayyoutreatkidswhoaren’tlikeus,allright?Justbecauseyoudon’twanttohangoutwithlosersdoesn’tmeanyouhavetotorturethem,doesit?”

“Yeah, itdoes,”Mattsaid.“Becauseif thereisn’ta them,therecan’tbeanus.”Hiseyesnarrowed.“Youshouldknowthatbetterthananyone.”

Josie feltherselfgonumb.Shedidn’tknowwhetherMattwasbringingupPeter’slittlemathchart,orworse,herhistoryasPeter’sfriendinearliergrades-butshedidn’twanttofindout,either.Thiswasherbiggestfear,afterall:thattheincrowdwouldrealizeshe’dbeenoutallthetime.

She wouldn’t tell Mr. Cargrew what Peter had said. She wouldn’t evenacknowledgehimagain, ifhecameup toher.Andshewouldn’t lie toherself,either,andpretendshewasanylessawfulthanMattwhenhemockedPeterorbeathimup.Youdidwhatyouhadto,tocementyourplaceinthepeckingorder.Andthebestwaytostayontopwastosteponsomeoneelsetogetthere.

“So,”Mattsaid,“areyoucomingwithme?”ShewonderedifPeterwasstillcrying.Ifhisnosewasbroken.Ifthatwasthe

worstofit.“Yes,”Josiesaid,andshefollowedMattwithoutlookingback.Lincoln,Massachusetts,wasasuburbofBostonthathadoncebeenfarmland

and that nowwas ahodgepodgeofmassivehomeswith ridiculouslyhigh realestatevalues. Josie staredout thewindowat the scenery thatmighthavebeenherstogrowupwith,underdifferentcircumstances:thestonewallsthatsnakedaround properties, the “historic property” badges worn by houses that were

nearlytwohundredyearsold,thesmallicecreamstandthatsmelledlikefreshmilk.ShewonderedwhetherLoganRourkewouldsuggestthattheytakearidedowntotheDairyJoyandshareasundae.Maybehewouldwalkrightuptothecounterandorderbutterpecanwithoutevenhavingtoaskherwhatherfavoriteflavorwas;maybethat’swhatafathercouldspinoutofinstinct.

Mattwasdrivinglazily,hiswristcantedoverthesteeringwheel.Justsixteen,hehadhisdriver’s licenseandwas readyandwilling togoanywhere-toget aquartofmilkforhismother,todropoffthedrycleaning,tosquireJosiehomeafter school. For him, it wasn’t the destination that was important, it was thejourney-whichwaswhyJosiehadaskedhimtotakehertoseeherfather.

Besides,itwasn’tasifshehadanalternative.Shecouldn’tverywellaskhermothertodoit,giventhathermotherdidn’tevenknowJosiehadbeenlookingforLoganRourke. She could have probably figured out how to take a bus toBoston,butreachingahomeinthesuburbswasmorecomplicatedthanthat.Sointheend,shedecidedtotellMattthewholetruth-thatshehadneverknownherfather, and that she’d found him in a newspaper, because hewas running forpublicoffice.

LoganRourke’sdrivewaywasnotasgrandioseassomeoftheothersthey’dpassed, but it was immaculate. The lawn had been trimmed to a half inch; aspray of wildflowers craned their necks around the iron base of themailbox.Hangingfromatreebranchoverheadwasthehousenumber:59.

Josiefeltthehairstanduponthebackofherneck.Whenshe’dbeenonthefieldhockeyteamlastyear,thathadbeenherjerseynumber.

Itwasasign.Mattpulledintothedriveway.Thereweretwocars-aLexusandaJeep-and

alsoatoddler’sride-onfiretruck.Josiecouldnottakehereyesoffit.Somehow,shehadn’t imagined thatLoganRourkemight haveother children. “Youwantmetocomeinwithyou?”Mattasked.

Josieshookherhead.“I’mokay.”Asshewalkeduptothefrontdoor,shebegantowonderwhatonearthshe’d

beenthinking.Youcouldn’tjustdropinonsomeguywhowasapublicfigure,couldyou?SurelytherewouldbeaSecretServiceagentorsomething;anattackdog.

Asifshe’dcuedit,abarkrangout.JosieturnedinthedirectionofthesoundtofindatinylittleYorkiewithapinkbowonitsheadmakingabeelineforherfeet.

Thefrontdooropened.“Titania,leavethepostmanal-”LoganRourkebrokeoffwhenhenoticedJosiestandinginfrontofhim.“You’renotthepostman.”

He was taller than she’d imagined, and he looked just like he did in the

Globe-whitehair,Romannose,rangybuild.Buthiseyeswerethesamecolorashers,soelectricthatJosiecouldn’tlookaway.Shewonderedifthishadbeenhermother’sdownfall,too.

“You’reAlex’sdaughter,”hesaid.“Well,”Josiereplied.“Andyours.”Throughtheopendoorway,Josieheardtheshriekofachildstilldizzyand

delightedfrombeingchased.Awoman’svoice:“Logan,whoisit?”HereachedbackandclosedthedoorsothatJosiecouldn’tseeintohis life

any more. He looked incredibly uncomfortable, although in all fairness Josieimagined it was a little off-putting to be confronted by the daughter you’dabandonedbeforebirth.“Whatareyoudoinghere?”

Wasn’t that obvious? “Iwanted tomeet you. I thought youmightwant tomeetme.”

Hedrewadeepbreath.“Thisreallyisn’tagoodtime.”Josie glanced back at the driveway, where Matt was still parked. “I can

wait.”“Look…it’s just that…I’m running forpoliticaloffice.Rightnow, this is a

complicationIcan’tafford-”Josietrippedoverthatoneword.Shewasacomplication?ShewatchedLoganRourketakeouthiswalletandpeelthreehundred-dollar

billsawayfromtherest.“Here,”hesaid,pushingitintoherhand.“Willthisdoit?”

Josietriedtobreathe,butsomeonehaddrivenastakethroughherchest.Sherealizedthatthiswasbloodmoney;thatherownfatherthoughtshe’dcomeheretoblackmailhim.

“Aftertheelection,”hesaid,“maybewecouldhavelunch.”Thebillswerecrispinherpalm,thekindthathadjustcomeintocirculation.

Josiehadasuddenmemoryofbeinglittleandaccompanyinghermothertothebank:howhermotherwould lethercount the twenties tomakesure the tellerhadgottenthewithdrawalamountright;howfreshmoneyalwayssmelledofinkandgoodfortune.

LoganRourkewasn’therfather,notanymorethantheguywho’dtakentheircoinsatthetollboothoranyotherstranger.YoucouldshareDNAwithsomeoneandstillhavenothingincommonwiththem.

Josie realized, fleetingly, that she had already learned that lesson fromhermother.

“Well,” Logan Rourke said, and he started toward the door again. Hehesitatedwithhishandontheknob.“I…Idon’tknowyourname.”

Josieswallowed.“Margaret,”shesaid,sothatshewouldbejustasmuchofa

lietohimashewastoher.“Margaret,then,”heanswered,andheslippedbackinside.On theway to thecar,Josieopenedher fingers likea flower.Shewatched

thebillsfalltothegroundnearaplantthatlooked,likeeverythingelsehere,asifitwasthriving.

Honestly,thewholeideaforthegamecametoPeterwhenhewasasleep.He’d created computer games before-Pong replicates, racing courses, and

evenonesci-fiscenariothatletyouplayonlinewithsomeoneinanothercountryiftheyloggedontothesite-butthiswasthebiggestideahe’dconceivedofyet.Itcameaboutbecause,afteroneofJoey’sfootballgames,they’dstoppedoffatapizzaplacewherePeterhadeatenwaytoomuchmeatballandsausagepizza,andhadbeenstaringatanarcadegamecalledDEERHUNT.Youputinyourquarterand shot your fake rifle at the bucks that poked their heads out from behindtrees;ifyouhitadoe,youlost.

ThatnightPeterdreamedabouthuntingwithhisfather,butinsteadofgoingafterdeer,theywerelookingforrealpeople.

He had awakened in a sweat, his hand cramped as if he’d been holding agun.

It wouldn’t be all that hard to create avatars-computerized personas. He’ddonesomeexperimenting,andeveniftheskintonewasn’trightandthegraphicsweren’tperfect,heknewhowtodifferentiatebetweenracesandhaircolorandbuild through programming language. It might be kind of cool to do a gamewherethepreywashuman.

But war games were old hat, and even gangs had been totally overdone,thankstoGrandTheftAuto.Whatheneeded,Peterrealized,wasanewvillain,onethatotherpeoplewouldwanttogundown,too.Thatwasthejoyofavideogame:watchingsomeonewhodeserveditgettinghiscomeuppance.

He tried to think of other microcosms of the universe that might bebattlegrounds: alien invasions,WildWest shootouts, spymissions. Then Peterthoughtaboutthefrontlinehebravedeveryday.

Whatifyoutooktheprey…andmadethemthehunters?Peter got out of bed and sat down at his desk, pulling his eighth-grade

yearbook from the drawer where he’d banished it months ago. He’d create acomputergamethatwasRevengeoftheNerds,butupdatedforthetwenty-firstcentury.A fantasyworldwhere the balance of powerwas turned on its head,wheretheunderdogfinallygotachancetobeatthebullies.

Hetookamarkerandstartedtolookthroughtheyearbook,circlingportraits.DrewGirard.MattRoyston.

JohnEberhard.Peter turned the page and stopped for a moment. Then he circled Josie

Cormier’sface,too.“Canyoustophere?”Josiesaid,whenshereallydidn’tthinkshewasgoing

to be able to spend another minute riding in the car and pretending that hermeetingwith her father hadgonewell.Matt hadbarely pulled overwhen sheopenedthedoor,flewthroughthehighgrassintothewoodsat theedgeof theroad.

Shesankdownonthecarpetofpineneedlesandstartedtocry.Whatshe’dbeenexpecting,shereallycouldn’tsay-exceptthatthiswasn’tit.Unconditionalacceptance,maybe.Curiosity,attheveryleast.

“Josie?”Mattsaid,comingupbehindher.“Youokay?”Shetriedtosayyes,butshewassosickoflying.ShefeltMatt’shandstroke

herhair,andthatonlymadehercryharder;tendernesscutassharpasanyknife.“Hedidn’tgiveashitaboutme.”

“Thenyoushouldn’tgiveashitabouthim,”Mattanswered.Josieglancedupathim.“It’snotthatsimple.”Hepulledherintohisarms.“Aw,Jo.”Matt was the only one who’d ever given her a nickname. She couldn’t

rememberhermothercallingheranythingsilly, likePumpkinorLadybug, theway other parents did. When Matt called her Jo, it reminded her of LittleWomen,andalthoughshewasprettysureMatthadneverreadtheAlcottnovel,secretlyshewaspleasedtobeassociatedwithacharactersostrongandsureofherself.

“It’sstupid.Idon’tevenknowwhyI’mcrying.Ijust…Iwantedhimtolikeme.”

“I’mcrazyaboutyou,”Mattsaid.“Doesthatcount?”Heleanedforwardandkissedher,rightonthetrailofhertears.

“Itcountsalot.”ShefeltMatt’slipsmovefromhercheektohernecktothespotbehindher

ear that always made her feel like she was dissolving. She was a novice atfoolingaround,butMatthadcoaxedherfurtherandfurthereachtimetheywerealone.It’syourfault,he’dsay,andgiveherthatsmile.Ifyouweren’t thishot,I’dbeable tokeepmyhandsoffyou.Thatalonewasanaphrodisiac to Josie.Her?Hot?And-justasMatthadpromisedeverytime-itdidfeelgoodtolethimtouchhereverywhere,tolethimtasteher.EveryincrementalintimacywithMattfelt as if shewere fallingoffacliff-that lossofbreath, thosebutterflies inherstomach.Onestep,andshe’dbeflying.Itdidn’toccurtoJosie,whensheleaped,thatshewasjustaslikelytofall.

NowshefelthishandsmovingunderherT-shirt,slippingbeneaththelaceofherbra.Herlegstangledwithhis;herubbedupagainsther.WhenMatttuggedup her shirt, so that the cool air feathered over her skin, she snapped back toreality.“Wecan’tdothis,”shewhispered.

Matt’steethscrapedoverhershoulder.“We’reparkedonthesideoftheroad.”Helookedupather,drugged,feverish.“ButIwantyou,”Mattsaid,likehe

hadadozentimes.Thistime,though,sheglancedup.Iwantyou.Josie could have stopped him, but she realized she did not intend to. He

wantedher,andrightnow,thatwaswhatshemostneededtohear.Therewas amomentwhenMattwent still, wondering if the fact that she

hadn’tshovedhishandsawaymeantwhathethoughtitmeant.Sheheardtheripofa foilcondompacket-Howlonghadhebeencarrying thataround?Thenhetoreathisjeansandhikedupherskirt,asifhestillexpectedhertochangehermind.JosiefeltMattpullingasidetheelasticofherunderwear, theburnofhisfingerpushinginsideher.Thiswasnothinglikethetimesbefore,whenhistouchhadleftatracklikeacometoverherskin;whenshefoundherselfachingaftershetoldhimshewantedtostop.Mattshiftedhisweightandcamedownontopofheragain,only this timetherewasmoreburning,morepressure.“Ow,”shewhimpered,andMatthesitated.

“Idon’twanttohurtyou,”hesaid.Sheturnedherheadaway.“Justdoit,”Josiesaid,andMattpushedhiships

flushagainsthers.Itwasthekindofpainthat-eventhoughshewasexpectingit-madehercryout.

Mattmistookthatforpassion.“Iknow,baby,”hegroaned.Shecouldfeelhisheartbeat,butfromtheinside,andthenhestartedtomovefaster,buckingagainstherlikeafishreleasedfromahookontoadock.

JosiewantedtoaskMattwhetherithadhurtthefirsttimehehaddoneit,too.Shewonderedifitalwayswouldhurt.Maybepainwasthepriceeveryonepaidfor love.SheturnedherfaceintoMatt’sshoulderandtriedtounderstandwhy,evenwithhimstillinsideofher,shefeltempty.

“Peter,”Mrs.SandringhamsaidattheendofEnglishclass.“CouldIseeyouforamoment?”

At the sound of his teacher’s summons, Peter sank down in his chair. Hebegan to thinkof excuseshe couldgivehisparentswhenhecamehomewithanotherfailinggrade.

HeactuallylikedMrs.Sandringham.Shewasonlyinherlatetwenties-you

could actually look at her while she was prattling on about grammar andShakespeareandimaginenotsolongago,whenshemighthavebeenslouchedinaseatlikeanyordinarykidandwonderingwhytheclockneverseemedtomove.

Peterwaiteduntiltherestoftheclasshadclearedoutbeforeheapproachedthe teacher’s desk. “I just wanted to talk to you about your essay,” Mrs.Sandringhamsaid.“Ihaven’tgradedeveryone’syet,butIdidhaveachancetolookoveryoursand-”

“Icanredoit,”Peterblurtedout.Mrs. Sandringham raised her brows. “But Peter…Iwanted to tell you that

you’regettinganA.”Shehandedittohim;Peterstaredatthebrightredgradeinthemargin.

Theassignmenthadbeentowriteaboutasignificanteventthathadchangedyour life.Although it hadhappenedonly aweek ago,Peter hadwritten aboutgettingfiredforsettingthefireintheDumpsteratwork.Init,hedidn’tmentionJosieCormieratall.

Mrs.Sandringhamhadcircledone sentence inhis conclusion: I’ve learnedyouwillgetcaught,soyouhavetothinkthingsthroughbeforeyouact.

TheteacherreachedoutandputherhandonPeter’swrist.“Youreallyhavelearnedsomethingfromthisincident,”shesaid,andshesmiledathim.“I’dtrustyouinaheartbeat.”

Peternoddedandtookthepaperfromthedesk.Heswamintothestreamofstudentsinthehallway,stillholdingit.HeimaginedwhathismotherwouldsayifhecamehomewithapaperthathadabigfatAonit-if,forjustonceinhislife,hedidsomethingeveryoneexpectedofJoey,andnotPeter.

But that would have necessitated telling his mother about the Dumpsterincidentinthefirstplace.Oradmittingthathe’dbeenfiredatall,andnowspenthisafter-schoolhoursatthelibraryinsteadofatthecopycenter.

Peter crumpled up the essay and threw it into the first trash can that hepassed.

AssoonasJosiestartedspendingherfreetimealmostexclusivelywithMatt,Maddie Shaw had seamlessly slipped into the position of being Courtney’ssidekick.Inaway,shefitbetterthanJosieeverhad:ifyouwerewalkingbehindCourtneyandMaddie,youwouldn’tbeabletotellwhowaswho;Maddiehadsoclosely cultivated the style and movement of Courtney that she’d elevated itfromimitationtoart.

Tonightthey’dgatheredatMaddie’shousebecauseherparentshadgonetovisitherolderbrother, a sophomoreatSyracuse.Theyweren’tdrinking-itwashockeyseason,andtheplayershadtosignacontractwiththecoach-butDrewGirard had rented the uncut version of a teen sex comedy, and the guyswere

discussingwhowashotter,ElishaCuthbert orShannonElizabeth. “Iwouldn’tthroweitherofthemoutofbed,”Drewsaid.

“What makes you think they’d get in in the first place?” John Eberhardlaughed.

“Myreputationreachesfarandwide…”Courtneysmirked.“It’stheonlypartofyouthatdoes.”“Aw,Court,youwishyouknewthatforsure.”“Ornot…”Josie was sitting on the floor withMaddie, trying tomake a Ouija board

work.They’d found it in the basement closet, alongwithChutes andLaddersandTrivialPursuit.Josie’sfingertipsrestedlightlyontheplanchette.“Areyoupushingit?”

“SweartoGod,no,”Maddiesaid.“Areyou?”Josieshookherhead.Shewonderedwhatkindofghostwouldcometohang

outatateenageparty.Someonewho’ddiedtragically,ofcourse,andtooyoung-inacarcrash,maybe.“What’syourname?”Josiesaidloudly.

TheplanchetteswiveledtotheletterA,andthenB,andthenstopped.“Abe,”Maddieannounced.“Itmustbe.”“OrAbby.”“Areyoumaleorfemale?”Maddieasked.The planchette slipped off the edge of the board entirely. Drew started to

laugh.“Maybeit’sgay.”“Takesonetoknowone,”Johnsaid.Mattyawnedandstretched,hisshirtridingup.AlthoughJosie’sbackwasto

him,shecouldpracticallysensethis,soattunedweretheirbodies.“Asthrillinglyfunasthishasbeen,we’reoutofhere.Jo,comeon.”

Josiewatched theplanchettespelloutaword:N-O.“I’mnot leaving,”shesaid.“I’mhavingfun.”

“Meow,”Drewsaid.“Who’spussy-whipped?”Since they’d starteddating,Matt spentmore timewith Josie thanwithhis

friends.AndalthoughMatthadtoldherhe’dmuchratherfoolaroundwithherthanbeinthecompanyoffools,Josieknewitwasstillimportanttohimtohavethe respect ofDrew and John.But that didn’tmean he had to treat her like aslave,didit?

“Isaidwe’releaving,”Mattrepeated.Josieglancedupathim.“AndIsaidI’llcomewhenIwanttocome.”Matt smiledathis friends, smug.“Younevercame inyour lifebeforeyou

metme,”hesaid.Drew and John burst out laughing, and Josie felt herself flush with

embarrassment.Shestood,avertinghereyes,andranupthebasementstairs.IntheentrywayofMaddie’shouseshegrabbedherjacket.Whensheheard

footstepsbehindher,Josiedidn’teventurnaround.“Iwashavingfun.So-”ShebrokeoffwithasmallcryasMattgrabbedherarmhardandspunher

around,pinningherupagainstthewallbyhershoulders.“You’rehurtingme-”“Don’teverdothattomeagain.”“You’retheonewho-”“Youmademelooklikeanidiot,”Mattsaid.“Itoldyouitwastimetogo.”Bruisesbloomedonherskinwhereheheldherfast,asifshewereacanvas

and he was determined to leave his mark. She went limp beneath his hands:instinct,asurrender.“I…I’msorry,”shewhispered.

Thewordswereakey-Matt’sgriprelaxed.“Jo,”hesighed,andherestedhisforeheadagainsthers.“Idon’tlikesharingyou.Youcan’tblamemeforthat.”

Josieshookherhead,butshestilldidn’ttrustherselftospeak.“It’sjustthatIloveyousomuch.”Sheblinked.“Youdo?”Hehadn’tsaidthosewordsyet,andshehadn’tsaidthemeither,eventhough

she felt them, because if he didn’t say them back then Josie was sure she’dsimplyevaporateonthespotfromsheerhumiliation.ButherewasMatt,sayinghelovedher,first.

“Isn’tthatobvious?”hesaid,andhetookherhand,broughtittohislips,andkissed theknuckles sogently that Josiealmost forgotall thathadhappened togetthemtothatmoment.

“KentuckyFriedPeople,”Petersaid,mullingDerek’sideawhiletheysatonthe sidelines in gym class, as the teams for basketball were being picked. “Idon’tknow…doesn’titseemalittle…”

“Graphic?”Dereksaid.“Sincewhenwereyouaimingforpoliticallycorrect?See,imagineifyoucouldgototheartroom,ifyouhadenoughpoints,andusethekilnasaweapon.”

DerekhadbeenroadtestingPeter’snewcomputergame,pointingoutroomforimprovementandflawsinthedesign.Theyknewtheyhadplentyoftimeforconversation,sincetheywereboundtobethelastkidschosenforteams.

Coach Spears had chosen Drew Girard and Matt Royston to be teamcaptains-a huge surprise, not-they were varsity athletes, even as sophomores.“Lookalive,people,”Coachcalledout.“Youwantyourcaptainstothinkyou’rehungrytoplay.Youwantthemtothinkyou’rethenextMichaelJordan.”

Drewpointedtoaboyintheback.“Noah.”Mattnoddedtothekidwho’dbeensittingnexttohim.“Charlie.”Peter turned toDerek. “I heard that even thoughMichael Jordan’s retired,

he’sstillgettingfortymilliondollarsinendorsements.”“Thatmeanshemakes$109,589aday,fornotworking,”Derekfigured.“Ash,”Drewcalledout.“Robbie,”Mattsaid.Peter leanedcloser toDerek. “Ifhegoes to seeamovie, it’ll costhim ten

bucks,buthe’llmake$9,132whilehe’sthere.”Derekgrinned.“Ifhehard-boilsaneggforfiveminutes,he’llmake$380.”“Stu.”“Freddie.”“O-boy.”“Walt.”Bynowtherewereonlythreekidslefttobepickedforteams:Derek,Peter,

andRoyce,whohadaggressionissuesandcamecompletewithhisownaide.“Royce,”Mattsaid.“Hemakes$4,560.85more thanhewouldworkingatMcDonald’s,”Derek

added.Drew scrutinizedPeter andDerek. “Hemakes $2,283watching a rerun of

Friends,”Petersaid.“If he wanted to save up for a newMaserati, it would take him a whole

twenty-onehours,”Dereksaid.“Damn,IwishIcouldplaybasketball.”“Derek,”Drewpicked.Derek started to standup. “Yeah,”Peter said, “but even ifMichael Jordan

savedahundredpercentofhisincomeforthenextfourhundredandfiftyyears,hestillwouldn’thaveasmuchasBillGateshasrightthissecond.”

“Allright,”Mattsaid,“I’lltakethehomo.”PetershuffledtowardthebackofMatt’steam.“Yououghttobegoodatthis

game,Peter,”Mattsaid,loudenoughsothateveryoneelsecouldhear.“Justkeepyourhandsontheballs.”

Peter leaned against a floormat that had been strung on thewall, like theinsideofaninsaneasylum.Arubberroom,whereallhellcouldbreakloose.

Hesortofwishedhewasassureofwhohewasaseveryoneelseseemedtobe.

“Allright,”CoachSpearssaid.“Let’splay.”ThefirsticestormoftheseasonarrivedbeforeThanksgiving.Itstartedafter

midnight, wind rattling the old bones of the house and pellets drumming thewindows.Thepowerwentout,butAlexhadbeenexpectingthat.Shewokeupwith a start at the absolute silence that came with a loss of technology, andreachedfortheflashlightthatshe’dputnexttoherbed.

Therewerecandles,too.Alexlittwocandlesandwatchedhershadow,larger

thanlife,creepalongthewall.ShecouldremembernightslikethiswhenJosiewas little, when they’d crawl into bed together and Josie would fall asleepcrossingherfingersthattherewouldnotbeschoolinthemorning.

Howcomegrown-upsnevergot thatkindofholiday?Even if therewasn’tschooltomorrow-whichtherewouldn’tbe,ifAlexwasguessingcorrectly-evenifthewindwasstillhowlingasiftheearthwereinpainandtheicewascakedonher windshield wipers, Alex would be expected to show up in court. Yogaclassesandbasketballgamesandtheaterperformanceswouldbepostponed,butnooneevercanceledreallife.

Thedoor to thebedroomflewopen. Josie stood there in awifebeater tankand a pair of boy’s boxers-Alex had no idea where she’d gotten them, andprayed they didn’t belong toMattRoyston. For amoment,Alex could barelyreconcilethisyoungwomanwithhercurvesandlonghairwiththedaughtershestill expected, a little girl with an unraveling braid, wearingWonderWomanpajamas.Shetossedbackthecoversononesideofthebed,aninvitation.

Josiedoveunderneaththem,yankingtheblanketsuptoherchin.“It’sfreakyoutthere,”shesaid.“It’slikethesky’sfallingdown.”

“I’dbemoreworriedabouttheroads.”“Doyouthinkwe’llhaveasnowdaytomorrow?”Alexsmiled in thedark.Josiemayhavebeenolder,butherprioritieswere

stillthesame.“Mostlikely.”Withacontentedsigh,Josiefloppeddownonherpillow.“IwonderifMatt

andIcouldgoskiingsomewhere.”“You’renotleavingthishouseiftheroadsarebad.”“Youwill.”“Idon’thaveachoice,”Alexsaid.Josie turned to her, her eyes reflecting the candlelight. “Everyone has a

choice,”shesaid.Shecameuponanelbow.“CanIaskyousomething?”“Sure.”“Whydidn’tyoumarryLoganRourke?”Alex felt as if she’d been thrust out into the storm, naked; she was that

unpreparedforJosie’squestion.“Wheredidthiscomefrom?”“What was it about him that wasn’t good enough? You told me he was

handsomeandsmart.Andyouhadtolovehim,atleastatonepoint…”“Josie, this is ancient history-and it’s stuff you shouldn’t worry about,

becauseithasnothingtodowithyou.”“Ithaseverythingtodowithme,”Josiesaid.“I’mhalfhim.”Alexstaredupattheceiling.Maybetheskywasfallingdown;maybethat’s

whathappenedwhenyouthoughtyoursmokeandmirrorswouldcreatealasting

illusion.“Hewasallofthosethings,”Alexsaidquietly.“Itwasn’thimatall.Itwasme.”

“Andthentherewasthewholemarriedpart.”Shesatupinbed.“Howdidyoufindout?”“It’salloverthepapers,nowthathe’srunningforoffice.Youdon’thaveto

bearocketscientist.”“Didyoucallhim?”Josielookedherintheeye.“No.”TherewasapartofAlexthatwishedJosiehadtalkedtohim-toseewhether

he’d followedAlex’s career, if he’d even asked about her. The act of leavingLogan, which had seemed so righteous on behalf of her unborn baby, nowseemedselfish.Whyhadn’tshetalkedtoJosieaboutthisbefore?

Because she’d been protecting Logan. Josie may have grown up withoutknowingher father,butwasn’t thatbetter than learninghe’dwantedyou tobeaborted?Onemore lie,Alex thought, just a little one. Just to keep Josie frombeing hurt. “He wouldn’t leave his wife.” Alex glanced sideways at Josie. “Icouldn’tmakemyselfsmallenoughtofitintothespacehewantedmetofitinto,inordertobepartofhislife.Doesthatmakesense?”

“Iguess.”Beneaththecovers,AlexreachedforJosie’shand.Itwasthekindofaction

thatwouldhaveseemedforced,haditbeeninvisiblesight-somethingtooopenlyemotionalforeitherofthemtolayclaimto-buthere,inthedark,withtheworldtunnelinginaroundthem,itseemedperfectlynatural.“I’msorry,”shesaid.

“Forwhat?”“For not giving you the choice of having him around when you were

growingup.”Josieshruggedandpulledherhandaway.“Youdidtherightthing.”“Idon’tknow,”Alex sighed. “The right thing setsyouup tobe incredibly

lonely, sometimes.” Suddenly she turned to Josie, stretching a bright smile onherface.“Whyareweeventalkingaboutthis?Unlikeme,you’reluckyinlove,right?”

Justthen,thepowercamebackon.Downstairs,themicrowavebeepedtobereset;thelightinthebathroomspilledyellowdownthehallway.“IguessI’llgobacktomyownbed,”Josiesaid.

“Oh.Allright,”Alexanswered,whenwhatshemeanttosaywasthatJosiewaswelcometostayrightwhereshewas.

As Josie padded down the hallway, Alex reached over to reset her alarmclock.Itblinked12:0012:0012:00inpanickedLED,likeCinderella’sred-flagreminderthatfairy-taleendingsarehardtocomeby.

ToPeter’ssurprise,thebouncerattheFrontRunnerdidn’tevenglanceathisfakeID,sobeforehehadtimetothinktwiceaboutthefactthathewasactually,finallyhere,hewaspushedinside.

Hewashit in the facewith a blast of smoke, and it tookhimaminute toadjust to the dim light.Music filled in all the spaces between people, techno-dance stuff thatwas so loud itmade Peter’s eardrums pulse. Two tallwomenwere flanking the front door, checking out the new entrants. It took Peter asecondglancetorealizethatonehadtheshadowofabeardonherface.Hisface.Theotherone lookedmore likeagirl thanmostgirlshe’dever seen,but thenagain, Peter had never seen a transvestite up close. Maybe they wereperfectionists.

Men were standing in groups of two or three, except for the ones thatperchedlikehawksonabalconyoverlookingthedancefloor.Thereweremeninleatherchaps,menkissingothermeninthecorners,menpassingjoints.Mirrorsoneverywallmadetheclublookhuge,itsroomsendless.

Ithadn’tbeenhardtofindoutabouttheFrontRunner,thankstoInternetchatrooms. Since Peter was still taking driver’s ed, he had to take a bus toManchesterandthenataxitotheclub’sfrontdoor.Hestillwasn’tsurewhyhewas there-itwas likeananthropologyexperiment, inhismind.See ifhe fit inwiththissociety,insteadofhisown.

Itwasn’tthathewantedtofoolaroundwithaguy-notyet,anyway.Hejustwanted toknowwhat itwas like tobeamongguyswhoweregay,and totallyokaywithit.Hewantedtoknowiftheycouldlookathimandknow,instantly,thatPeterbelonged.

Hestoppedinfrontofacouplethatwasgoingatitinadarkcorner.Seeingaguykissaguywasstrangeinreallife.Sure,thereweregaykissesontelevisionshows-BigMomentsthatusuallywerecontroversialenoughtogetpress,sothatPeterknewwhentheywereairing-andhe’dsometimeswatchthemtoseeifhefeltanything,watchingthem.Buttheywereacted,justlikeregularhookupsonTVshows…unlikethedisplayinfrontofhiseyesrightnow.Hewaitedtoseeifhisheartstartedpoundingalittleharder,ifitmadesensetohim.

Hedidn’tfeelparticularlyexcited,though.Curious,sure-didabeardscratchyouwhenyouweremakingout?-andnotrepulsed,butPetercouldn’tsayhefeltwithanygreatconvictionthatthatwassomethinghewantedtotry,too.

Themenbrokeawayfromeachother,andoneof themnarrowedhiseyes.“Thisain’tnopeepshow,”hesaid,andheshovedPeteraway.

Peterstumbled,fallingagainstsomeonesittingatthebar.“Whoa,”themansaid,andthenhiseyeslitup.“Whathavewehere?”

“Sorry…”

“Don’tbe.”Hewasinhisearlytwenties,withwhite-blondcrew-cuthairandnicotinestainsonhisfingertips.“Firsttimehere?”

Peterturnedtohim.“Howcanyoutell?”“You’vegot that deer-in-the-headlights look.”He stubbedout his cigarette

andsummonedthebartender,who,Peternoticed,lookedlikehe’dwalkedoutofthepagesofamagazine.“Rico,getmyyoungfriendhereadrink.Whatwouldyoulike?”

Peterswallowed.“Pepsi?”Theman’steethflashed.“Yeah,right.”“Idon’tdrink.”“Ah,”hesaid.“Here,then.”HehandedapairofsmalltubestoPeter,andthentooktwoforhimselfoutof

hispocket.Therewasnopowder in them-justair.Peterwatchedhimopen thetop, inhale deeply, then do the samewith the second vial in his other nostril.Mimickingthis,Peterfelthisheadspin,liketheonetimehe’ddrunkasix-packwhenhisparentshadgoneofftowatchJoeyplayfootball.Butunlikethen,whenhe’donlywantedtofallasleepafterward,Peternowfelteverycellofhisbodybuzzing,wideawake.

“Myname’sKurt,”themansaid,holdingouthishand.“Peter.”“Bottomortop?”Petershrugged,tryingtolooklikeheknewwhattheguywastalkingabout,

wheninfacthehadnoclue.“MyGod,”Kurtsaid,hisjawdropping.“Newblood.”The bartender set a Pepsi down in front of Peter. “Leave him alone,Kurt.

He’sjustakid.”“Thenmaybeweshouldplayagame,”Kurtsaid.“Youlikepool?”AgameofpoolPetercouldtotallyhandle.“Thatwouldbegreat.”HewatchedKurtpeelatwentyoutofhiswalletandleaveitbehindforRico.

“Keepthechange,”hesaid.Thepoolroomwasadjacenttothemainpartoftheclub,fourtablesthatwere

alreadyengagedinvariousstagesofplay.Petersatdownonabenchalongthewall,studyingpeople.Someweretouchingeachother-anarmontheshoulder,apat on the rear-but most were just acting like a bunch of guys. Like friendswould.

Kurttookahandfulofquartersoutofhispocketandputthemdownonthelipofthetable.Thinkingthatthiswasthepottheywouldbeplayingfor,Peterpulledtwocrumpleddollarsoutofhisjacket.“It’snotabet,”Kurtlaughed.“It’swhatyoupaytoplay.”Hestoodupasthegroupinfrontof themsankthelast

ball, and started feeding the quarters to the table, until it released a colorfultorrentofstripesandsolids.

Peterpickedacueoffthewallandrubbedchalkoverthetip.Hewasn’tgreatatpool,buthe’dplayedacoupleof timesbefore,andhehadn’tdoneanythingtotallystupid,likescratchandmaketheballjumpofftheedgeofthetable.“Soyou’reabettingman,”Kurtsaid.“Thatcouldmakethisinteresting.”

“I’llputdownfivebucks,”Petersaid,hopingthatmadehimsoundolder.“Idon’tbetformoney.HowaboutifIwin,Igettotakeyouhome.Andif

youwin,yougettotakemehome.”Peterdidn’treallyseehowhecouldwineitherway,sincehedidn’twantto

gohomewithKurtandhesureashellwasn’tbringingKurthomewithhim.Heputthecuedownontheedgeofthetable.“IguessIdon’treallyfeellikeplayingafterall.”

KurtgrabbedPeter’sarm.Hiseyesweretoobrightinhisface,likesmall,hotstars.“Myquartersarealreadyinthere.It’sallrackedup.Youwantedtoplaythegame…thatmeansyou’vegottofinishit.”

“Letmego,”Petersaid,hisvoiceclimbinghigheronaladderofpanic.Kurtsmiled.“Butwe’rejustgettingstarted.”BehindPeter,anothermanspoke.“Ithinkyouheardtheboy.”Peterturned

around,stillboundbyKurt,andsawMr.McCabe,hismathteacher.Itwasoneofthosestrangemoments,likewhenyou’reatamovietheaterand

youseetheladywhoworksatthepostoffice,andyouknowyouknowherfromsomewhere, butwithout the PO boxes and scales and stampmachines aroundher,youcannotquitefigureoutwhosheis.Mr.McCabewasholdingabeerandwearingashirtmadeoutofsomethingsilky.Heputdownthebottleandfoldedhisarms.“Don’tfuckwithhim,Kurt,orI’llcallthecopsandgetyoubouncedoutofhere.”

Kurtshrugged.“Whatever,”hesaid,andhewalkedbackintothesmokybar.Peterlookeddownattheground,waitingforMr.McCabetospeak.Hewas

surethattheteacherwouldcallhisparents,orripuphisIDinfrontofhim,oraskhimwhyhe thought coming to a gaybar in downtownManchesterwas agoodidea.

SuddenlyPeterrealizedhecouldhaveaskedMr.McCabethesamething.Asheliftedhisgaze,heconsideredamathematicalprinciplethatsurelyhisteacheralreadyknew:Iftwopeoplehavethesamesecret,it’snotasecretanymore.

“Youprobablyneedaridehome,”Mr.McCabesaid.JosieheldherhanduptoMatt’s,agiant’spaw.“Lookathowtinyyouare,comparedtome,”Mattsaid.“It’samazingIdon’t

killyou.”

Heshiftedthen,stillhardinsideher,sothatshefeltthebulkofhisweight.Thenheputhishanduptoherthroat.

“Because,”hesaid,“Icould.”Hepressedjusttheslightestbit,pressureonherwindpipe.Notenoughtorob

herofair,butcertainlytoscatterspeech.“Don’t,”Josiemanaged.Mattstareddownather,puzzled.“Don’twhat?”hesaid,andwhenhestarted

tomoveinheragain,Josiewassureshehadhearditallwrong.Formostof thehour-long ride fromManchester, theconversationbetween

PeterandMr.McCabewasassuperficialasadragonflyonthesurfaceofalake,dartingaroundtopicsneitherofthemparticularlycaredabout:hockeystandingsfor the Bruins, the upcoming winter formal dance, what good colleges werelookingforthesedaysfromapplicants.

Itwasafter theypulledoffRoute89at theexitforSterling,andtheyweredriving down dark back roads toward Peter’s house, that Mr. McCabe evenmentionedthereasontheywerebothinthecar.“Abouttonight,”hebegan.“Notmany people know about me in school. I haven’t come out yet.” The smallrectangle of reflected light from the rearview mirror banded his eyes like araccoon’s.

“Whynot?”Peterheardhimselfask.“It’snotthatIdon’tthinkthefacultywouldbesupportive…it’sthatIdon’t

thinkit’sanyoftheirbusiness.Right?”Peterdidn’tknowhowtoanswer,andthenrealizedthatMr.McCabewasnot

asking him for his opinion-just for directions. “Yeah,” Peter said. “Turn here,andthenit’sthethirdhouseontheleft.”

Mr.McCabepulledupinfrontofPeter’sdriveway,butdidn’tturnin.“I’mtellingyouthisbecauseItrustyou,Peter.Andbecauseifyouneedsomeonetotalkto,Iwantyoutofeelfreetocometome.”

Peterunbuckledhisseatbelt.“I’mnotgay.”“Allright,”Mr.McCabereplied,butsomethinginhiseyeswentsoftatthe

edges.“I’mnotgay,”Peter repeatedmorefirmly,andheopened thecardoorand

ranasfastashecouldtowardhishouse.JosieshookupthebottleofOPInailpolishandlookedatthestickeronthe

bottom. I’m Not Really a Waitress Red. “Who do you think comes up withthese?Doyouthinkit’sabunchofwomenwhositaroundaconferencetable?”

“No,”Maddiesaid.“They’reprobablyjustoldfriendswhogetdrunkonceayearandwritedownalltheflavors.”

“It’snotaflavorifyoudon’teatit,”Emmapointedout.

Courtneyrolledover,sothatherhairtumbledoverthesideofthebedlikeawaterfall. “This is bogus,” she announced, although it was her house and herslumberparty.“There’sgottobesomethingexcitingtodo.”

“Let’scallsomeone,”Emmasuggested.Courtneyconsideredthis.“Likeaprank?”“Wecouldorderpizzaandhaveitdeliveredtosomeone,”Maddiesaid.“Wedid that last timewithDrew,”Courtney sighed, and then she grinned

andreachedforthephone.“I’vegotsomethingbetter.”She put on the speakerphone and dialed-a musical jingle that sounded

awfullyfamiliartoJosie.“Hello,”avoicesaidgrufflyontheotherend.“Matt,”Courtneysaid,holdingupafingertoherlipstokeepeveryoneelse

quiet.“Hey.”“It’sfuckingthreeinthemorning,Court.”“I know. I just…I’vebeenwanting to tell you something for a really long

time,andIdon’tknowhowtodoit,becauseJosie’smyfriendandeverything-”Josie started to speak, to letMatt know hewas being led into a trap, but

EmmaclappedherhandoverJosie’smouthandpushedherbackonthebed.“Ilikeyou,”Courtneysaid.“Ilikeyou,too.”“No,Imean…Ilikeyou.”“Geez,Courtney.IfI’dknownthat,IguessIwouldbehavingwildsexwith

you,exceptforthefactthatIloveJosie,andshe’sprobablylessthanthreefeetawayfromyourightnow.”

Thesilenceshattered,laughterbreakingitapartlikeglass.“God!How’dyouknow?”Courtneysaid.

“Because Josie tellsme everything, includingwhen she’s sleeping over atyourhouse.Nowtakemeoffspeakerphoneandletmesaygoodnighttoher.”

Courtneyhandedthereceiverover.“Goodanswer,”Josiesaid.Matt’svoicewassmokywithsleep.“Didyoudoubtit?”“No,”Josiereplied,smiling.“Well,havefun.Justnotasmuchfunasyou’dbehavingwithme.”ShelistenedtoMattyawn.“Gotobed.”“Wishyouwerenexttome,”hesaid.Josieturnedherbackontheothergirls.“Me,too.”“Loveyou,Jo.”“Iloveyou,too.”“And I,”Courtney announced, “am going to throw up.” She reached over

andpunchedthedisconnectbuttonofthephone.Josietossedthereceiveronthebed.“Itwasyourideatocallhim.”

“You’rejustjealous,”Emmasaid.“IwishIhadsomeonewhocouldn’tlivewithoutme.”

“You’resolucky,Josie,”Maddieagreed.Josieopenedthebottleofnailpolishagain,andadropspilledoffthebrush

to landonher thigh like a beadof blood.Anyof her friends-well,maybenotCourtney,butmostofthem-wouldhavekilledtobeinherposition.

Butwouldtheydieforit,avoiceinsideherwhispered.ShelookedupatMaddieandEmmaandforcedasmile.“Tellmeaboutit,”

Josiesaid.InDecember,Petergota jobintheschool library.Hewasinchargeof the

audiovisualequipment,whichmeantthatforanhourafterschooleachday,he’drewindmicrofilm and organizeDVDs alphabetically.He’d bring the overheadprojectors and TV/VCRs to classrooms, so that they were in place when theteacherswhoneededthemarrivedatschoolinthemorning.Heespeciallylikedhow nobody bothered him in the library. The cool kids wouldn’t have beencaughtdead thereafter school;Peterwasmore likely to find thespecial-needsstudents,withtheiraides,workingonassignments.

He’d gotten the job after helpingMrs.Wahl, the librarian, fix her ancientcomputer so that it stoppedblue-screeningonher.NowPeterwasher favoritestudentatSterlingHigh.Shelethimlockupaftersheleftfortheday,andshemade him his own key to the custodial elevator, so that he could transportequipmentfromonefloorofthehighschooltoanother.

Peter’slastjobthatdaywasmovingaprojectorfromabiolabonthesecondfloorbackdowntotheAVroom.Hehadsteppedintotheelevatorandturnedakeytoclosethedoorwhensomeonecalledout,askinghimtoholdthedoor.

Amomentlater,JosieCormierhobbledinside.Shewasoncrutches,sportinganAirCast.SheglancedatPeterasthedoors

oftheelevatorclosed,andthenquicklydownatthelinoleumfloor.Although ithadbeenmonthssinceshe’dgottenhimfired,Peter still felta

flashofangerwhenhesawJosie.HecouldpracticallyhearJosietickingoffthesecondsinherheaduntiltheelevatordoorsopenedagain.Well,I’mnotthrilledbeingstuckinherewithyoueither,hethoughttohimself,andjustaboutthentheelevatorbobbledandscreechedtoahalt.

“What’swrongwithit?”Josiepunchedatthefirst-floorbutton.“That’snotgoingtodoanything,”Petersaid.Hereachedacrossher-noticing

thatshenearlylostherbalancetryingtoleanback,asifhehadacommunicabledisease-andpushedtheredEmergencybutton.

Nothinghappened.“Thissucks,”Petersaid.Hestaredupattheroofoftheelevator.Inmovies,

actionheroeswerealwaysclimbingthroughtheairductsintotheelevatorshaft,butevenifhestoodontopoftheprojector,hedidn’tseehowhecouldgetthehatchopenwithoutascrewdriver.

Josiepunchedatthebuttonagain.“Hello?!”“Noone’sgoingtohearyou,”Petersaid.“Theteachersareallgoneandthe

custodianwatchesOprahfromfiveuntilsixinthebasement.”Heglancedather.“Whatareyoudoinghere,anyway?”

“Anindependentstudy.”“What’sthat?”She lifted a crutch. “It’swhatyoudo for creditwhenyou can’t playgym.

Whatwereyoudoinghere?”“Iworkherenow,”Petersaid,andtheybothfellsilent.Logistically, Peter thought, they’d be found sooner or later. The custodian

wouldprobablydiscoverthemwhenhewasmovinghisfloorbufferupstairs,butifnot,thelongestthey’dhavetowaitwasmorningwheneveryonearrivedagain.He smiled a little, thinking about what he could truthfully tell Derek: Guesswhat,IsleptwithJosieCormier.

HeopenedaniBookandpressedabutton,startingaPowerPointpresentationon the screen.Amoebas, blastospheres.Cell division.Anembryo.Amazing tothinkthatweallstartedoutlikethat-microscopic,indistinguishable.

“Howlongbeforetheyfindus?”“Idon’tknow.”“Won’tthelibrariansnoticeifyoudon’tcomeback?”“Myownparentswouldn’tnoticeifIdidn’tcomeback.”“Oh, God…what if we run out of air?” Josie banged on the doors with a

crutch.“Help!”“We’renotgoingtorunoutofair,”Petersaid.“Howdoyouknowthat?”Hedidn’t,notreally.Butwhatelsewashegoingtosay?“Igetfreakedoutinsmallspaces,”Josiesaid.“Ican’tdothis.”“You’re claustrophobic?” He wondered how he hadn’t known that about

Josie. But then again,why should he? Itwasn’t as though he’d been such anactivepartofherlifeforthepastsixyears.

“IthinkI’mgoingtothrowup,”Josiemoaned.“Oh, shit,” Peter said. “Don’t. Just close your eyes, then you won’t even

realizeyou’reinanelevator.”Josieclosedhereyes,butwhenshedid,sheswayedonhercrutches.“Hangon.”Petertookhercrutchesaway,sothatshewasbalancingonone

foot.Thenheheldontoherhandswhileshesanktothefloor,extendingherbad

leg.“How’dyougethurt?”heasked,noddingatthecast.“I fell on some ice.” She started to cry, and gasp-hyperventilate, Peter

guessed,althoughhe’donlyseenthewordwritten,notlive.Youweresupposedtobreatheintoapaperbag,right?Petersearchedtheelevatorforsomethingthatwould suffice. Therewas a plastic bagwith some documents in it on theAVtrolley,butsomehowputtingthatonyourheaddidn’tseemparticularlybrilliant.“Okay,”hesaid,brainstorming,“let’sdosomethingtogetyourmindoffwhereyouare.”

“Likewhat?”“Maybewe should play a game,” Peter suggested, and he heard the same

words repeated inhishead,Kurt’svoice from theFrontRunner.Heshookhisheadtoclearit.“TwentyQuestions?”

Josiehesitated.“Animal,vegetable,ormineral?”AftersixroundsofTwentyQuestions,andanhourofgeography,Peterwas

gettingthirsty.Healsohadtopee,andthatwasreallytroublinghim,becausehedidn’tthinkhecouldlastuntilmorningandtherewasabsolutelynowayhewasgoing to take awhizwith Josiewatching. Josie had gotten quiet, but at leastshe’dstoppedshaking.Hethoughtshemightbeasleep.

Thenshespoke.“Truthordare,”Josiesaid.Peterturnedtowardher.“Truth.”“Doyouhateme?”Heduckedhishead.“Sometimes.”“Youshould,”Josiesaid.“Truthordare?”“Truth,”Josiesaid.“Doyouhateme?”“No.”“Thenwhy,”Peterasked,“doyouactlikeyoudo?”Sheshookherhead.“Ihavetoactthewaypeopleexpectmetoact.It’spart

ofthewhole…thing.IfIdon’t…”Shepickedattherubberbraceofhercrutch.“It’scomplicated.Youwouldn’tunderstand.”

“Truthordare,”Petersaid.Josiegrinned.“Dare.”“Lickthebottomofyourownfoot.”Shestartedtolaugh.“Ican’tevenwalkonthebottomofmyownfoot,”she

said,butshebentdownandslippedoffherloafer,stuckouthertongue.“Truthordare?”

“Truth.”

“Chicken,”Josiesaid.“Haveyoueverbeeninlove?”PeterlookedatJosie,andthoughtofhowtheyhadoncetiedanotewiththeir

addressestoaheliumballoonandletitgoinherbackyard,certainitwouldreachMars. Instead, they had received a letter from awidowwho lived two blocksaway.“Yeah,”hesaid.“Ithinkso.”

Hereyeswidened.“Withwho?”“Thatwasn’tthequestion.Truthordare?”“Truth,”Josiesaid.“What’sthelastlieyoutold?”The smile faded from Josie’s face. “When I told you I slipped on the ice.

MattandIwerehavingafightandhehitme.”“Hehityou?”“Itwasn’tlikethat….IsaidsomethingIshouldn’thave,andwhenhe-well,I

lostmybalance,anyway,andhurtmyankle.”“Josie-”Sheduckedherhead.“Nooneknows.Youwon’ttell,willyou?”“No.”Peterhesitated.“Whydidn’tyoutellanyone?”“Thatwasn’tthequestion,”Josiesaid,parrotinghim.“I’maskingitnow.”“ThenI’lltakeadare.”Petercurledhishandsintofistsathissides.“Kissme,”hesaid.She leaned towardhimslowly,untilher facewas tooclose tobe in focus.

HerhairfelloverPeter’sshoulderlikeacurtainandhereyesclosed.Shesmelledlikeautumn-likeappleciderandslantingsunandthesnapof thecomingcold.Hefelthisheartscrambling,caughtinsidetheconfinesofhisownbody.

Josie’slipslandedjustontheedgeofhis,almosthischeekandnotquitehismouth.“I’mgladIwasn’tstuckinherealone,”shesaidshyly,andhetastedthewords,sweetasmintonherbreath.

PeterglanceddownathislapandprayedthatJosiewouldn’tnoticethathewas hard as a rock.He started to smile sowide that it hurt. Itwasn’t that hedidn’tlikegirls;itwasthattherewasonlyonerightone.

Justthentherewasaknockonthemetaldoor.“Anyoneinhere?”“Yes!”Josiecried,strugglingtostandwithhercrutches.“Help!”There was a bang and a hammering, the sound of a crowbar breaching a

seam.Thedoorsflewopen,andJosiehurriedoutoftheelevator.MattRoystonwaswaitingnexttothejanitor.“Igotworriedwhenyouweren’thome,”hesaid,andpulledJosieintohisembrace.

Butyouhither,Peterthought,andthenherememberedthathehadmadeapromisetoJosie.HelistenedtoherwhoopwithsurpriseasMattsweptherinto

hisarms,carryinghersothatshewouldn’thavetousehercrutches.PeterwheeledtheiBookandprojectorbacktothelibraryandlockedtheAV

room.Itwaslatenow,andhehadtowalkhome,buthealmostdidn’tmind.Hedecidedthatthefirstthinghe’ddowaserasethecirclearoundJosie’sportraitinhisyearbook,takehercharacteristicsofftherosterofvillainsinhisvideogame.

Hewasmentally reviewing the logistics of that, in termsof programming,when he finally reached home. It took Peter a moment to realize somethingwasn’tright-thelightsweren’toninthehouse,butthecarswerethere.“Hello?”hecalledout,wanderingfromthelivingroomtothediningroomtothekitchen.“Anyonehere?”

He found his parents sitting in the dark at the kitchen table. His motherlookedup,dazed.Itwasclearthatshe’dbeencrying.

Peterfeltsomethingwarmbreakfreeinhischest.He’dtoldJosiehisparentswouldn’tnoticehisabsence,butthatwasn’ttrueatall.Clearly,hisparentshadbeenfrantic.“I’mfine,”Petertoldthem.“Really.”

Hisfatherstoodup,blinkingbacktears,andhauledPeterintohisarms.Petercouldn’trememberthelasttimehe’dbeenhuggedlikethis.Inspiteofthefactthathewantedtoseemcool,thathewassixteenyearsold,hemeltedagainsthisfather’sframeandheldontightly.FirstJosie,andnowthis?ItwasturningouttobethebestdayofPeter’slife.

“It’sJoey,”hisfathersobbed.“He’sdead.”Ask a randomkid today if shewants to be popular and she’ll tell youno,

evenifthetruthisthatifshewasinadesertdyingofthirstandhadthechoicebetweenaglassofwaterandinstantpopularity,she’dprobablychoosethelatter.See,youcan’tadmittowantingit,becausethatmakesyoulesscool.Tobetrulypopular,ithastolooklikeit’ssomethingyouare,wheninreality,it’swhatyoumakeyourself.

I wonder if anyone works any harder at anything than kids do at beingpopular.Imean,evenair-trafficcontrollersandthepresidentoftheUnitedStatestake vacations, but look at your average high school student, and you’ll seesomeonewho’sputtingintimetwenty-fourhoursaday,fortheentirelengthoftheschoolyear.

Sohowdoyoucrackthatinnersanctum?Well,here’sthecatch:it’snotuptoyou.What’simportantiswhateveryoneelsethinksofhowyoudress,whatyoueatforlunch,whatshowsyouTiVo,whatmusicisonyouriPod.

I’ve always sort of wondered, though: If everyone else’s opinion is whatmatters,thendoyoueverreallyhaveoneofyourown?

OneMonthAfterAlthoughtheinvestigativereportfromPatrickDucharmehadbeensittingon

Diana’s desk since ten days post-shooting, the prosecutor hadn’t given it aglance. First she’d had a probable cause hearing to pull together, then, she’dbeeninfrontofthegrandjury,gettingthemtohanddownanindictment.Onlynowwasshebeginningtosiftthroughtheanalysesoffingerprints,ballistics,andbloodstains,aswellasalltheoriginalpolicereports.

She’d spent the morning poring over the logistics of the shooting andmentally organizing her opening statement along the same path of destructionPeterHoughton had followed, tracking hismovements from victim to victim.ThefirsttobeshotwasZoePatterson,ontheschoolsteps.AlyssaCarr,AngelaPhlug,MaddieShaw.Courtney Ignatio.HaleyWeaverandBradyPryce.LuciaRitolli,GraceMurtaugh.

DrewGirard.MattRoyston.More.Dianatookoffherglassesandrubbedhereyes.Abookofthedead,amapof

the wounded. And those were only the ones whose injuries had been seriousenoughtoinvolveahospitalstay-therewerescoresofkidswhohadbeentreatedandreleased,hundredswhosescarswereburiedtoodeeptosee.

Dianadidnothavechildren-hell,inherposition,themenshemetwereeitherfelons, which was awful, or defense attorneys, which was worse. She did,however,haveathree-year-oldnephew,who’dbeenreprimandedinhisnurseryschool forpointinghis finger at a classmate and saying, “Bang,you’redead.”Whenhersistercalledup indignantandspoutingabout theBillofRights,hadDianathoughtthathernephewwasgoingtogrowuptobecomeapsychopath?Notforamoment.Hewasjustakid,playingaround.

HadtheHoughtonsthoughtthat,too?Diana looked down at the list of names in front of her. Her job was to

connect these dots, butwhat truly needed to be donewas to draw a line longbefore this: the tippingpointwherePeterHoughton’smindhadshifted,subtly,fromwhatiftowhen.

Hereyefellonanotherlist-onefromthehospital.Cormier,Josie.Accordingto the medical records, the girl-seventeen-had been admitted overnight forobservationafterafaintingspell,andhadalacerationonthescalp.Hermother’ssignaturewasatthebottomoftheconsentformforbloodtests-AlexCormier.

Itcouldn’tbe.Dianasatbackinherchair.You’dneverwanttobetheonetoaskajudgeto

recuseherself.Youmight aswell announce that youdoubtedher ability tobeimpartial,andsinceDianawouldbeinhercourtnumeroustimesinthefuture,itjust wasn’t a smart career move. But Judge Cormier surely knew that she

couldn’t address this case fairly, not with a daughter who was a witness.Granted,Josiehadn’tbeenshot,butshe’dbeenhurtduringtheshooting.JudgeCormier would recuse herself, certainly. Which meant there was nothing toworryabout.

Diana turned her attention back to the discovery spread across her desk,readinguntilthelettersblurredonthepage,untilJosieCormierwasjustanothername.

Onherwayhomefromthecourthouse,Alexpassedthemakeshiftmemorialthat had been erected for the victims of Sterling High. There were ten whitewoodencrosses,eventhoughoneofthedeadchildren-JustinFriedman-hadbeenJewish.The crosseswerenowherenear the school, but insteadon a stretchofRoute10wheretherewasonlyfloodplainfortheConnecticutRiver.Inthedaysafter the shooting, there might be any number of mourners standing by thecrosses, adding to the individual piles of photos and Beanie Babies andbouquets.

Alex feltherselfpullingher caroff the road,onto the shoulder.Shedidn’tknowwhyshewasstoppingnow,whyshehadn’tstoppedbefore.Herheelssankintothespongygrass.Shecrossedherarmsandsteppeduptothemarkers.

Theywere in no particular order, and the name of each dead studentwascarvedintothecrosspieceofthewood.MostofthestudentsAlexdidnotknow,but Courtney Ignatio and Maddie Shaw had crosses beside each other. Theflowers that hadbeen left behind at themarkers hadwilted, their green tissuewrappersrottingintotheground.Alexkneltdown,fingeringafadedpoemthatwastackedtoCourtney’smemorial.

Courtney and Maddie had come for a sleepover several times. Alexrememberedfindingthegirlsinthekitchen,eatingrawcookiedoughinsteadofbaking it, their bodies fluid as waves as they moved around each other. Shecouldrememberbeingjealousofthem-tobesoyoung,toknowyouhadn’tyetmadeamistakethatwouldchangeyourlife.NowAlexflushedwithchagrin:atleastshehadalifetobechanged.

Itwas atMattRoyston’s cross, however, thatAlex started to cry. Proppedagainst the white wooden base was a framed photograph, one that had beenenclosedinaplasticbagtokeeptheelementsfromruiningit.TherewasMatt,hiseyesbright,hisarmhookedaroundJosie’sneck.

Josiewasn’tlookingatthecamera.ShewasstaringatMatt,asifshecouldn’tseeanythingelse.

Somehow,itseemedsafertofallaparthereinfrontofamakeshiftmemorialthan at home, where Josie might hear her crying. No matter how cool andcollected she had been-for Josie’s sake-the one person she could not foolwas

herself.Shemightpickupherdailyroutinelikeamissedstitch,shemight tellherself that Josie was one of the lucky ones, but when she was alone in theshower,orcaughtintheinterstitialspacebetweenwakingandsleep,Alexwouldfind herself shaking uncontrollably, the way you do when you’ve swerved toavoidanaccidentandhavetopulltothesideoftheroadtomakesureyouarereally,trulyallinonepiece.

Life was what happened when all the what-if ’s didn’t, when what youdreamedorhopedor-in thiscase-fearedmightcometopasspassedbyinstead.Alexhadspentenoughnightsthinkingofgoodfortune,ofhowitwasthinasaveil, how seamlessly youmight stream fromone side to the other.This couldeasily have been Josie’s cross shewas kneeling before, Josie’smemorial thathosted this photo. A twitch of the shooter’s hand, a fallen footstep, a bullet’sricochet-andeverythingmighthavebeendifferent.

Alexgottoherfeetandtookafortifyingbreath.Assheheadedbacktohercar,shesawthenarrowholewhereaneleventhcrosshadbeen.Afterthetenhadbeenerected,someonehadaddedonewithPeterHoughton’snameonit.Nightafternightthatextracrosshadbeentakendownorvandalized.Therehadbeeneditorialsinthepaperoverit:DidPeterHoughtondeserveacross,whenhewasstillverymuchalive?Wasputtingupamemorialforhimatragedyoratravesty?Eventually,whoeverhadcarvedPeter’scrossdecidedtoleavewellenoughaloneandstoppedreplacingiteveryday.

AsAlex slipped inside her car again, shewondered how-until she’d comehere for herself-she had managed to forget that someone, at some point,consideredPeterHoughtontobeavictim,too.

SinceThatDay,asLacyhadtakentocallingit,she’ddeliveredthreebabies.Each time,although thebirthwasuneventfuland thedeliveryeasy, somethinghadgonewrong.Not for themother,but for themidwife.WhenLacysteppedintoadeliveryroom,shefeltpoisonous,toonegativetobetheonetowelcomeanotherhumanbeing to thisworld.Shehadsmiledherway through thebirthsand had offered the new mothers the support and the medical care that theyneeded,butthemomentshe’dsentthemontheirway,cuttingthatlastumbilicalcord between hospital and home, Lacy knew shewas giving them thewrongadvice. Insteadofeasyplatitudes likeLet themeatwhen theywant toeatandYou can’t hold a baby toomuch, she shouldhavebeen telling them the truth:This child you’vebeenwaiting for is notwhoyou imaginehim tobe.You’restrangersnow;you’llbestrangersyearsfromnow.

Yearsago,sheusedtolieinbedandimaginewhatherlifewouldhavebeenlike had she not been amother. She’d picture Joey bringing her a bouquet ofdandelionweedsandclover;Peterfallingasleepagainstherchestwiththetailof

herbraidstillclutchedinhishand.Sherelivedtheclenchingfistoflaborpains,andthemantrashe’dusedtogetthroughthem:Whenthisisdone,imaginewhatyou’llhave.Motherhoodhadpainted thecolorsofLacy’sworldabitbrighter;hadswelledher totheseamswiththebelief thather lifecouldnotpossiblybemorecomplete.Whatshehadn’trealizedwasthatsometimeswhenyourvisionwas that sharpand true, it couldcutyou.Thatonly ifyou’d felt such fullnesscouldyoureallyunderstandtheacheofbeingempty.

Shehadnottoldherpatients-God,shehadn’teventoldLewis-butthesedays,whenshelayinbedandimaginedwhatherlifewouldhavebeenlikehadshenotbeenamother,shefoundherselfsuckingononebitterword:easier.

TodayLacywasdoingofficevisits;she’dgonethroughfivepatientsandwasabout to move on to her sixth. Janet Isinghoff, she read, scanning the folder.Althoughshewasanothermidwife’spatient,thepolicyofthegroupwastohaveeachwoman see all of themidwives, since you never knewwho’d be on callwhenyoudelivered.

JanetIsinghoffwasthirty-threeyearsold,primigravid,withafamilyhistoryof diabetes. She had been hospitalized once before for appendicitis, hadmildasthma, and was generally healthy. She was also standing in the door of theexamination room, clutching her hospital johnny shut as she argued heatedlywithPriscilla,theOBnurse.

“Idon’tcare,”Janetwassaying.“If itcomesdowntothat,I’ll justgotoadifferenthospital.”

“Butthat’snotthewayourpracticeworks,”Priscillaexplained.Lacysmiled.“AnythingIcandohere?”Priscillaturned,puttingherselfbetweenLacyandthepatient.“It’snothing.”“Didn’tsoundlikenothing,”Lacyreplied.“I don’t want my baby delivered by a woman whose son is a murderer,”

Janetburstout.Lacyfeltherfeetrootonthefloor,herbreathgososhallowthatshemightas

wellhavefieldedablow.Andhadn’tshe?Priscillaturnedcrimson.“Mrs.Isinghoff,IthinkIcanspeakforthewholeof

themidwiferyteamwhenIsaythatLacyis-”“It’sallright,”Lacymurmured.“Iunderstand.”By now the other nurses andmidwiveswere staring;Lacy knew that they

would rally to her defense-tell Janet Isinghoff to find herself another practice,explain that Lacy was one of the best and most seasoned midwives in NewHampshire. But that hardly mattered, really-it wasn’t about Janet Isinghoffdemandingtohaveanothermidwifedeliverherchild;itwasthatevenafterJanethadleft,therewouldbeanotherwomanheretomorroworthenextdaywiththe

sameuneasyrequest.Whowouldwantthefirsthandstouchinghernewborntobethesamehandsthathadheldamurderer’swhenhecrossedthestreet;thathadbrushedhishairoffhisforeheadwhenhewassick;thathadrockedhimtosleep?

Lacywalkeddownthehalltothefiredoorandranupfourflightsofstairs.Sometimes,whenshe’dhadaparticularlydifficultday,Lacywouldtakerefugeon the roof of the hospital. She’d lie on her back and stare up at the sky andpretend,withthatview,shecouldbeanywhereonearth.

Atrialwasjustaformality-Peterwouldbefoundguilty.Itdidn’tmatterhowshetriedtoconvinceherself-orPeter-otherwise;thefactwastherebetweenthemat those horrible jail visits, immense and unmentionable. It reminded Lacy ofrunning into someone you hadn’t seen for a while, and finding her bald andmissing her eyebrows: you knew she was in the throes of chemotherapy, butpretendedyoudidn’t,becauseitwaseasierthatwayforbothofyou.

WhatLacywouldhavelikedtosay,ifanyonehadgivenherthepodiumonwhich to do it, was that Peter’s actions were just as surprising to her-asdevastatingtoher-astheyweretoanyoneelse.She’dlostherson,too,thatday.Not justphysically, to thecorrectional facility,butpersonally,because theboyshe’d known had disappeared, swallowed by this beast she didn’t recognize,capableofactsshecouldnotconceive.

Butwhat if Janet Isinghoffwas right?What if itwas somethingLacyhadsaidordone…ornotsaidordone…thathadbroughtPetertothatpoint?Couldyouhateyoursonforwhathehaddone,andstilllovehimforwhohehadbeen?

The door opened, andLacy spun around.No one ever came up here, but,thenagain,sherarelyleftthefloorthisupset.Itwasn’tPriscilla,though,oroneofhercolleagues:JordanMcAfeestoodonthethreshold,asheafofpapersinhishand.Lacyclosedhereyes.“Perfect.”

“Yes,that’swhatmywifetellsme,”hesaid,comingtowardherwithawidesmileonhisface.“Ormaybeit’sjustwhatIwishshe’dtellme….Yoursecretarytoldmeyouwereprobablyuphere,and-Lacy,areyouallright?”

Lacynodded,andthensheshookherhead.Jordantookherarmandledhertoafoldingchairthatsomeonehadcartedallthewayuptotheroof.“Badday?”

“Youcouldsaythat,”Lacyanswered.ShetriedtokeepJordanfromseeinghertears.Itwasstupid,sheknew,butshedidn’twantPeter’sattorneytothinkshewasthekindofpersonwhohadtobetreatedwithkidgloves.ThenhemightnottellhereveryblunttruthaboutPeter,andshewantedtohearthat,nomatterwhat.

“Ineededyoutosignsomepaperwork…butIcancomebacklater…”“No,”Lacysaid.“Thisis…fine.”Itwasbetterthanfine,sherealized.Itwas

sortofnicetobesittingnexttosomeonewhobelievedinPeter,evenifshewas

payinghimtodothat.“CanIaskyouaprofessionalquestion?”“Sure.”“Whyisitsoeasyforpeopletopointafingeratsomeoneelse?”Jordan sank down across from her, on the ledge of the roof, whichmade

Lacynervous,but,again,shecouldn’tshowit,becauseshedidn’twantJordantothink shewas fragile. “People need a scapegoat,” he said. “It’s humannature.That’sthebiggesthurdlewehavetoovercomeasdefenseattorneys,becauseinspiteofbeinginnocentuntilprovenguilty,theveryactofanarrestmakespeopleassumeguilt.Doyouknowhowmanycopshaveunarrestedsomeone?Iknow,it’s crazy-I mean, do you think they apologize profusely and make sure thatperson’sfamilyandfriendsandco-workersallknowitwasabigmistake,ordothey just sortof say, ‘Mybad,’ and takeoff?”Hemethergaze. “I’msure it’shard, reading the editorials that have already convictedPeter before the trial’sevenstarted,but-”

“It’snotPeter,”Lacysaidquietly.“They’reblamingme.”Jordannodded,asifhe’dexpectedthis.“Hedidn’tdothisbecauseofhowweraisedhim.Hediditinspiteofthat,”

Lacysaid.“Youhaveababy,don’tyou?”“Yes.Sam.”“Whatifheturnsouttobesomeoneyouneverthoughthe’dbe?”“Lacy-”“Like,whatifSamtellsyouhe’sgay?”Jordanshrugged.“Sowhat?”“AndifhedecidedtoconverttoIslam?”“That’shischoice.”“Whatifhebecameasuicidebomber?”Jordanpaused.“Ireallydon’twanttothinkaboutsomethinglikethat,Lacy.”“No,”shesaid,facinghim.“NeitherdidI.”Philip O’Shea and Ed McCabe had been together for almost two years.

Patrickstaredatthephotosonthefireplacemantel-thetwomenwiththeirarmsslung around each other, with a backdrop of the Canadian Rockies; a cornpalace;theEiffelTower.“Welikedtogetaway,”Philipsaidashebroughtoutaglassof iced teaandhanded it toPatrick.“Sometimes, forEd, itwaseasier togetawaythanitwastostayhere.”

“Whywasthat?”Philipshrugged.Hewasatall,thinmanwithfrecklesthatappearedwhenhis

faceflushedwithemotion.“Edhadn’ttoldeveryoneabout…hislifestyle.Andtobeperfectlyhonest,keepingsecretsinasmalltownisabitch.”

“Mr.O’Shea-”

“Philip.Please.”Patricknodded.“Iwonder ifEdevermentionedPeterHoughton’sname to

you.”“Hetaughthim,youknow.”“Yeah.Imeant…well,beyondthat.”Philipledhimtoascreenedporch,asetofwickerchairs.Everyroomhe’d

seeninthehouselookedlikeithadjustbeenhosttoamagazinephotoshoot:thepillowsonthecouchesweretiltedataforty-five-degreeangle;therewerevaseswith glass beads in them; the plants were all lush and green. Patrick thoughtback to his own living room,where today he’d found a piece of toast stuffedbetweenhis sofa cushions that hadwhat could really only be called penicillingrowingontopofitbynow.Itmighthavebeenaridiculousstereotype,butthishomehadMarthaStewartwrittenalloverit,whereasPatrick’slookedmorelikeacrackhouse.

“EdtalkedtoPeter,”Philipsaid.“Oratleast,hetriedto.”“Aboutwhat?”“Beingabitofa lostsoul,I think.Teensarealwaystryingtofit in.Ifyou

don’tfitintothepopularcrowd,youtrytheathleticcrowd.Ifthatdoesn’twork,yougotothedramacrowd…ortothedruggies,”hesaid.“EdthoughtthatPetermightbetryingoutthegayandlesbiancrowd.”

“SoPetercametotalktoEdaboutbeinggay?”“Oh, no. Ed sought Peter out. We all remember what it was like to be

figuring out what was different about us, when we were his age.Worried todeaththatsomeotherkidwhowasgaywasgoingtocomeontoyouandblowyourcover.”

“DoyouthinkPetermighthavebeenworriedaboutEdblowinghiscover?”“Isincerelydoubtit,especiallyinPeter’scase.”“Why?”PhilipsmiledatPatrick.“You’veheardofgaydar?”Patrickfelthimselfcoloring.ItwaslikebeinginthepresenceofanAfrican-

Americanwhomadearacistjoke,simplybecausehecould.“Iguess.”“Gaypeopledon’tcomeclearlymarked-it’snotlikehavingadifferentcolor

skinoraphysicaldisability.Youlearntopickuponmannerisms,orlooksthatlastjustalittletoolong.Yougetprettygoodatfiguringoutifsomeone’sgay,orjuststaringatyoubecauseyouare.”

Beforeherealizedwhathewasdoing,PatrickhadleanedalittlefartherawayfromPhilip,whostartedtolaugh.“Youcanrelax.Yourvibeclearlysaysyoubatfortheotherteam.”HelookedupatPatrick.“AndsodoesPeterHoughton.”

“Idon’tunderstand…”

“Petermayhavebeenconfusedabouthissexuality,butitwascrystalcleartoEd,”Philipsaid.“Thatboyisstraight.”

Peterburst through thedoorof theconferenceroom,bristling.“Howcomeyouhaven’tcometoseeme?”

Jordan looked up from the notes he was making on a pad. He noticed,absently,thatPeterhadputonsomeweight-andapparentlysomemuscle.“I’vebeenbusy.”

“Well,I’mstuckhereallbymyself.”“Yeah, and I’m busting my ass to make sure that isn’t a permanent

condition,”Jordanreplied.“Sitdown.”Peterslumpedintoachair,scowling.“WhatifIdon’tfeelliketalkingtoyou

today?Clearly,youdon’talwaysfeelliketalkingtome.”“Peter,howaboutwedropthebullshitsoIcandomyjob?”“LikeIcareifyoucandoyourjob.”“Well,youshould,”Jordansaid.“Seeingasyou’re thebeneficiary.”At the

endofthis,Jordanthought,Iwillbeeitherreviledorcanonized.“Iwanttotalkabouttheexplosives,”hesaid.“Wherewouldapersongetsomethinglikethat?”

“Atwww.boom.com,”Peteranswered.Jordanjuststaredathim.“Well,it’snotallthatfarfromthetruth,”Petersaid.“Imean,TheAnarchist

Cookbookisonline.SoareabouttenthousandrecipesforMolotovcocktails.”“They didn’t find a Molotov cocktail at the school. They found plastic

explosiveswithablastingcapandatimingdevice.”“Yeah,”Petersaid.“Well.”“SayIwantedtomakeabombwithstuffIhadlyingaroundthehouse.What

wouldIuse?”Peter shrugged. “Newspaper. Fertilizer-like Green Thumb, the chemical

stuff.Cotton.Andsomedieselfuel,butyou’dprobablyhavetogetthatatagasstation,soitwouldn’ttechnicallybeinyourhouse.”

Jordanwatchedhimcountofftheingredients.Therewasamatter-offactnesstoPeter’svoicethatwaschilling,butevenmoreunsettlingwasthetonethreadedthroughhiswords:thiswassomethingPeterhadbeenproudof.

“You’vedonethiskindofthingbefore.”“ThefirsttimeIbuiltone,IjustdidittoseeifIcould.”Peter’svoicegrew

more animated. “I did somemore after that.Thekindyou throwand run likehell.”

“Whatmadethisonedifferent?”“The ingredients, for one. You have to get the potassium chlorate from

bleach,whichisn’teasy,butit’skindoflikedoingachemistrylab.Mydadcame

intothekitchenwhenIwasfilteringoutthecrystals,”Petersaid.“That’swhatItoldhimIwasdoing-extracredit.”

“Jesus.”“Anyway, after you’ve got that, all you need is Vaseline, which we keep

underthebathroomsink,andthegasyou’dfindinacampstove,andthekindofwax you use to can pickles. Iwas kind of freaked out about using a blastingcap,”Petersaid.“Imean,I’dneverreallydoneanythingthatbigbefore.Butyouknow,whenIstartedtocomeupwiththewholeplan-”

“Stop,”Jordaninterrupted.“Juststoprightthere.”“You’retheonewhoaskedinthefirstplace,”Petersaid,stung.“Butthat’sananswerIcan’thear.Myjobistogetyouacquitted,andIcan’t

lie in front of the jury.On the other hand, I can’t lie about the things I don’tknow.Andrightnow,Icanhonestlysaythatyoudidnotplaninadvancewhathappenedthatday.I’dliketokeepitthatway,andifyouhaveanysenseofself-preservation,youshould,too.”

Peterwalked to thewindow.Theglasswas fuzzy, scratchedafter all theseyears.Fromwhat?Jordanwondered.Inmatesclawingtogetout?Peterwouldn’tbeable tosee that thesnowhadallmeltedbynow; that thefirstcrocuseshadchokedtheirwayoutofthesoil.Maybeitwasbetterthatway.

“I’vebeengoingtochurch,”Peterannounced.Jordan wasn’t much for organized religion, but he didn’t begrudge others

theirchosencomforts.“That’sgreat.”“I’mdoingitbecausetheyletmeleavemycelltogotoservices,”Petersaid.

“NotbecauseI’vefoundJesusoranything.”“Okay.”Hewonderedwhatthishadtodowithexplosivesor,forthatmatter,

anythingelseregardingPeter’sdefense.Frankly,Jordandidn’thavetimetohavea philosophical discussionwith Peter about the nature ofGod-he had tomeetSelena in twohours togooverpotentialdefensewitnesses-butsomethingkepthimfromcuttingPeteroff.

Peterturned.“Doyoubelieveinhell?”“Yeah.It’sfullofdefenseattorneys.Justaskanyprosecutor.”“No,seriously,”Petersaid.“IbetI’mheadedthere.”Jordanforcedasmile.“Idon’tlayoddsonbetsIcan’tcollecton.”“FatherMoreno,he’sthepriestwholeadsthechurchserviceshere?Hesays

thatifyouacceptJesusandrepent,yougetexcused…likereligionisjustsomegiantfreebiehallpassthatgetsyououtofanythingandeverything.Butsee,thatcan’t be right…because Father Moreno also says that every life is worthsomething…andwhataboutthetenkidswhodied?”

Jordanknewbetter,buthestillheardhimselfaskingPeteraquestion.“Why

didyouphraseitthatway?”“Whatway?”“Thetenkidswhodied.Asifitwasanaturalprogression.”Peter’sbrowwrinkled.“Becauseitwas.”“How?”“It’s like those explosives, I guess. Once you light the fuse, either you

destroythebombbeforeitgoesoff…orthebombdestroyseverythingelse.”Jordanstoodupand tooka step towardhisclient. “Whostruck thematch,

Peter?”Peterliftedhisface.“Whodidn’t?”Josienowthoughtofherfriendsastheoneswhohadbeenleftbehind.Haley

WeaverhadbeensenttoBostonforplasticsurgery;JohnEberhardwasinsomerehabplacereadingHoponPopand learninghowtodrinkfromastraw;Mattand Courtney and Maddie were gone forever. That left Josie and Drew andEmma andBrady: a posse that had dwindled to such a degree that you couldbarelycallthemaposseatallanymore.

TheywereinEmma’sbasement,watchingaDVD.Thatwasabouttheextentof their social life thesedays,becauseDrewandBradywere still inbandagesand casts and besides, even if none of themwanted to say it out loud, goinganywheretheyusedtogoremindedthemofwhowasmissing.

Bradyhadbroughtthemovie-Josiecouldn’tevenrememberthename,butitwasoneofthosemoviesthathadcomeoutafterAmericanPie,hopingtomakethesamekillingattheboxofficebytakingnakedgirlsanddaredevilguysandwhatHollywoodimaginedteenagelifetobelike,andtossingthemtogetherlikesome sort of cosmic salad.Rightnow, a car chase filled the screen.Themaincharacterwasscreamingacrossadrawbridgethatwasslowlyopening.

Josie knew he was going tomake it across. First off, this was a comedy.Second,nobodyhadthegutstokilloffthemaincharacterbeforethestorywasover.Third,herphysicsteacherhadusedthisverymovietoprove,scientifically,thatgiventhespeedofthecarandthetrajectoryofthevectors,theactorcouldindeedjumpthebridge-butonlyifthewindwasn’tblowing.

Josiealsoknewthatthepersoninthecarwasn’treal,wasn’teventheactorplaying therole,butastuntmanwhohaddone thisa thousand times.Andyet,even as she watched the action unrolling on the television screen, she sawsomething entirely different: the car’s fender, striking the far side of the openbridge.Thetwistofmetalturninginmidair,slappingagainstthewater,sinking.

Grown-upswerealwayssayingthat teenagersdrove toofastorgothighordidn’tusecondomsbecausetheythoughttheywereinvincible.Butthetruthwasthat at anymoment, you could die.Brady could have a stroke on the football

field,likethoseyoungcollegeathleteswhosuddenlydroppeddead.Emmacouldbe hit by lightning. Drew might walk into an ordinary high school on anextraordinaryday.

Josie stood up. “I need some air,” she murmured, and she hurried up thebasement stairs andout the frontdoorofEmma’shouse.She satdownon theporchand lookedat the sky, at twostars thatwerehitchedat theelbows.Youweren’tinvinciblewhenyouwereateenager.Youwerejuststupid.

Sheheardthedooropenandclosewithagasp.“Hey,”Drewsaid,comingtositbesideher.“Youokay?”

“I’mgreat.”Josiepastedonasmile.Itfeltgummy,likewallpaperthathadn’tbeen smoothed right. But she had gotten so good at this-faking it-that it wassecondnature.Whowouldhavethoughtthatshe’dinheritedsomethingfromhermotherafterall?

Drewreacheddownforabladeofgrassandbegansplittingitintohairswithhis thumb. “I say the same thing when that bonehead school shrink calls medowntoaskmehowI’mdoing.”

“Ididn’tknowhecallsyoudown,too.”“Ithinkhecallsallofuswhowere,youknow,close…”Hedidn’tfinishhissentence:Closetotheoneswhodidn’tmakeit?Closeto

dyingthatday?Closetofinishingourselvesoff?“Do you think anyone ever tells the shrink anything worthwhile?” Josie

asked.“Doubtit.Hewasn’ttherethatday.It’snotlikehereallygetsit.”“Doesanyone?”“You.Me.Thoseguysupstairs,”Drew said. “Welcome to the clubnoone

wantstojoin.You’reamemberforlife.”Josie didn’t mean to, but Drew’s words and the stupid guy in the movie

trying to jump thebridgeand theway the starswereprickingather skin, likeinoculationsforaterminaldisease,suddenlymadeherstarttocry.Drewreachedaroundher,wrappinghisonegoodarmaroundher,andsheleanedintohim.Sheclosed her eyes and pressed her face into the flannel of his shirt. It felt sofamiliar,asifshe’dcomehometoherownbedafteryearsofcircumnavigatingtheglobe, to find that themattress still somehowmeltedaround thecurveandweightofher.Andyet-thefabricoftheshirtdidn’tsmelllikeitusedto.Theboyholdingherwasn’tquitethesamesize,thesameshape,thesameboy.

“Idon’tthinkIcandothis,”Josiewhispered.Immediately,Drewpulledawayfromher.Hisfacewasflushed,andhecould

notlookJosieintheeye.“Ididn’tmeanitlikethat.YouandMatt…”Hisvoicewentflat.“Well,Iknowyou’restillhis.”

Josie lookedupat thesky.Shenoddedathim,as if thatwaswhatshehadmeantinthefirstplace.

It all began when the service station left a message on the answeringmachine. Peter had missed his car inspection appointment. Did he want toreschedule?

Lewishadbeenalone in thehouse, retrieving thatmessage.Hehaddialedthe number before he even realized what he was doing, and thus it was nosurprise to find himself actually keeping the rescheduled appointment.He gotoutofthecar,handedhiskeystothegasstationattendant.“Youcanwaitrightinside,”themansaid.“There’scoffee.”

Lewispouredhimselfacup,puttinginthreesugarsandlotsofmilk,thewayPeterwouldhavefixedit.HesatdownandinsteadofpickingupaworncopyofNewsweek,hethumbedthroughPCGamer.

One,hethought.Two,three.On cue, the gas station attendant came into the waiting room. “Mr.

Houghton,” he said, “the car out there-it’s not due for a state inspection untilJuly.”

“Iknow.”“Butyou…youmadethisappointment.”Lewisnodded.“Idon’thavethatparticularcarwithmerightnow.”Itwas impoundedsomewhere.AlongwithPeter’sbooksandcomputerand

journalsandGodonlyknewwhatelse.The attendant stared at him, the way you do when you realize the

conversation you’re having has veered from the rational. “Sir,” he said, “wecan’tinspectacarthat’snothere.”

“No,”Lewissaid.“Ofcoursenot.”Heputthemagazinebackdownonthecoffee table, smoothed its wrinkled cover. Then he rubbed a hand over hisforehead.“It’sjust…mysonmadethisappointment,”hesaid.“Iwantedtokeepitonhisbehalf.”

The attendant nodded, slowly backing away. “Right…so, how about I justleavethecarparkedoutside?”

“Justsoyouknow,”Lewissaidsoftly,“hewouldhavepassedinspection.”Once, when Peter was young, Lacy had sent him to the same sleepaway

camp that Joeyhad gone to and adored. Itwas somewhere across the river inVermont,andcamperswater-skiedonLakeFairleeandtooksailinglessonsanddidovernightcanoetrips.Peterhadcalledthefirstnight,beggingtobebroughthome.AlthoughLacyhadbeenreadytostartthecaranddrivetogethim,Lewishadtalkedheroutofit.Ifhedoesn’tstickthisout,Lewishadsaid,howwillheeverknowifhecan?

Attheendoftwoweeks,whenLacysawPeteragain,therewerechangesinhim. He was taller, and he’d put on weight. But there was also somethingdifferent about his eyes-a light that had been burned to ash, somehow.WhenPeter looked at her, he seemed guarded, as if he understood that she was nolongeranally.

Now he was looking at her the same way even as she smiled at him,pretendingthattherewasnoglarefromthefluorescentlightoverhishead;thatshecouldreachoutandtouchhiminsteadofstaringathimfromtheothersideoftheredlinethathadbeendrawnonthejailfloor.“DoyouknowwhatIfoundintheatticyesterday?Thatdinosauryouusedtolove,theonethatroaredwhenyoupulled its tail. I used to thinkyou’dbe carrying it down the aisle at yourwedding…”Lacybrokeoff, realizing that theremightneverbeawedding forPeter,oranyaisleoutsideofaprisonwalkway,forthatmatter.“Well,”shesaid,turningupthewattageonhersmile.“Iputitonyourbed.”

Peterstaredather.“Okay.”“Ithinkmyfavoritebirthdaypartyofyourswasthedinosaurone,whenwe

buried thoseplastic bones in the sandbox andyouhad to dig for them,”Lacysaid.“Remember?”

“Iremembernobodyshowedup.”“Ofcoursetheydid-”“Five kids,maybe,whosemoms had forced them to be there,” Peter said.

“God.Iwassixyearsold.Whyareweeventalkingaboutthis?”BecauseIdon’tknowwhatelsetosay,Lacythought.Shelookedaroundthe

visitationroom-therewereonlyahandfulofinmates,andthedevotedfewwhostillbelievedinthem,caughtonoppositesidesofthatredstripe.Inreality,Lacyrealized,thisdividinglinebetweenherandPeterhadbeenthereforyears.Ifyoukept your chin up, you might even be able to convince yourself there wasnothingseparatingyou.Itwasonlywhenyoutriedtocrossit,likenow,thatyouunderstoodhowrealabarrieritcouldbe.“Peter,”Lacyblurtedout,“I’msorryIdidn’tpickyouupatsleepawaycamp,thattime.”

Helookedatherasifshewascrazy.“Um,thanksforthat,butIgotoveritaboutahundredyearsago.”

“I know.But I can still be sorry.” Shewas sorry about a thousand things,suddenly: thatshedidn’tpaymoreattentionwhenPetershowedhersomenewprogrammingskill;thatshehadn’tboughthimanotherdogafterDozerdied;thatthey did not go back to theCaribbean lastwinter vacation, becauseLacy hadwronglyassumedtheyhadallthetimeintheworld.

“Sorrydoesn’tchangeanything.”“Itdoesforthepersonwho’sapologizing.”

Petergroaned.“Whatthefuckisthis?ChickenSoupfortheKidWithoutaSoul?”

Lacyflinched.“Youdon’thavetoswearinorderto-”“Fuck,”Petersang.“Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.”“I’mnotgoingtosithereandtakethis-”“Yesyouare,”Petersaid.“Youknowwhy?Becauseifyouwalkoutonme,

it’sjustonemorethingyou’vegottobesorryabout.”Lacywashalfwayoutofherchair,but the truth inPeter’swordsweighted

herbackdownintotheseat.Heknewher,itseemed,farbetterthanshehadeverknownhim.

“Ma,”hesaidsoftly,hisvoiceedgingoverthatredline.“Ididn’tmeanthat.”Shelookedupathim,herthroatthickeningwithtears.“Iknow,Peter.”“I’mgladyoucomehere.”Heswallowed.“Imean,you’retheonlyone.”“Yourfather-”Petersnorted.“Idon’tknowwhathe’sbeen tellingyou,but Ihaven’tseen

himsincethatfirsttimehecame.”Lewiswasn’tcomingtoseePeter?ThatwasnewstoLacy.Wheredidhego

whenheleftthehouse,tellingherthathewasheadedtothejail?She imaginedPeter, sitting inhiscelleveryotherweek,waiting foravisit

thatdidnotcome.Lacyforcedasmile-shewouldgetupsetonherowntime,notPeter’s-andimmediatelychangedthetopic.“Forthearraignment…Ibroughtyouanicejackettowear.”

“JordansaysIdon’tneedit.ForthearraignmentIjustweartheseclothes.Iwon’tneedthejacketuntilthetrial.”Petersmiledalittle.“Ihopeyoudidn’tcutthetagsoffyet.”

“Ididn’tbuyit.It’sJoey’sinterviewblazer.”Their eyesmet. “Oh,”Petermurmured. “So that’swhatyouweredoing in

theattic.”Therewassilenceas theybothrememberedJoeycomingdownstairs in the

BrooksBrothersblazerLacyhadgottenhimatFilene’sBasementinBostonatdeep discount. It had been purchased for college interviews; Joey had beensettingthemupatthetimeoftheaccident.

“Doyoueverwishitwasmewhodied,”Peterasked,“insteadofJoey?”Lacy’sheartfelllikeastone.“Ofcoursenot.”

“But thenyou’dstillhaveJoey,”Petersaid.“Andnoneof thiswouldhavehappened.”

She thought of Janet Isinghoff, the woman who had not wanted her as amidwife. Part of growing upwas learning not to be quite that honest-learningwhen itwas better to lie, rather thanhurt someonewith the truth. ItwaswhyLacycametothesevisitswithasmilestretchedlikeaHalloweenmaskoverherface, when in reality, she wanted to break down sobbing every time she sawPeterbeingledintothevisitationroombyacorrectionalofficer.Itwaswhyshewas talking about camp and stuffed animals-the hallmarks of the son sheremembered-instead of discovering who he had become. But Peter had neverlearnedhowtosayonethingwhenhemeantanother.Itwasoneofthereasonshe’dbeenhurtsomanytimes.

“Itwouldbeahappyending,”Petersaid.Lacydrewinabreath.“Notifyouweren’there.”Peterlookedatherforalongmoment.“You’relying,”hesaid-notangry,not

accusing.Justasifhewasstatingthefacts,inawaythatshewasn’t.“Iamnot-”“You can say it amillion times, but that doesn’tmake it anymore true.”

Petersmiledthen,soguilelessthatLacyfelt itsmartlikeastripefromawhip.“YoumightbeabletofoolDad,andthecops,andanyoneelsewho’lllisten,”hesaid.“Youjustcan’tfoolanotherliar.”

BythetimeDianareachedthedocketboardtocheckwhichjudgewassittingontheHoughtonarraignment,JordanMcAfeewasalreadystandingthere.Dianahatedhimonprinciple,becausehehadn’trippedtwopairsofstockingstryingtogetthemon,becausehewasn’thavingabadhairday,becausehedidn’tseemtobe the leastbit ruffledabout the fact thathalf the townofSterlingwason thefront steps of the courthouse, demanding blood. “Morning,” he said, not evenglancingather.

Dianadidn’tanswer.Instead,hermouthdroppedopenasshereadthenameofthejudgesittingonthecase.“Ithinkthere’samistake,”shesaidtotheclerk.

Theclerkglancedoverhershoulderat thedocketboard.“JudgeCormier’ssittingthismorning.”

“OntheHoughtoncase?Areyoukiddingme?”Theclerkshookherhead.“Nope.”“But her daughter-” Diana snapped her mouth shut, her thoughts reeling.

“Weneedtohaveachambersconferencewiththejudgebeforethearraignment.”The moment the clerk was gone, Diana faced Jordan. “What the hell is

Cormierthinking?”Itwasn’toftenthatJordangottoseeDianaLevensweat,andfrankly,itwas

entertaining. To be honest, Jordan had been just as shocked to see Cormier’snameonthedocketboardastheprosecutorhadbeen,buthewasn’tabouttotellDiana.Not tippinghishandwastheonlyadvantagehehadrightnow,becausefrankly,hiscasewasn’tworthanything.

Dianafrowned.“Didn’tyouexpectherto-”Theclerkreappeared.JordangotakickoutofEleanor;shecuthimslackin

thesuperiorcourthouseandevenlaughedatthedumb-blondejokeshesavedforher,whereasmostclerkshadaterminalcaseofself-importance.“HerHonorwillseeyounow,”Eleanorsaid.

AsJordanfollowedtheclerkintochambers,heleaneddownandwhisperedthepunchlinehe’dbeengettingat,beforeLevensorudelyinterruptedhisjokewithherarrival.“Soherhusband looksat theboxandsays, ‘Honey, it’snotapuzzle…it’ssomeFrostedFlakes!’”

Eleanorsnickered,andDianascowled.“What’sthat,somekindofcode?”“Yeah,Diana. It’s secret defense attorney language for:Whatever you do,

don’ttelltheprosecutorwhatI’msaying.”“Iwouldn’tbesurprised,”Dianamurmured,andthentheywereinchambers.JudgeCormierwasalready inher robe, ready tostart thearraignment.Her

armswerefolded;shewasleaningagainstherdesk.“Allright,Counselors,wehavealotofpeopleinthecourtroomwaiting.What’stheproblem?”

Dianaglanced at Jordan, but he just raisedhis eyebrows. If shewanted topokeatthehornet’snest,thatwasjustfine,buthe’dbestandingfarawaywhenithappened.LetCormierholdagrudgeagainsttheprosecution,notthedefense.

“Judge,” Diana said hesitantly, “it’s my understanding that your daughterwasintheschoolatthetimeoftheshooting.Infact,we’veinterviewedher.”

Jordan had to give Cormier credit-she somehow managed to stare Dianadownas if theprosecutorhadn’t justpresentedavalidanddisturbing fact,buthadsaidsomethingabsolutelyludicrousinstead.Likethepunchlineofadumb-blondejoke,forexample.“I’mquiteawareofthat,”thejudgesaid.“Therewereathousandchildrenintheschoolatthetimeoftheshooting.”

“Ofcourse,YourHonor.I just…Iwantedtoaskbeforewegotout thereinfrontofeveryonewhetherthecourtwasplanningtojusthandlethearraignment,orifyou’replanningtositduringthewholecase?”

JordanlookedatDiana,wonderingwhyshewassodeadsurethatCormiershouldn’tbesittingonthiscase.WhatdidsheknowaboutJosieCormierthathedidn’t?

“AsIsaid,therewerethousandsofkidsinthatschool.Someoftheirparentsarepoliceofficers,someworkhereatthesuperiorcourt.Oneevenworksinyouroffice,Ms.Leven.”

“Yes,YourHonor…butthatparticularattorneyisn’thandlingthiscase.”The judge stared at her, calm. “Are you callingmydaughter as awitness,

Ms.Leven?”Dianahesitated.“No,YourHonor.”“Well, I’ve readmy daughter’s statement, Counselor, and I don’t see any

reasonthatwecan’tproceed.”Jordanranthroughwhatheknewsofar:PeterhadaskedaboutJosie’swelfare.Josiewaspresentduringtheshooting.Josie’s yearbook photo, in the discovery, was the only one that had been

markedwiththewordsLETLIVE.Butaccordingtohermother,whatevershetoldthepolicewouldn’taffectthe

case.AccordingtoDiana,nothingJosieknewwasimportantenoughtomakeherawitnessfortheprosecution.

Hedroppedhisgaze,hismindreplayingthesefactsoverandoverlikealoopofvideotape.

Onethatjustdidn’tmakesense.The formerelementaryschool thatwasservingas thephysical location for

SterlingHighdidnothaveacafeteria-littlekidsateintheirclassrooms,attheirdesks.Butsomehowthiswasconsideredunhealthyforteenagers,sothelibraryhadbeenturnedintoamakeshiftcafeteria.Therewerenobooksorshelvesthereanymore,butthecarpetstillhadABC’ssprinkledintoitsweave,andaposteroftheCatintheHatstillhungbesidethedoubledoors.

Josienolongersatwithherfriendsinthecafeteria.Itjustdidn’tfeelright-asifsomecriticalmassweremissing,andtheywerelikelytobesplitapartlikeanatomunderpressure. Instead, shesequesteredherself inacornerof the librarywhere therewerecarpetedrisers,whereshe liked to imaginea teacher readingaloudtoherkindergartners.

Today,when they’d arrived at school, the television cameraswere alreadywaiting.You had towalk right through them to get to the front door. They’ddribbledawayoverthepastweek-nodoubttherewassometragedysomewhereelse for these reporters to cover-but returned in full force to report on thearraignment. Josie hadwondered how theywere going to hightail it from theschool all theway north to the courthouse in time. Shewondered howmanytimesinthecourseofherhighschoolcareertheywouldcomeback.Onthelastdayofschool?Attheanniversaryoftheshooting?Atgraduation?SheimaginedthePeoplemagazinearticlethatwouldbewritteninadecadeaboutthesurvivorsof theSterlingHighmassacre-“WhereAreTheyNow?”WouldJohnEberhardbe playing hockey again, or even walking? Would Courtney’s parents have

movedoutofSterling?WherewouldJosiebe?AndPeter?Hermotherwas the judgeathis trial.Even if shedidn’t talk about itwith

Josie-legally, she couldn’t-it wasn’t as if Josie didn’t know. Josie was caughtsomewherebetweenutterrelief,knowinghermomwouldbesittingonthecase,andabsolute terror.Ontheonehand,sheknewhermotherwouldstartpiecingtogethertheeventsofthatday,andthatmeantJosiewouldn’thavetotalkaboutit herself. On the other hand, once her mother did start piecing together theeventsofthatday,whatelsewouldshefigureout?

Drewwalkedintothelibrary,tossinganorangeupintheairandcatchingitrepeatedlyinhisfist.Heglancedaroundatthepodsofstudents,settledinsmallgroupsonthecarpetwiththeirhotlunchtraysbalancedontheirkneeslikethebowsof crickets, and then spotted Josie. “What’s up?”he asked, sittingdownbesideher.

“Notmuch.”“Didthejackalsgetyou?”Hewastalkingaboutthetelevisionreporters.“Isortofranpastthem.”“Iwishthey’dalljustgofuckthemselves,”Drewsaid.Josie leanedherheadagainst thewall.“Iwish itwouldall justgoback to

normal.”“Maybeafterthetrial.”Drewturnedtoher.“Isitweird,youknow,withyour

momandall?”“Wedon’ttalkaboutit.Wedon’ttalkaboutanything,really.”Shepickedup

herbottledwaterandtookasip,sothatDrewwouldn’trealizethatherhandwasshaking.

“He’snotcrazy.”“Who?”“PeterHoughton.Isawhiseyesthatday.Heknewexactlywhatthehellhe

wasdoing.”“Drew,shutup,”Josiesighed.“Well,it’strue.Doesn’tmatterwhatsomehotshotfuckinglawyersaystotry

togethimoffthehook.”“Ithinkthat’ssomethingthejurygetstodecide,notyou.”“JesusChrist,Josie,”hesaid.“Ofallpeople,Iwouldn’tthinkyou’dwantto

defendhim.”“I’mnotdefendinghim.I’mjusttellingyouhowthelegalsystemworks.”“Well, thanks,MarciaClark.But somehowyougive less of a damn about

thatwhenyou’retheonewithaslugbeingpulledoutofyourshoulder.Orwhenyourbestfriend-oryourboyfriend-isbleedingtodeathinfrontof-”Hebrokeoff

abruptlyasJosiefumbledherbottleofwater,soakingherselfandDrew.“Sorry,”shesaid,moppingupthemesswithanapkin.Drewsighed.“Me,too.IguessI’malittlefreakedout,withthecamerasand

everything.”He toreoffapieceof thedampnapkinandstuck it inhismouth,thentossedthespitballatthebackofanoverweightboywhocarriedthetubaintheschoolmarchingband.

OhmyGod,Josiethought.Nothing’schangedatall.Drewtoreoffanotherpieceofnapkinandrolleditinhispalm.“Stopit,”Josiesaid.

“What?” Drew shrugged. “You’re the one who wanted to go back tonormal.”

Therewerefourtelevisioncamerasinthecourtroom:ABC,NBC,CBS,andCNN;plusreportersfromTime,Newsweek,TheNewYorkTimes,TheBostonGlobe, and the Associated Press. Themedia hadmet with Alex last week inchambers,sothatshecoulddecidewhowouldberepresentedinthecourtroomwhiletheotherswaitedoutsideonthestepsofthecourthouse.Shewasawareofthe tiny red lights on the cameras that indicated they were recording; of thescratchofpensonpaperasthereporterswrotedownherwordsverbatim.PeterHoughtonhadbecomeinfamous,andasaresultof that,Alexwouldnowhaveher fifteenminutesof fame.Maybesixty,Alex thought. Itwould takeher thatlongtosimplyreadthroughallthecharges.

“Mr. Houghton,” Alex said, “you are charged with, on March 6, 2007, acountoffirst-degreemurder,contraryto631:1-A,inthatyoupurposelycausedthedeathofanother,towit,CourtneyIgnatio.Youarechargedwith,onMarch6,2007,acountoffirst-degreemurder,contraryto631:1-A,inthatyoupurposelycausedthedeathofanother,towit…”Sheglanceddownatthename.“MatthewRoyston.”

The words were routine, something Alex could do in her sleep. But shefocusedonthem,onkeepinghervoicemeasuredandeven,ongivingweighttothe name of each dead child. The gallery was packed full, and Alex couldrecognize the parents of these students, and some students themselves. Onemother, a woman Alex did not know by sight or name, sat in the front rowbehindthedefensetable,clutchingan8x10photoofasmilinggirl.

Jordan McAfee sat beside his client, who was wearing an orange jailjumpsuit and shackles, andwasdoingeverythinghecould to avoid lookingatAlexasshereadthecharges.

“You are chargedwith, onMarch 6, 2007, a count of first-degreemurder,contrary to631:1-A, in thatyoupurposelycaused thedeathofanother, towit,JustinFriedman….

“You are chargedwith, onMarch 6, 2007, a count of first-degreemurder,

contrary to631:1-A, in thatyoupurposelycaused thedeathofanother, towit,ChristopherMcPhee….

“You are chargedwith, onMarch 6, 2007, a count of first-degreemurder,contrary to631:1-A, in thatyoupurposelycaused thedeathofanother, towit,GraceMurtaugh….”

Thewomanwith thephotostoodupasAlexwas reciting thecharges.Sheleanedoverthebar,betweenPeterHoughtonandhisattorney,andsmackedthephotographdownsohard that theglasscracked.“Doyou rememberher?” thewomancried,hervoiceraw.“DoyourememberGrace?”

McAfeewhippedaround.Peterduckedhishead,keepinghiseyestrainedonthetableinfrontofhim.

Alexhadhaddisruptivepeople inhercourtroombefore,but shecouldnotrememberthemstealingherbreathaway.Thismother’spainseemedtotakeupalltheemptyspaceinthegallery;heattheemotionsoftheotherspectatorstoaboilingpoint.

Herhandsbegantotremble;sheslippedthemunderneaththebenchsothatnobody could see. “Ma’am,” Alex said. “I’m going to have to ask you to sitdown…”

“Didyoulookherinthefacewhenyoushother,youbastard?”Didyou?Alexthought.“YourHonor,”McAfeecalled.Alex’sabilitytojudgethiscaseimpartiallyhadalreadybeenchallengedby

theprosecution.Whileshedidn’thavetojustifyherdecisionstoanyone,she’djust told the attorneys that she could easily separate her personal and herprofessional involvement in this case. She’d thought it would be a matter ofseeing Josie not as her daughter, specifically, but as one of hundreds presentduring the shooting.Shehadnot realized that itwouldactuallycomedown toseeingherselfnotasajudge,butasanothermother.

Youcandothis,shetoldherself.Justrememberwhyyou’rehere.“Bailiffs,”Alexmurmured,andthetwobeefycourtroomattendantsgrabbedthewomanbythearmstoescortheroutofthecourtroom.

“You’llburninhell,”thewomanshoutedasthetelevisioncamerasfollowedherprogressdowntheaisle.

Alex didn’t. She kept her eyes on Peter Houghton, while his attorney’sattentionwasdistracted.“Mr.McAfee,”shesaid.

“Yes,YourHonor?”“Pleaseaskyourclienttoholdouthishand.”“I’msorry,Judge,butIthinkthere’salreadybeenenoughprejudicial-”“Doit,Counselor.”

McAfeenoddedatPeter,wholiftedhisshackledwristsandopenedhisfists.Winking in Peter’s palmwas a shard of broken glass from the picture frame.Blanching, the attorney reached for the glass. “Thank you, Your Honor,” hemuttered.

“Anytime.”Alexlookedatthegalleryandclearedherthroat.“Itrusttherewillbenomoreoutburstslikethat,orI’llbeforcedtoclosetheseproceedingstothepublic.”

She continued reading the charges in a courtroom so quiet you could hearheartsbreak;youcouldhearhope fluttering to the rafterson theceiling. “Youarechargedwith,onMarch6,2007,acountoffirst-degreemurder,contraryto631:1-A, in that youpurposely caused thedeathof another, towit,MadeleineShaw.Youarechargedwith,onMarch6,2007,acountoffirst-degreemurder,contrary to631:1-A, in thatyoupurposelycaused thedeathofanother, towit,EdwardMcCabe.

“You are chargedwith attempted first-degreemurder, contrary to 630:1-Aand629:1, in thatyoudidcommitanact infurtheranceof theoffenseoffirst-degreemurder,towit,shootingatEmmaAlexis.

“Youarechargedwithpossessionoffirearmsonschoolgrounds.“Possessionofexplosivedevices.“Unlawfuluseofanexplosivedevice.“Receivingstolengoods,towit,firearms.”By the timeAlex had finished, her voice was hoarse. “Mr.McAfee,” she

said,“howdoesyourclientplead?”“Notguiltytoallcounts,YourHonor.”A murmur spread virally through the courtroom, something that always

happened in thewake of hearing that not-guilty plea, and that always seemedridiculoustoAlex-whatwasthedefendantsupposedtodo?Sayhewasguilty?

“Giventhenatureof thecharges,youarenotentitledtobailasamatteroflaw.Youareremandedtothecustodyofthesheriff.”

Alexdismissedcourtandheadedintochambers.Inside,withthedoorclosed,shepacedlikeanathletecomingoffabrutalrace.Iftherewasanythingshewassure of, it was her ability to judge fairly. But if it had been this hard at thearraignment, howwould she function when the prosecution began to actuallyoutlinetheeventsofthatday?

“Eleanor,”Alexsaid,pressing the intercombutton forherclerk,“clearmyschedulefortwohours.”

“Butyou-”“Clearit,”shesnapped.Shecouldstillseethefacesofthoseparentsinthe

gallery.Whatthey’dlostwaswrittenacrosstheirfaces,acollectivescar.

Alexstrippedoffherrobeandheadeddownthebackstairstotheparkinglot.Instead of stopping for a cigarette, though, she got into her car. She drovestraighttotheelementaryschoolandparkedinthefirelane.Therewasonenewsvanstill in the teachers’parking lot,andAlexpanicked,until sherealized thatthelicenseplateswerefromNewYork;thatthechanceofsomeonerecognizingherwithoutherjudicialrobesonwasunlikely.

TheonlypersonwhohadarighttoaskAlextorecuseherselfwasJosie,butAlexknewthatultimatelyherdaughterwouldunderstand.ItwasAlex’sfirstbigcaseinsuperiorcourt.ItwasmodelinghealthybehaviorforJosieherself,togetonwithher life again.Alex tried to ignore the last reason shewas fighting tostayonthiscase-theonethatprickedlikeathorn,likeasplinter,rubbingrawnomatterwhichwayshecameat it: shehadabetterchanceof learningfromtheprosecutionandthedefensewhatherdaughterhadenduredthansheeverwouldfromJosieherself.

Shewalkedintothemainoffice.“Ineedtopickupmydaughter,”Alexsaid,andtheschoolsecretarypushedaclipboardtowardher,withinformationtobefilledout.STUDENT,Alexread.TIMEOUT.REASON.TIMEIN.

JosieCormier,shewrote.10:45a.m.Orthodontist.Shecouldfeelthesecretary’seyesonher-clearlythewomanwantedtoknow

whyJudgeCormierwasstandinginfrontofherdeskinsteadofatthecourthousepresidingoverthearraignmentthattheywereallwaitingtohearabout.“IfyoucouldjustsendJosieouttothecar,”Alexsaid,andshewalkedoutoftheoffice.

Withinfiveminutes,Josieopenedthepassengerdoorandslidintotheseat.“Idon’thavebraces.”

“Ineededtothinkofanexcusefast,”Alexanswered.“Itwasthefirstonetopopintomyhead.”

“Sowhyareyoureallyhere?”AlexwatchedJosie turnupthevolumeof thevent.“DoIneedareasonto

havelunchwithmydaughter?”“It’s,like,ten-thirty.”“Thenwe’replayinghooky.”“Whatever,”Josiesaid.Alexpulledawayfromthecurb.Josiewastwofeetawayfromher,butthey

mightaswellhavebeenondifferentcontinents.Herdaughterstaredfirmlyoutthewindow,watchingtheworldgoby.

“Isitover?”Josieasked.“Thearraignment?Yes.”“Isthatwhyyoucamehere?”HowcouldAlexdescribewhatithadfelt like,seeingallofthosenameless

mothers and fathers in the gallery, without a child between them? If you lostyourchild,couldyoustillevencallyourselfaparent?

Whatifyou’djustbeenstupidenoughtoletherslipaway?Alexdrovetotheendofaroadthatoverlookedtheriver.Itwasracing,the

wayitalwaysdidinthespring.Ifyoudidn’tknowbetter,ifyouwerelookingatastillphoto,youmightwishyoucouldtakeadip.Youwouldn’trealize,justbyglancing,thatthewaterwouldrobyouofyourbreath;thatyoumightbesweptaway.

“Iwantedtoseeyou,”Alexconfessed.“Therewerepeopleinmycourtroomtoday…peoplewhoprobablywakeupeverydaynowwishingthatthey’ddonethis-left in themiddleof thedaytohavelunchwith theirdaughters, insteadoftellingthemselvestheycoulddoitsomeotherday.”SheturnedtoJosie.“Thosepeople,theydidn’tgettohaveanyotherdays.”

Josie picked at a loose white thread, silent long enough for Alex to startmentally kicking herself. So much for her spontaneous foray into primalmotherhood.Alexhadbeenrattledbyherownemotionsduringthearraignment;insteadoftellingherselfshewasbeingridiculous,she’dactedonthem.Butthiswas exactly what happened, wasn’t it, when you started to sift through theshiftingsandsoffeelings, insteadof justfeedingfactshandoverfist?Thehellwithputtingyourheartonyoursleeve;itwaslikelytogetrippedoff.

“Hooky,”Josiesaidquietly.“Notlunch.”Alexsatback,relieved.“Whatever,”shejoked.ShewaiteduntilJosiemet

hergaze.“Iwanttotalktoyouaboutthecase.”“Ithoughtyoucouldn’t.”“That’s sort of what I wanted to talk about. Even if this was the biggest

careeropportunityintheworld,I’dstepdownifIbelieveditwasgoingtomakethingsharder for you.Youcan still come tomeanytimeand askmeanythingyouwant.”

They both pretended, for amoment, that Josie did this on a regular basis,when in fact ithadbeenyears since she’d sharedanything inconfidencewithAlex.

Josie’sglanceslantedtowardher.“Evenaboutthearraignment?”“Evenaboutthearraignment.”“WhatdidPetersayincourt?”Josieasked.“Nothing.Thelawyerdoesallthetalking.”“Whatdidhelooklike?”Alex thought for a moment. She had, upon first seeing Peter in his jail

jumpsuit, been amazed at howmuch he’d grown.Although she had seen himover the years-in the back of the classroom during school events, at the copy

storewhereheandJosiehadworkedtogetherbriefly,evendrivingdownMainStreet-she still somehow had expected him to be the same little boy who’dplayedinkindergartenwithJosie.Alexconsideredhisorangescrubs,hisrubberflip-flops,hisshackles.“Helookedlikeadefendant,”shesaid.

“Ifhe’sconvicted,”Josieasked,“he’llnevergetoutofprison,willhe?”Alexfeltherheartsqueeze.Josiewas tryingnot toshowit,buthowcould

shenotbeafraidthatsomethinglikethiswouldhappenagain?Thenagain,howcouldAlex-as a judge-makeapromise to convictPeterbeforehe’d evenbeentried?Alex felt herself walking the highwire between personal responsibilityand professional ethics, trying her damnedest not to fall. “You don’t have toworryaboutthat…”

“That’snotananswer,”Josiesaid.“He’llmostlikelyspendhislifethere,yes.”“Ifhewasinprison,wouldpeoplebeallowedtotalktohim?”Suddenly,Alexcouldn’tfollowJosie’slineoflogic.“Why?Doyouwantto

talktohim?”“Idon’tknow.”“Ican’timaginewhyyou’dwantto,after-”“Iusedtobehisfriend,”Josiesaid.“You haven’t been Peter’s friend in years,” Alex answered, but then the

tumblers clicked, and she understood why her daughter, who was seeminglyterrified about Peter’s potential release from prison, might still want tocommunicatewithhimafterhisconviction:remorse.MaybeJosiebelievedthatsomethingshe’ddone-orhadn’t-mighthavebroughtPetertothepointwherehewouldhavegoneandshothiswaythroughSterlingHigh.

IfAlexdidn’tunderstandtheconceptofaguiltyconscience,whowould?“Honey,therearepeoplelookingoutforPeter-peoplewhosejobitistolook

outforhim.Youdon’thavetobetheonetodoit.”Alexsmiledalittle.“Youjusthavetolookoutforyourself,allright?”

Josielookedaway.“Ihaveatestnextperiod,”shesaid.“Canwegobacktoschoolnow?”

Alex drove in silence, because by that time it was too late to make thecorrection;totellherdaughterthattherewassomeonelookingoutforher,too;thatJosiewasnotinthisalone.

Attwointhemorning,whenJordanhadbeenbouncingawailing,sickinfantinhisarmsforfivestraighthours,heturnedtoSelena.“Remindmewhywehadachild?”

Selenawas sitting at the kitchen table-well, no, actually shewas sprawledacrossit,herheadpillowedinherarms.“Becauseyouwantedtopassalongthe

finelytunedgeneticblueprintofmybloodline.”“Frankly,Ithinkallwe’repassingalongissomeviralcrud.”Suddenly,Selenasatup.“Hey,”shewhispered.“He’sasleep.”“ThankGod.Gethimoffme.”“LikehellIwill-that’sthemostcomfortablehe’sbeenallday.”Jordangloweredatherandsankintothechairacrossfromher,hishandsstill

cuppedaroundhissleepingson.“He’snottheonlyone.”“Arewetalkingaboutyourcaseagain?Becausetobehonest,Jordan,I’mso

damntiredthatIneedclues,here,ifwe’regoingtoshifttopics…”“Ijustcan’tfigureoutwhyshehasn’trecusedherself.Whentheprosecution

brought up her daughter, Cormier dismissed it…andmore importantly, so didLeven.”

Selena yawned and stood up. “You’re looking a gift horse in the mouth,baby.Cormier’sgottobeabetterjudgeforyouthanWagner.”

“Butsomething’srubbingmethewrongwayaboutthis.”Selenasmiledathimindulgently.“Gotalittlediaperrash,huh?”“Evenifherkiddoesn’trememberanythingnow,thatdoesn’tmeanshe’snot

going to. And how is Cormier going to remain impartial, knowing that herdaughter’s boyfriend was blown away by my client while she stood therewatching?”

“Well, you couldmake amotion toget heroff the case,”Selena said. “OryoucouldwaitforDianatodothatinstead.”

Jordanglancedupather.“IfIwereyou,I’dkeepmymouthshut.”Hereachedout,snaggingthesashofherrobesothatitunraveled.“Whendo

Ieverkeepmymouthshut?”Selenalaughed.“There’salwaysafirsttime,”shesaid.Each tier inmaximumsecurityhad fourcells, six feetbyeight feet. Inside

thecellwasabunkbedandatoilet.IthadtakenPeterthreedaystobeabletotake a dump while the correctional officers were walking past, without hisbowelsseizingup,but-andthiswashowheknewhewasgettingusedtobeinghere-nowhecouldprobablycraponcommand.

Atoneendofthemaximum-securitycatwalkwasasmalltelevision.BecausetherewasonlyroomforonechairinfrontoftheTV,theguywho’dbeeninthelongestgottositdown.Everyoneelsestoodbehindhim,likehoboesinasoupline,towatch.Therewerenotalotofprogramstheinmatescouldagreeupon.MostlyitwasMTV,althoughtheyalwaysturnedonJerrySpringer.Peterfiguredthatwasbecausenomatterhowmuchyou’dscrewedupinyourlife,youlikedknowingthattherewerepeopleoutthereevenmorestupidthanyou.

Ifanyoneonthetierdidsomethingwrong-notevenPeter,butforexampleanassholelikeSatanJones(Satannotbeinghisrealname;thatwasGaylord,butifyoumentionediteveninawhisperhe’dgoforyourjugular),whohaddrawnacaricatureof twoof theCOsdoing thehorizontalhoraon thewallofhiscell-everyonelost thetelevisionprivilegefortheweek.Whichleft theotherendofthecatwalktomoseyondowntoward:ashowerwithaplasticcurtain,andthephone,whereyoucouldcallcollectforadollaraminute,andeveryfewsecondsyou’d hear This call has originated at the Grafton County Department ofCorrections,justincaseyouhadbeenluckyenoughtoforget.

Peterwasdoingsit-ups,whichhehated.Hehatedallexercise,really.Butthealternativewassittingaroundandgettingsoftenoughforeveryonetothinktheycouldpickonyou,orgoingoutsideduringhisexercisehour.Hewent,acoupleoftimes-nottoshoothoopsortojogorevenmakesecretdealsnearthefenceforthe drugs or cigarettes that got smuggled into jail, but just to be outside andbreathing in air that hadn’t already been breathed by the other inmates in thisplace.Unfortunately,fromtheexerciseyardyoucouldseetheriver.You’dthinkthatwasabonus,but infact, itwasthemostawful tease.SometimesthewindblewsothatPetercouldevensmell it-thesoilalongtheedge,thefrigidwater-anditnearlybrokehimtoknowthathecouldn’tjustwalkdownthereandtakeoffhisshoesandsocksandwadein,swim,fuckingdrownhimselfifhewantedto.Afterthat,hestoppedgoingoutdoorsatall.

Peterfinishedhishundredthsit-up-theironywasthatafteramonth,hewassomuchstrongerthathecouldprobablyhavekickedMattRoyston’sandDrewGirard’s asses simultaneously-and sat down on his bunkwith the commissaryform.Onceaweek,yougottogoshoppingforthingslikemouthwashandpaper,withthepricesjackedupridiculouslyhigh.PeterrememberedgoingtoSt.Johnoneyearwithhisfamily;inthegrocerystore,cornflakescost,like,tendollars,because theywere such a rare commodity. Itwasn’t like shampoowas a rarecommodity,butinjail,youwereatthemercyoftheadministration,whichmeantthey could charge $3.25 for a bottle of Pert, or $16 for a box fan.Your otheralternativewas tohope thatan inmatewho left for thestateprisonwouldwillyouhisbelongings,buttoPeter,thatfeltalittlelikebeingavulture.

“Houghton,” a correctional officer said, his heavy boots ringing down themetalcatwalk,“you’vegotmail.”

Two envelopes zoomed into the cell and slid underneath Peter’s bunk.Hereached for them, scraping his fingernails against the cement floor. The firstletterwasfromhismother,whichhewasalmostexpecting.Petergotmailfromhismother at least three or four times aweek.The letterswere usually aboutstupidthingslikeeditorialsinthelocalpaperorhowwellherspiderplantswere

doing. He’d thought, for a while, that she was writing in code-something heneededtoknow,somethingtranscendentandinspirational-butthenhestartedtorealizethatshewasjustwritingtofillupspace.That’swhenhestoppedopeningmailfromhismother.Hedidn’tfeelbadaboutthis,really.Thereasonhismotherwrotetohim,Peterknew,wasn’tsothathe’dreadtheletters.Itwassothatshecouldtellherselfshe’dwrittenthem.

Hedidn’t reallyblamehisparents forbeingclueless.Firstof all, he’dhadplenty of practicewith that particular condition. Second, the only peoplewhounderstoodhim,really,weretheoneswhohadbeenatthehighschoolthatday,andtheyweren’texactlyjamminghismailboxwithmissives.

Petertossedhismother’sletterontotheflooragainandstaredattheaddressonthesecondenvelope.Hedidn’trecognizeit;itwasn’tfromSterling,orevenNewHampshire,forthatmatter.ElenaBattista,heread.ElenafromRidgewood,NewJersey.

Herippedopentheenvelopeandscannedhernote.Peter,IfeellikeIalreadyknowyou,becauseI’vebeenfollowingwhathappenedat

the high school. I’m in college now, but I think I knowwhat it was like foryou…becauseitwaslikethatforme.Infact,I’mwritingmythesisnowontheeffectsofbeingbulliedatschool.Iknowit’spresumptuoustothinkthatyou’dwant to talk to someone likeme…but I think if I’d known someone like youwhen Iwas inhigh school,my lifewouldhavebeendifferent, andmaybe it’snevertoolate????

Sincerely,ElenaBattistaPeter tapped the raggedenvelope against his thigh. Jordanhad specifically

toldhimhewastotalktonobody-thatis,excepthisparents,andJordanhimself.But his parentswereuseless, and to behonest, itwasn’t like Jordanhadbeenholdinguphisendofthebargain,whichinvolvedbeingphysicallypresentoftenenoughforPetertogetwhateverwasbugginghimoffhischest.

Besides.Shewasacollegegirl.Itwaskindofcooltothinkthatacollegegirlwanted to talk tohim;and itwasn’t likehewasgoing to tellheranythingshedidn’talreadyknow.

Peterreachedforhiscommissaryformagainandcheckedofftheboxforagenericgreetingcard.

Atrialcouldbesplitintohalves:whathappenedthedayoftheevent,whichwastheprosecution’sbaby;andeverythingthatleduptoit,whichwaswhatthedefensehadtopresent.Tothatend,Selenabusiedherselfinterviewingeveryonewhohadcomeincontactwiththeirclientduringthepastseventeenyearsofhis

life.TwodaysafterPeter’sarraignmentinsuperiorcourt,SelenasatdownwiththeprincipalofSterlingHigh inhismodifiedelementaryschooloffice.ArthurMcAllister had a sandybeard and a roundbelly and teeth that hedidn’t showwhenhe smiled.He remindedSelenaofoneof those freaky talkingbears thathadcomeontothemarketwhenshewasakid-TeddyRuxpin-whichmadeitallthemore strangewhen he started answering her questions about anti-bullyingpoliciesatthehighschool.“It’snottolerated,”McAllistersaid,althoughSelenahadexpectedthatpartyline.“We’recompletelyontopofit.”

“So,ifakidcomestoyoutocomplainaboutbeingpickedon,whataretherepercussionsforthebully?”

“Oneofthethingswe’vefound,Selena-canIcallyouSelena?-isthatiftheadministrationintervenes,itmakesitworseforthekidwho’sbeingbullied.”Hehesitated. “I know what people are saying about the shooting. How they’recomparingittoColumbineandPaducahandtheonesthatcamebeforethem.ButItrulybelievethatitwasn’tbullying,perse,thatledPetertodowhathedid.”

“What he allegedly did,” Selena automatically corrected. “Do you keeprecordsofbullyingincidents?”

“Ifitescalates,andthekidsarebroughtintome,thenyes.”“WasanyoneeverbroughttoyouforbullyingPeterHoughton?”McAllister stood up and pulled a file out of a cabinet. He began to leaf

throughit,andthenstoppedatapage.“Actually,Peterwasbroughtintoseemetwicethisyear.Hewasputintodetentionforfightinginthehalls.”

“Fighting?”Selenasaid.“Orfightingback?”WhenKatieRiccobonohadplungedaknife intoherhusband’schestwhile

he was fast asleep-forty-six times-Jordan had called upon Dr. King Wah, aforensic psychiatrist who specialized in battered woman syndrome. It was aspecific tangent of post-traumatic stress disorder, one that suggested awomanwho’d been repeatedly victimized both mentally and physically might soconstantly fear forher life that the linebetween realityand fantasyblurred, tothepointwhereshefeltthreatenedevenwhenthethreatwasdormant,orinJoeRiccobono’scase,ashelaysleepingoffathree-daydrinkingspree.

Kinghadwonthecaseforthem.Intheyearsthathadpassed,he’dbecomeone of the foremost experts on battered woman syndrome, and appearedroutinely as a witness for the defense all over the country. His fees hadskyrocketed;histimenowcameatapremium.

JordanheadedtoKing’sBostonofficewithoutanappointment,figuringhischarm could get him past whatever secretarial gatekeeper the good doctoremployed,buthehadn’tcountedonanear-retirement-agedragonnamedRuth.“Thedoctor’sbookingsixmonthsout,”shesaid,notevenbotheringtolookup

atJordan.“Butthisisapersonalcall,notaprofessionalone.”“AndIcare,”Ruthsaid,inatonethatclearlysuggestedshedidn’t.Jordanfigureditwouldn’tdoanygoodtotellRuthshewaslookinglovely

today,ortograceherwithadumb-blondejoke,oreventoplayuphissuccessfultrackrecordasadefenseattorney.“It’safamilyemergency,”hesaid.

“Yourfamilyishavingapsychologicalemergency,”Ruthrepeatedflatly.“Ourfamily,”Jordanimprovised.“I’mDr.Wah’sbrother.”WhenRuthjust

staredathim,Jordanadded,“Dr.Wah’sadoptedbrother.”Sheraisedonesharpeyebrowandpressedabuttononherphone.Amoment

later,itrang.“Doctor,”shesaid.“Amanwhoclaimstobeyourbrotherisheretoseeyou.”Shehungupthereceiver.“Hesaysyoucangorightin.”

JordanopenedtheheavymahoganydoortofindKingeatingasandwich,hisfeet crossed on top of his desk. “JordanMcAfee,” he said, smiling. “I shouldhaveknown.Sotellme…how’sMomdoing?”

“HowthehellshouldIknow,shealwayslovedyoubest,”Jordanjoked,andhecameforwardtoshakeKing’shand.“Thanksforseeingme.”

“Ihadtofindoutwhohadenoughchutzpahtosayhewasmybrother.”“‘Chutzpah,’”Jordanrepeated.“YoulearnthatinChineseschool?”“Yeah,YiddishcamerightafterAbacus101.”HegesturedforJordantotake

aseat.“Sohow’sitgoing?”“Good,” Jordan said. “Imean,maybe not as good as it’s going for you. I

can’tturnonCourtTVwithoutseeingyourfaceonthescreen.”“It’sbeenbusy,that’sforsure.I’veonlygottenminutes,infact,beforemy

nextappointment.”“I know. That’s why I took a chance that you’d see me-I want you to

evaluatemyclient.”“Jordan,man,youknowIwould,butI’mbookingnearlysixmonthsoutfor

trialwork.”“Thisone’sdifferent,King.It’smultiplemurdercharges.”“Murders?”Kingsaid.“Howmanyhusbandsdidshekill?”“None,andit’snotashe.It’saboy.Akid.Hewasbulliedforyears,andthen

turnedaroundandshotupSterlingHighSchool.”Kinghandedhalfofhis tunasandwichtoJordan.“Allright, littlebrother,”

hesaid.“Let’stalkoverlunch.”Josieglancedfromtheserviceablegray tilefloor to thecinder-blockwalls,

fromtheironbarsthatisolatedDispatchfromthesittingareatotheheavydoorwith its automatic lock. It was kind of like a jail, and she wondered if thepolicemeninsideeverthoughtaboutthatirony.Butthen,assoonastheimageof

jail popped into her head, Josie thought of Peter and began to panic again. “Idon’twanttobehere,”shesaid,turningtohermother.

“Iknow.”“Why does he even want to talk to me again? I already told him I can’t

rememberanything.”They had received the letter in themail; Detective Ducharme had “a few

morequestions”toaskher.ToJosie, thatmeanthemustknowsomethingnowthathehadn’tknownthefirsttimehequestionedher.Hermotherhadexplainedthatasecondinterviewwasjustawayofmakingsuretheprosecutionhaddottedtheir i’sandcrossedtheir t’s; that itreallydidn’tmeananythingatall,but thatshehadtogotothestation,allthesame.GodforbidJosiebetheonetoscrewuptheinvestigation.

“Allyouhavetodoistellhim,again,thatyoudon’trememberanything…andyou’llbealldone,”hermothersaid,andshegentlyputherhandonJosie’sknee,whichhadbegunshaking.

WhatJosiewantedtodowasstandup,burstthroughthedoubledoorsofthepolicestation,andstartrunning.Shewantedtosprintthroughtheparkinglotandacrossthestreet,overthemiddleschoolplayingfieldsandintothewoodsthatedgedthetownpond,upthemountainsthatshecouldsometimesseefromherbedroomwindowiftheleaveshadfallenfromthetrees,untilshewasashighasshecouldpossiblygo.Andthen…

And then maybe she’d just spread her arms and step off the edge of theworld.

Whatifthiswasallasetup?WhatifDetectiveDucharmealreadyknew…everything?“Josie,”avoicesaid.“Thankssomuchforcomingdownhere.”Sheglanceduptoseethedetectivestandinginfrontofthem.Hermothergot

toherfeet.Josietried,honestlyshedid,butshecouldn’tfindthecouragetodoit.

“Judge,Iappreciateyoubringingyourdaughterdownhere.”“Josie’s very upset,” her mother said. “She still can’t remember anything

aboutthatday.”“IneedtohearthatfromJosieherself.”Thedetectivekneltsothathecould

look intohereyes.Hehad, Josie realized,niceeyes.A little sad, likeabassethound’s.Itmadeherwonderwhatitwouldbeliketohearallthesestoriesfromthewoundedandthestunned;ifyoucouldn’thelpbutabsorbthembyosmosis.“Ipromise,”hesaidgently.“Thiswon’ttakelong.”

Josie started to imagine what it would feel like when the door to theconferenceroomclosed;howquestionscouldbuilduplikethepressureinsidea

champagne bottle. Shewonderedwhat hurtmore: not rememberingwhat hadhappened,nomatterhowhardyoutriedtowill it tothefrontofyourmind,orrecallingeverylast,awfulmoment.

Outof thecornerofher eye, Josie sawhermother sitbackdown.“Aren’tyoucominginwithme?”

Thelasttimethedetectivehadtalkedtoher,hermotherhadpulledthesameexcuse-shewas the judge, she couldn’t possibly sit in on thepolice interview.Butthenthey’dhadthatconversationafterthearraignment;hermotherhadgoneoutofherwaytoletJosieknowthatactinglikeajudgeonthiscasewouldnotbemutuallyexclusivetoactinglikeamother.Orinotherwords:Josiehadbeenstupidenoughtothinkthatthingsbetweenthemmighthavestartedtochange.

Hermother’smouthopenedandclosed,likeafishoutofwater.DidImakeyou uncomfortable? Josie thought, the words rising like welts in her mind.Welcometotheclub.

“Youwantacupofcoffee?”thedetectivesaid,andthenheshookhishead.“OraCoke.Idon’tknow,dokidsyouragedrinkcoffeeyet,oramIdanglingavicerightinfrontofyoubecauseI’mtoostupidtoknowbetter?”

“I like coffee,” Josie said. She avoided her mother’s gaze as DetectiveDucharmeledherintotheinnersanctumofthepolicestation.

Theywent into a conference room and the detective poured her amug ofcoffee.“Milk?Sugar?”

“Sugar,”Josiesaid.Shetooktwopacketsfromthebowlandaddedthemtothemug.Then sheglancedaround-at theFormica table, the fluorescent lights,thenormalnessoftheroom.

“What?”“Whatwhat?”Josiesaid.“What’sthematter?”“Iwasjustthinkingthatthisdoesn’tlooklikethekindofplacewhereyou’d

beataconfessionoutofsomeone.”“Dependsonwhetheryou’vegotonetobebeatenoutofyou,”thedetective

said.WhenJosieblanched,helaughed.“I’mjustjoking.Honestly,theonlytimeIbeatconfessionsoutofpeopleiswhenI’mplayingacoponTV.”

“YouplayacoponTV?”Hesighed.“Nevermind.”Hereachedovertoataperecorderinthecenterof

the table. “I’m going to record this, just like before…mostly because I’m toodumb to remember it all correctly.” The detective pressed the button and satdownacrossfromJosie.“Dopeopletellyouallthetimethatyoulooklikeyourmom?”

“Um,never.”Shetiltedherhead.“Isthatwhatyoubroughtmedowntoask

me?”Hesmiled.“No.”“Idon’tlooklikeher,anyway.”“Sureyoudo.It’syoureyes.”Josielookeddownatthetable.“Mineareatotallydifferentcolorthanhers.”“Iwasn’t talking about the color,” the detective said. “Josie, tellme again

whatyousawthedayoftheshootingsatSterlingHigh.”Underneaththetable,Josiegrippedherhandstogether.Shedugthenailsof

onehandintothepalmoftheother,sothatsomethinghurtmorethanthewordshewasmakinghersay.“Ihadasciencetest.I’dstudiedreallylateforit,andIwasthinkingaboutitwhenIwokeupinthemorning.That’sallIknow.Ialreadytoldyou,Ican’tevenrememberbeinginschoolthatday.”

“Doyourememberwhatmadeyoupassoutinthelockerroom?”Josie closed her eyes. She could picture the locker room-the tile floor, the

gray lockers, the orphan sock stuffed in a corner of the shower. And then,everythingwentredasanger.Redasblood.

“No,” Josie said,but tearshadcuthervoice into lace. “Idon’t evenknowwhythinkingaboutitmakesmecry.”Shehatedbeingseenlikethis;shehatedbeinglikethis;mostofallshehatednotknowingwhenitwouldhappen:ashiftof the wind, a turn of the tide. Josie took the tissue the detective offered.“Please,”shewhispered,“canIjustgonow?”

Therewas amoment of hesitation, and Josie could feel theweight of thedetective’spity fallingoverher likeanet,one thatonlyheldon toherwords,whiletherest-theshame,theanger,thefear-seepedrightthrough.“Sure,Josie,”hesaid.“Youcango.”

AlexwaspretendingtoreadtheTownofSterlingAnnualReportwhenJosiesuddenlyburstoutofthesecureddoorintothepolicestation’swaitingarea.Shewascryinghard,andPatrickDucharmewasnowhereinsight.I’llkillhim,Alexthoughtrationally,calmly,afterItakecareofmydaughter.

“Josie,”shesaid,asJosieranpastheroutofthebuilding,towardtheparkinglot.Alexhurriedafterher,finallycatchinguptoJosieinfrontoftheircar.ShewrappedherarmsaroundJosie’swaist and feltherbuckle. “Leavemealone,”Josiesobbed.

“Josie,honey,whatdidhesaytoyou?Talktome.”“Ican’t talk toyou!Youdon’tunderstand.Noneofyouunderstand.”Josie

backedaway.“Thepeoplewhodo,they’realldead.”Alexhesitated,unsureoftherightmove.ShecouldfoldJosietighterintoan

embraceandlethercry.Orshecouldmakeherseethatnomatterhowupsetshewas, it was something she had the resources to handle. Sort of like an Allen

charge,Alex realized-the instruction a judgewould give to a jury thatwasn’tgetting anywhere in its deliberations, which basically reminded them of theirdutyasAmericancitizens,andassuredthemthattheycouldandwouldcometoaconsensus.

Ithadalwaysworkedforherincourt.“Iknowthisishard,Josie,butyou’restrongerthanyouthink,and-”Josieshovedherhard,breakingaway.“Stoptalkingtomelikethat!”“Likewhat?”“LikeI’msomefuckingwitnessorlawyeryou’retryingtoimpress!”“YourHonor.Sorrytointerrupt.”Alex wheeled around to find Patrick Ducharme standing two feet behind

them,listeningtoeverysingleword.Hercheeksreddened;thiswasexactlythekindofbehavioryoudidn’tputonpublicdisplaywhenyouwereajudge.He’dprobablygobackintothepolicestationandsendoutamassemailtotheentireforce:GuesswhatIjustoverheard.

“Yourdaughter,”hesaid.“Sheforgothersweatshirt.”Pinkandhooded, itwas foldedneatlyoverhisarm.Hehanded it to Josie.

But then, instead of backing away, he put his hand on her shoulder. “Don’tworry,Josie,”hesaid,meetinghergazeasif theyweretheonlytwopeopleinthisworld.“We’regoingtomakethisokay.”

AlexexpectedJosie tosnapathim, too,but insteadJosiewentcalmunderhistouch.Shenodded,asifshebelievedthisforthefirsttimesincetheshootinghadoccurred.

Alexfeltsomethingriseinsideher-relief,sherealized,thatherdaughterhadfinallyreachedoutfortheslightestbitofhope.Andregret,bitterasanyalmond,becauseshehadnotbeentheonetoputthepeacebackintoherdaughter’sface.

Josie wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her sweatshirt. “You all right?”Ducharmeasked.

“Iguess.”“Good.”ThedetectivenoddedinAlex’sdirection.“Judge.”“Thank you,” she murmured, as he turned and started back to the police

station.AlexheardtheslamofthecardoorasJosieslippedintothepassengerseat,

butshewatchedPatrickDucharmeuntilhedisappearedfromsight.Iwishithadbeenme,Alexthought,andshedeliberatelykeptherselffromfillingintherestofthatsentence.

Like Peter, DerekMarkowitz was a computer whiz. Like Peter, he hadn’tbeenblessedwithmusclesandheightor,forthatmatter,anygiftsofpuberty.Hehadhairthatstuckupinsmalltufts,asifithadbeenplanted.Heworehisshirt

tuckedintohispantsatalltimes,andhehadneverbeenpopular.UnlikePeter,hehadn’tgonetoschoolonedayandkilledtenpeople.Selena sat at the Markowitzes’ kitchen table, while Dee Dee Markowitz

watchedher likeahawk.ShewastheretointerviewDerekinthehopethathecould be awitness for the defense-but to be perfectly honest, the informationDerek had given her so far made him a much better candidate for theprosecution.

“Whatifit’sallmyfault?”Derekwassaying.“Imean,I’mtheonlyonewhowasgivenaclue.IfI’dbeenlisteningharder,maybeIcouldhavestoppedhim.Icouldhavetoldsomeoneelse.Butinstead,Ifiguredhewasjokingaround.”

“I don’t think anyonewould have done any differently in your situation,”Selenasaidgently,andshemeantit.“ThePeteryouknewwasn’t theonewhowenttotheschoolthatday.”

“Yeah,”Dereksaid,andhenoddedtohimself.“Areyouaboutfinished?”DeeDeeasked,steppingforward.“Derek’sgota

violinlesson.”“Almost,Mrs.Markowitz.IjustwantedtoaskDerekaboutthePeterhedid

know.How’dyoutwomeet?”“Wewerebothonasoccer teamtogether insixthgrade,”Dereksaid,“and

webothsucked.”“Derek!”“Sorry,Mom,butit’strue.”HeglancedupatSelena.“Thenagain,noneof

thosejockscouldwriteHTMLcodeiftheirlivesdependedonit.”Selena smiled. “Yeah, well, count me in the ranks of the technologically

impaired.Soyoutwogottobefriendswhileyouwereontheteam?”“Wehungouton thebench,becausewewereneverput in toplay,”Derek

said.“Butno,weweren’treallyfriendsuntilafterthat,whenhestoppedhangingoutwithJosie.”

Selenafumbledherpen.“Josie?”“Yeah,JosieCormier.Shegoestotheschool,too.”“Andshe’sPeter’sfriend?”“She used to be, like, the only kid he ever hung around with,” Derek

explained,“butthenshebecameoneofthecoolkids,andsheditchedhim.”HelookedatSelena.“Peterdidn’tcare,really.Hesaidshe’dturnedintoabitch.”

“Derek!”“Sorry,Mom,”hesaid.“Butagain,it’strue.”“Wouldyouexcuseme?”Selenaasked.Shewalkedoutof thekitchenandinto thebathroom,whereshepulledher

cellphoneoutofherpocketanddialedhome.“It’sme,”shesaidwhenJordan

answered,andthenshehesitated.“Whyisitsoquiet?”“Sam’sasleep.”“Youdidn’tpopinanotherWigglesvideojusttogetyourdiscoveryread,did

you?”“Didyoucallspecificallytoaccusemeoflousyparenting?”“No,”Selenasaid.“Icalled to tellyou thatPeterandJosieused tobebest

friends.”Inmaximum security, Peterwas allowed only one real visitor aweek, but

certainpeopledidn’tcount.Forexample,yourlawyercouldcomeandseeyouasmanytimesasnecessary.And-here’sthecrazything-socouldreporters.AllPeterhadtodowassignalittlereleasethatsaidhewaswillinglymakingthechoicetospeaktothemedia,andElenaBattistawasallowedtomeethim.

She was hot. Peter noticed that right away. Instead of wearing someshapelessoversizedsweater,shehaddressedinatightblousewithbuttons.Ifheleanedforward,hecouldevenseecleavage.

Shehadlong,thickcurlyhairanddoe-browneyes,andPeterfounditreallyhardtobelievethatshehadeverbeenteasedbyanyoneinhighschool.Butshewassittinginfrontofhim,thatmuchwastrue,andshecouldbarelylookhimintheeyes.“Ican’tbelievethis,”shesaid,hertoescomingrightuptotheredlinethatseparatedthem.“Ican’tbelieveI’mactuallymeetingyou.”

Peterpretendedheheardthisallthetime.“Yeah,”hesaid.“It’scoolthatyoudroveuphere.”

“Oh,God,thatwastheleastIcoulddo,”Elenasaid.Peterthoughtofstorieshe’dheard,ofgroupieswho’dwrittentoinmatesandeventuallymarriedtheminaprisonceremony.Hethoughtof thecorrectionalofficerwho’dbroughtElenain,andwonderedifhewastellingeveryoneelsethatPeterHoughtonhadsomehotgirlvisitinghim.

“Youdon’tmindifItakenotes,doyou?”Elenaasked.“Formypaper?”“That’scool.”Hewatchedherpullout apencil andhold thecap inhermouthwhile she

openedhernotebooktoafreshpage.“So,likeItoldyou,I’mwritingabouttheeffectsofbullying.”

“Howcome?”“Well, thereweretimeswhenIwasinhighschoolthatI thoughtI’drather

justkillmyselfthangobacktoclassthenextday,becauseitwouldbeeasier.Ifigured if Iwas thinking it, therehad tobeotherpeople thinking it, too…andthat’swhere I came upwith the idea.” She leaned forward-cleavage alert-andmetPeter’seyes.“I’mhopingIcangetitpublishedinapsychologyjournalorsomething.”

“Thatwouldbecool.”Hewinced;God,howmanytimeswashegoingtousethewordcool?Heprobablysoundedlikeatotalretard.

“So,maybeyoucouldstartbytellingmehowoftenitusedtohappen.Thebullying,Imean.”

“Everyday,Iguess.”“Whatsortsofthingsdidtheydo?”“Theusual,”Petersaid.“Stuffingmeintoa locker, throwingmybooksout

the buswindow.”He gave her a litany he’d already given Jordan a thousandtimes:memoriesofbeingelbowedonhiswayupastaircase,momentswherehisglasseswererippedoffandcrushed,slurspitchedlikefastballs.

Elena’seyesmelted.“Thatmusthavebeensohardforyou.”Peterdidn’tknowwhattosay.Hewantedhertostayinterestedinhisstory,

butnot if itmeant thatshe thoughthewasa totalwimp.Heshrugged,hopingthatwasagoodenoughresponse.

Shestoppedwriting.“Peter,canIaskyousomething?”“Sure.”“Evenifit’skindofofftopic?”Peternodded.“Didyouplantokillthem?”She was leaning forward again, her lips parted, as if whatever Peter was

abouttosaywassomewafer,acommunionhostthatshe’dbeenwaitingforherwhole life.Petercouldhear thefootstepsofaguardwalkingpast thedoorwaybehind him, could practically taste Elena’s breath through the receiver. Hewanted to give her the right answer-sound dangerous enough for her to beintrigued,towanttocomeback.

Hesmiled, inaway thathehopedwas sortof seductive. “Let’s just say itneededtostop,”Peteranswered.

Themagazines in Jordan’s dentist’s office had the shelf life of plutonium.They were so old that the celebrity bride on the cover now had two babiesnamedforbiblicalcharacters,orpiecesoffruit;thatthepresidentlistedasManoftheYearhadalreadyleftoffice.Tothatend,whenhestumbleduponthelatestissueofTimewhileawaitinghisappointmentforafilling,Jordanfeltlikehe’dhitthemotherlode.

HIGHSCHOOL:THENEWESTFRONTLINEFORBATTLE?thecoverread, and there was a still image of Sterling High from a chopper, kids stillstreamingoutofallthebuilding’sorifices.Heabsentlyleafedtowardthearticleand its subsections, not expecting to see anything he didn’t already know orhadn’talreadyseeninthepapers,butonepiececaughthiseye.“InsidetheMindofaKiller,”heread,andhesawthemuch-usedschoolpictureofPeterfromhis

eighth-gradeyearbook.Thenhestartedtoread.“Goddamn,”hesaid,andhegottohisfeet,startingforthedoor.“Mr.McAfee,”thesecretarysaid,“thedentistisreadyforyou.”“I’llhavetoreschedule-”“Well,youcan’ttakeourmagazine…”“Addittomybill,”Jordansnapped,andhehurrieddownstairstohiscar.His

cellphonerangjustasheturnedthekeyintheignition-hecompletelyexpectedittobeDianaLeven,gloatingoverhergoodfortune-butinstead,itwasSelena.

“Hey, are you done at the dentist? I need you to swing byCVS and grabsomediapersonthewayhome.Iranout.”

“I’mnotcominghome.I’vegotbiggerproblemsrightnow.”“Honey,”Selenasaid,“therearenobiggerproblems.”“I’llexplainlater,”Jordansaid,andheturnedoffhisphone,sothatevenif

Dianacalled,shewouldn’tbeabletoreachhim.Hegot to the jail in twenty-sixminutes-apersonal record-andstormed into

theentryway.There,heplastered themagazineup to theplastic that separatedhimfromtheCOwhowassigninghimin.“IneedtobringthisinwhenIseemyclient,”Jordansaid.

“Well,I’msorry,”theofficersaid,“butyoucan’ttakeinanythingthat’sgotstaples.”

Frustrated,Jordanbalancedthemagazineagainsthislegandrippedoutthebindingstaples.“Fine.CanIseemyclientnow?”

Hewasbroughttothesameconferenceroomhealwaysusedatthejail,andhepacedwhilehewaitedforPetertoarrive.Whenhedid,Jordanslammedthemagazine down on the table, open to the article. “What the fuck were youthinking?”

Peter’smouthdroppedopen.“She…shenevermentionedthatshewroteforTime!”Hescannedthepages.“Ican’tbelieveit,”hemurmured.

Jordancouldfeelall thebloodinhisbodyrushing tohishead.Surely, thiswas how people had strokes. “Do you have any idea how serious the chargesagainstyouare?Howawfulyourcaseis?Howmuchevidencethereisagainstyou?”He smacked anopenhandon the article. “Doyou really think that thismakesyoulookatallsympathetic?”

Peter scowled. “Well, thanks for the lecture.Maybe if you’d been here todeliveritafewweeksagowewouldn’tbehavingthisdiscussionatall.”

“Oh, that’s priceless,” Jordan said. “I don’t comebyoften enough, soyoudecidetogetbackatmebytalkingtothemedia?”

“Shewasn’tthemedia.Shewasmyfriend.”

“Guesswhat,”Jordansaid.“Youdon’tgettohaveanyfriends.”“Sowhatelseisnew?”Petershotback.JordanopenedhismouthtoyellatPeteragain,butcouldn’t.Thetruthofthe

statement struck him, as he remembered Selena’s interview earlier this weekwithDerekMarkowitz.Peter’sbuddiesdesertedhim,orbetrayedhim,orspilledhissecretsforacirculationofmillions.

If he really wanted to do his job right, he couldn’t just be an attorney toPeter.Hehadtobehisconfidant,andtodate,allhe’ddonewasstringthekidalong,justlikeeveryoneelseinhislife.

Jordan sat down next to Peter. “Look,” he said quietly. “You can’t doanythinglikethisagain.Ifanyonecontactsyouatall,foranyreason,youneedto tell me. And in return, I’ll come to see youmore often than I have been.Okay?”

Petershruggedhisagreement.Foralongmomenttheybothsatbesideeachother,silent,unsureofwhatcamenext.

“Sonowwhat?”Peterasked.“DoIhavetotalkaboutJoeyagain?Orprepforthatpsychiatricinterview?”

Jordanhesitated.Theonlyreasonhe’dcometoseePeterwastotearintohimfortalkingtoareporter;ifnotforthat,hewouldn’thavecometothejailatall.And he supposed he could ask Peter to recount his childhood or his schoolhistoryorhisfeelingsaboutbeingbullied,butsomehow,thatdidn’tseemrighteither.“Actually,Ineedsomeadvice,”hesaid.“MywifegotmethiscomputergamelastChristmas,AgentsofStealth?Thethingis,Ican’tmakeitpastthefirstlevelwithoutgettingwipedout.”

Peter glanced at him sideways. “Well, are you registering as aDroid or aRegal?”

Whothehellknew?Hehadn’ttakentheCDoutofitsbox.“ADroid.”“That’s your firstmistake.See, you can’t enlist in thePyrhphorusLegion-

youneedtogetappointedtoserve.ThewaytodothatisbystartingoffintheEducationaryinsteadoftheMines.Understand?”

Jordanglanceddownatthearticle,stillspreadonthetable.Hiscasehadjustgrown immeasurablymoredifficult,butmaybe thatwasoffsetby the fact thathis relationship with his client had gotten easier. “Yeah,” Jordan said. “I’mstartingto.”

“You’renotgoingtolikethis,”Eleanorsaid,handingadocumenttoAlex.“Whynot?”“It’s amotion to recuseyourself from theHoughtoncase.Theprosecution

stronglyrequestsahearing.”Ahearingmeantthatpresswouldbepresent,thevictimswouldbepresent,

thefamilieswouldbepresent.ItmeantthatAlexwouldbeunderpublicscrutinybefore this case couldgo any further. “Well, she’s not gettingone,”Alex saiddismissively.

Theclerkhesitated.“I’dthinktwiceaboutthat.”Alexmethereyes.“Youcanleavenow.”ShewaitedforEleanortoclosethedoorbehindherself,andthensheclosed

hereyes.Shedidn’tknowwhat todo. Itwas true thatshe’dbeenmorerattledduringthearraignmentthanshe’danticipated.Itwastrue,too,thatthedistancebetweenherselfandJosiecouldbemeasuredbytheveryparametersofherroleas judge. Yet because Alex had steadfastly assumed that she was infallible-because she’d been so sure that she could be a fair justice on this case-she’dgotten herself into a catch-22. It was one thing to recuse yourself before theproceedingsstarted.Butifshebackedoutnow,itwouldmakeherseemflighty(atbest)or inept (atworst).Neitheroneof thosewasanadjective shewantedassociatedwithherjudicialcareer.

Ifshedidn’tgiveDianaLeventhehearingshewasrequesting,itwouldlooklikeAlexwashiding.Better tolet themvoicetheirpositionsandbeabiggirl.Alexpushedabuttononherphone.“Eleanor,”shesaid,“scheduleit.”

Shespearedher fingers throughherhairand thensmoothed itdownagain.Whatsheneededwasacigarette.SherummagedinherdeskdrawersbutturneduponlyanemptypackofMerits.“Shoot,”shemuttered,andthenrememberedher emergency pack, hidden in the trunk of her car. Grabbing her keys, Alexstoodupandleftchambers,hurryingdownthebackstaircasetotheparkinglot.

Shethrewopenthefiredoorandheardthesickeningcrunchasithitflesh.“Ohmygosh,”shecried,reachingforthemanwho’ddoubledoverinpain.“Areyouallright?”

PatrickDucharmestraightened,wincing.“YourHonor,”hesaid.“I’vegottostoprunningintoyou.Literally.”

Shefrowned.“Youshouldn’thavebeenstandingnexttoafiredoor.”“You shouldn’t have been flinging it open. Sowhere is it today?” Patrick

asked.“Where’swhat?”“Thefire?”Henoddedatanothercop,walkingtoacruiserparkedinthelot.Alextookastepbackwardandfoldedherarms.“Ibelievewealreadyhada

conversationabout,well,conversation.”“First of all, we’re not talking about the case, unless there’s some

metaphoricalthinggoingonthatIdon’tknowabout.Secondofall,yourpositionon this case seems to be in doubt, at least if you believe the editorial in theSterlingNewstoday.”

“There’s an editorial aboutme today?” Alex said, stunned. “What does itsay?”

“Well,I’dtellyou,butthatwouldbetalkingaboutthecase,wouldn’tit?”Hegrinnedandstartedtowalkoff.

“Hang on,” Alex said, calling after the detective. When he turned, sheglancedaroundtomakesurethattheywerealoneintheparkinglot.“CanIaskyousomething?Offtherecord?”

Henoddedslowly.“DidJosieseem…Idon’tknow…allrighttoyou,whenyoutalkedtoherthe

otherday?”The detective leaned against the brick wall of the court building. “You

certainlyknowherbetterthanIdo.”“Well…sure,”Alexsaid.“Ijustthoughtshemightsaysomethingtoyou-asa

stranger-thatshewasn’twilling tosay tome.”She lookeddownat thegroundbetweenthem.“Sometimesit’seasierthatway.”

She could feel Patrick’s eyes on her, but she couldn’t quite muster thecouragetomeetthem.“CanItellyousomething?Offtherecord?”

Alexnodded.“BeforeItookthisjob,IusedtoworkinMaine.AndIhadacasethatwasn’t

justacase,ifyouknowwhatImean.”Alexdid.Shefoundherselflisteninginhisvoiceforanoteshehadn’theard

before-a low one that resonated with anguish, like a tuning fork that neverstoppeditsvibration.“Therewasawomantherewhomeanteverything tome,andshehadalittleboywhomeanteverythingtoher.Andwhenhewashurt,inawayakidnevershouldbe,Imovedheavenandearthtoworkthatcase,becauseI thought no one could possibly do a better job than I could. No one couldpossiblycaremoreabout theoutcome.”He lookeddirectlyatAlex. “Iwas sosureIcouldseparatehowIfeltaboutwhathadhappenedfromhowIhadtodomyjob.”

Alexswallowed,dryasdust.“Anddidyou?”“No.Becausewhenyou lovesomeone,nomatterwhatyou tellyourself, it

stopsbeingajob.”“Whatdoesitbecome?”Patrickthoughtforamoment.“Revenge.”Onemorning,whenLewishadtoldLacyhewasheadedtovisitPeteratthe

jail,shegotinhercarandfollowedhim.InthedayssincePeterhadconfessedthathis fatherdidn’t come to seehim, through thearraignment andafterward,Lacyhadkeptthissecrethidden.ShespokelessandlesstoLewis,becauseshefearedthatoncesheopenedhermouth,itwouldescapelikeahurricane.

Lacy was careful to keep one car between hers and Lewis’s. It made herthinkofalifetimeago,whentheyhadbeendating,andshewouldfollowLewisto his apartment or hewould follow her. They’d play gameswith each other,wavingtherearwindshieldwiperlikeadogwagsitstail,flashingheadlightsinMorsecode.

Hedrovenorth,asifhewasgoingtothejail,andforamomentLacyhadacrisisofdoubt:wouldPeterhaveliedtoher,forsomereason?Shedidn’tthinkso.Butthenagain,shehadn’tthoughtLewiswould,either.

It started to rain just as they reached the green in Lyme Center. Lewissignaled and turned into a small parking lot with a bank, an artist’s studio, aflowershop.Shecouldn’tpullinbehindhim-he’drecognizehercarrightaway-so instead she drove into the lot of the hardware store next door and parkedbehindthebuilding.

MaybeheneedstheATM,Lacythought,butshegotoutofhercarandhidbehindtheoil tankstowatchLewisenterafloralshop,andleavefiveminuteslaterwithabouquetofpinkroses.

All the breath left her body. Was he having an affair? She had neverconsidered the possibility that things could get even worse, that their smallfamilyunitcouldfracturefurther.

Lacy stumbled intoher car andmanaged to followLewis. Itwas true, shehad been obsessed with Peter’s trial. And maybe she had been guilty of notlisteningtoLewiswhenheneededtotalk,becausenothinghehadtosayabouteconomics seminars or publications or current events really seemed tomatteranymore, not when her son was sitting in jail. But Lewis? She’d alwaysimaginedherselfas thefreespirit in theirunion;she’dseenhimastheanchor.Securitywasamirage;beingtieddownhardlycountedwhentheotherendoftheropehadunraveled.

Shewipedhereyesonhersleeve.Lewiswouldtellher,ofcourse,thatitwasonlysex,notlove.Thatitdidn’tmeananything.Hewouldsaythattherewereallsortsofwaysthatpeopledealtwithgrief,withaholeintheheart.

Lewisputonhisblinkeragainandturnedright-thistime,intoacemetery.A slowburn started insideLacy’s chest.Well, thiswas just sick.Was this

wherehemether?Lewisgotout of the car, carryinghis rosesbut noumbrella.The rainwas

comingdownhardernow,butLacywasintentonseeingthisthroughtotheend.She stayed just far enough behind, following him to a newer section of thecemetery, theonewith thefreshestgraves.Thereweren’tevenheadstonesyet;theplotslookedlikeapatchwork:brownearthagainstthegreenoftheclippedlawn.

Atthefirstgrave,Lewiskneltandplacedaroseonthesoil.Thenhemovedto another one, doing the same. And another, and another, until his hair wasdrippingintohisface;untilhisshirtwassoakedthrough;untilhe’dleftbehindtenflowers.

Lacy cameupbehindhimashewasplacing the last rose. “I knowyou’rethere,”hesaid,althoughhedidn’tturnaround.

She could barely speak: the understanding that Lewis was not, in fact,cheatingonherhadbeen temperedby theknowledgeofwhathewasactuallyspendinghistimedoingthesedays.Shecouldn’ttellifshewascryinganymore,oriftheskywasdoingitforher.“Howdareyoucomehere,”sheaccused,“andnotvisityourownson?”

Heliftedhisfacetohers.“Doyouknowwhatchaostheoryis?”“Idon’tgiveafuckaboutchaostheory,Lewis.IcareaboutPeter.Whichis

morethanIcansayfor-”“There’s this belief,” he interrupted, “that you can explain only the last

momentintime,linearly…butthateverythingleadinguptoitmighthavecomefromanyseriesofevents.So,youknow,akidskipsastoneat thebeach,andsomewhereacrosstheplanet,atsunamihappens.”Lewisstoodup,hishandsinhispockets.“Itookhimhunting,Lacy.Itoldhimtostickwiththesport,evenifhedidn’t likeit. Isaida thousandthings.What ifoneof themwaswhatmadePeterdothis?”

Hedoubledover,sobbing.AsLacyreachedforhim,theraindrummedoverhershouldersandback.

“Wedidthebestwecould,”Lacysaid.“It wasn’t good enough.” Lewis jerked his head in the direction of the

graves.“Lookatthis.Lookatthis.”Lacydid.Throughthedrivingdownpour,withherhairandclothesplastered

toher, she took stockof thegraveyard and saw the facesof the childrenwhowouldstillbealive,ifherownsonhadneverbeenborn.

Lacy put her hand over her abdomen. The pain cut her in half, like amagician’strick,exceptsheknewshewouldneverreallybeputbacktogether.

Oneofhersonshadbeendoingdrugs.Theotherwasamurderer.HadsheandLewisbeenthewrongparentsfortheboysthey’dhad?Orshouldtheyneverhavebeenparentsatall?

Childrendidn’tmaketheirownmistakes.Theyplungedintothepitsthey’dbeenledtobytheirparents.SheandLewishadtrulybelievedtheywereheadedtherightway,butmaybetheyshouldhavestoppedtoaskfordirections.MaybethentheywouldneverhavehadtowatchJoey-andthenPeter-takethatonetragicstepandfree-fall.

LacyrememberedholdingJoey’sgradesupagainstPeter’s;tellingPeterthatmaybe he should try out for soccer, because Joey had enjoyed it so much.Acceptancestartedathome,butsodidintolerance.BythetimePeterhadbeenexcludedatschool,Lacyrealized,hewasusedtofeelinglikeanoutcast inhisownfamily.

Lacysqueezedhereyesshut.Fortherestofherlife,she’dbeknownasPeterHoughton’smother.Atonepoint,thatwouldhavethrilledher-butyouhadtobecarefulwhatyouwishedfor.Takingcreditforwhatachilddidwellalsomeantacceptingresponsibilityforwhat theydidwrong.AndtoLacy, thatmeant thatinstead ofmaking reparations to these victims, she and Lewis needed to startclosertohome-withPeter.

“Heneedsus,”Lacysaid.“Morethanever.”Lewisshookhishead.“Ican’tgotoseePeter.”Shedrewaway.“Why?”“BecauseIstillthink,everyday,ofthedrunkwhocrashedintoJoey’scar.I

thinkofhowmuchIwishedhe’ddiedinsteadofJoey;howhedeservedtodie.Theparentsofeveryoneof thesekidsis thinkingthesamethingaboutPeter,”Lewissaid.“AndLacy…Idon’tblameasingleoneofthem.”

Lacysteppedback,shivering.Lewiswaddedupthepaperconethathadheldthe flowers and stuffed it into his pocket. The rain fell between them like acurtain,makingitimpossibleforthemtoseeeachotherclearly.

JordanwaitedatapizzaplacenearthejailforKingWahtoarriveafterhispsychiatricinterviewwithPeter.Hewastenminuteslate,andJordanwasn’tsureifthatwasagoodthingorabadthing.

King blew through the door on a gust ofwind, his raincoat billowing outbehindhim.HeslidintotheboothwhereJordanwassittingandpickedupasliceofpizzaonJordan’splate.“Youcandothis,”hepronounced,andhetookabite.“Psychologically, thereisn’tasignificantdifferencebetweenthetreatmentofavictim of bullying over time and the treatment of an adult female in batteredwomansyndrome.Thebottomlineforbothispost-traumaticstressdisorder.”HeputthecrustbackonJordan’splate.“YouknowwhatPetertoldme?”

Jordanthoughtabouthisclientforamoment.“Thatitsucksbeinginjail?”“Well,theyallsaythat.Hetoldmethathewouldratherhavediedthanspend

anotherdaythinkingaboutwhatcouldhappentohimatschool.Whodoesthatsoundlike?”

“KatieRiccobono,” Jordan said. “After she decided to give her husband atriplebypasswithasteakknife.”

“Katie Riccobono,” King corrected, “poster child for battered womansyndrome.”

“So Peter becomes the first example of bullied victim syndrome,” Jordansaid. “Be honest withme, King. You think a jury is going to identify with asyndromethatdoesn’tevenreallyexist?”

“Ajury’snotmadeupofbatteredwomen,butthey’vebeenknowntoacquitthembefore.Ontheotherhand,everysinglememberofthatjurywillhavebeenthroughhigh school.”He reached for Jordan’sCoke and took a sip. “Didyouknow that a single incident of bullying in childhood can be as traumatic to aperson,overtime,asasingleincidentofsexualabuse?”

“Yougottabekiddingme.”“Thinkabout it.Thecommondenominator isbeinghumiliated.What’s the

strongestmemoryyouhavefromhighschool?”Jordanhad to think foramomentbeforeanymemoryofhigh schooleven

cloudeditswayintohismind,muchlessasalientone.Thenhestartedtogrin.“IwasinPhys.Ed.,anddoingafitnesstest.Partofitinvolvedclimbingaropethatwas hung from the ceiling. In high school, I didn’t have quite the massivephysiqueIhavenow-”

Kingsnorted.“Naturally.”“-soIwasalreadyworriedaboutnotmakingit tothetop.Asit turnedout,

thatwasn’taproblem.Itwascomingbackdown,becauseclimbingupwiththeropebetweenmylegs,Igotamassiveboner.”

“Thereyougo,”Kingsaid.“Asktenpeople,andhalfofthemwon’tevenbeable to remembersomethingconcrete fromhighschool-they’veblocked itout.Theotherhalfwill recall an incrediblypainfulorembarrassingmoment.Theysticklikeglue.”

“Thatisincrediblydepressing,”Jordanpointedout.“Well,mostofusgrowupandrealizethatinthegrandschemeoflife,these

incidentsareatinypartofthepuzzle.”“Andtheoneswhodon’t?”KingglancedatJordan.“TheyturnoutlikePeter.”ThereasonAlexwasinJosie’sclosetinthefirstplacewasbecauseJosiehad

borrowedherblackskirtandneverreturnedit,andAlexneededittonight.Shewas meeting someone for dinner-Whit Hobart-her former boss, who’d retiredfromthepublicdefender’soffice.After today’shearing,where theprosecutionhadmadeitsmotiontohaveherrecused,sheneededsomeadvice.

She’dfoundtheskirt,butshe’dalsofoundatroveoftreasures.Alexsatonthefloorwithaboxopeninherlap.ThefringeofJosie’soldjazzcostume,fromlessonsshe’dtakenwhenshewassixorseven,fellintoherpalmlikeawhisper.Thesilkwascooltothetouch.Itwaspuddledontopofafauxfurtigercostumethat Josie hadworn oneHalloween and kept for dress-up-Alex’s first and last

foray into sewing. Halfway through, she’d given up and soldered the fabrictogetherwithahotgluegun.AlexhadplannedtotakeJosietrick-or-treatingthatyear, but she’d been a public defender at the time, and one of her clients hadbeenarrestedagain.Josiehadgoneoutwiththeneighborandherchildren;andthatnight,whenAlexfinallygothome,Josiehadspilledherpillowcaseofcandyonthebed.Youcantakehalf,Josietoldher,becauseyoumissedallthefun.

ShethumbedthroughtheatlasJosiehadmadeinfirstgrade,coloringeverycontinentandthenlaminatingthepages;shereadherreportcards.Shefoundahairelasticandloopeditaroundherwrist.Atthebottomoftheboxwasanote,writtenintheloopyscriptofalittlegirl:DeerMomIloveyoualotXOXO.

Alexletherfingerstracetheletters.ShewonderedwhyJosiestillhadthisinher possession;why it had never been given to its addressee.Had Josie beenwaiting,andforgotten?HadshebeenangryatAlexforsomethinganddecidednottogiveitatall?

Alexstood,thencarefullyputtheboxbackwhereshe’dfoundit.Shefoldedtheblackskirtoverherarmandheadedtowardherownbedroom.Mostparents,sheknew,wentthroughtheirchild’sthingsinsearchofcondomsandbaggiesofpot, to try tocatch themin theact.ForAlex, itwasdifferent.ForAlex,goingthroughJosie’spossessionswasawayofholdingontoeverythingshe’dmissed.

ThesadtruthaboutbeingsinglewasthatPatrickcouldn’tjustifygoingtoallthebothertocookforhimself.Heatemostofhismealsstandingoverthesink,sowhatwasthepointofmakingamesswithdozensofpotsandpansandfreshingredients?Itwasn’tasifhewasgoingtoturntohimselfandsay,Patrick,greatrecipe,where’dyoufindit?

He had it down to a science, really. Monday was pizza night. Tuesday,Subway.WednesdaywasChinese;Thursday,soup;andFriday,hegotaburgeratthebarwhereheusuallygrabbedabeerbeforeheadinghome.Weekendswereforleftovers,andtherewerealwaysplenty.Sometimes,itgotdownrightlonelyordering(wasthereanysadderphraseintheEnglishlanguagethanPupuplatterforone?),butforthemostpart,hisroutinehadnettedhimacollectionoffriends.Salat thepizzaplacegavehimgarlicknotsforfree,becausehewasaregular.TheSubwayguy,whosenamePatrickdidn’tknow,wouldpointathimandgrin.“Hearty-Italian-turkey-cheese-mayo-olives-extra-pickles-salt-and-pepper,” he’dcallout,theverbalequivalentoftheirsecrethandshake.

ThisbeingaWednesday,hewasattheGoldenDragon,waitingforhistake-outordertobefilled.HewatchedMayferryitintothekitchen(whereonearthdidsomeonebuyawokthatbig,healwayswondered)andturnedhisattentiontothe televisionover thebar,where theSoxgamewas justbeginning.Awomanwas sitting alone, tearing a fringe around the edgeof a cocktail napkin as she

waitedforthebartendertobringherherdrink.Shehadherbacktohim,butPatrickwasadetective,andtherewerecertain

thingshecouldfigureoutjustfromthissideofher.Likethefactthatshehadagreatass,forone,andthatherhairneededtobetakenoutofthatlibrarian’sbunsothatitcouldwavearoundhershoulders.Hewatchedthebartender(aKoreannamed Spike, which always struck Patrick as funny after the first Tsingtao)openingup abottleof pinotnoir, andhe filed away this information, too: shewasclassy.Nothingwithalittlepaperumbrellainit,notforher.

He sidled up behind the woman and handed Spike a twenty. “My treat,”Patricksaid.

Sheturned,andforafractionofasecond,Patrickstoodrootedtothespot,wonderinghowthismysterywomancouldpossiblyhaveJudgeCormier’sface.

ItremindedPatrickofbeinginhighschoolandseeingafriend’smomfromadistanceacrossaparking lotandautomaticallycheckingheroutasaPotentialHotBabeuntilhe realizedwho itactuallywas.The judgeplucked the twenty-dollarbilloutofSpike’shandandgaveitbacktoPatrick.“Youcan’tbuymeadrink,”shesaid,andshepulledsomecashoutofherpocketbookandhandedittothebartender.

Patricksatdownonthestoolbesideher.“Well,then,”hesaid.“Youcanbuymeone.”

“Idon’tthinkso.”Sheglancedaroundtherestaurant.“Ireallydon’tthinkweoughttobeseentalking.”

“The only witnesses are the koi in the pond by the cash register. I thinkyou’resafe,”Patricksaid.“Besides,we’rejusttalking.We’renottalkingaboutthecase.Youdostillrememberhowtomakeconversationoutsideacourtroom,don’tyou?”

Shepickedupherglassofwine.“Whatareyoudoinghere,anyway?”Patrick loweredhisvoice. “I’m running adrugbust on theChinesemafia.

Theyimportrawopiuminthesugarpackets.”Hereyeswidened.“Honestly?”“No.AndwouldItellyouifitweretrue?”Hesmiled.“I’mjustwaitingfor

mytake-outorder.Whataboutyou?”“I’mwaitingforsomeone.”Hedidn’t realize,until she’d said it, thathe’dbeenenjoyinghercompany.

Hegotakickoutofflusteringher,which,truthfully,wasn’treallyallthathard.JudgeCormierremindedhimoftheGreatandPowerfulOz:allblusterandbellsandwhistles, butwhen you pulled back the curtain, shewas just an ordinarywoman.

Whohappenedtohaveagreatass.

Hefeltheatrisetohisface.“Happyfamily,”Patricksaid.“Excuseme?”“That’s what I ordered. I was just trying to help you out with that casual

conversationthingagain.”“Youonlygotonedish?NoonegoestoaChineserestaurantandonlygets

onedish.”“Well,notallofushavegrowingkidsathome.”Shetracedthelipofherwineglasswithonefinger.“Youdon’thaveany?”“Nevermarried.”“Whynot?”Patrickshookhishead,smilingfaintly.“I’mnotgettingintothat.”“Boy,”thejudgesaid.“Shemusthavedoneajobonyou.”Hisjawdroppedopen.Washereallythateasytoread?“Guessyouhaven’tcorneredthemarketonthoseamazingdetectiveskills,”

shesaid,laughing.“Exceptwecallitwomen’sintuition.”“Yeah,that’llgetyouyourgoldshieldinnotime.”Heglancedatherringless

hand.“Whyaren’tyoumarried?”Thejudgerepeatedhisownanswer.“I’mnotgettingintothat.”Shesippedherwineinsilenceforamoment,andPatricktappedhisfingers

onthewoodofthebar.“Shewasalreadymarried,”headmitted.Thejudgesetherglassdown,empty.“Sowashe,”sheconfessed,andwhen

Patrickturnedtoher,shelookedhimrightintheeye.Herswere thepalegray thatmadeyou thinkofnightfall andsilverbullets

andtheedgeofwinter.Thecolorthatfilledtheskybeforeitwastorninhalfbylightning.

Patrickhadnevernoticedthisbefore,andsuddenlyherealizedwhy.“You’renotwearingglasses.”

“Isureamglad toknowSterling’sgotsomeoneassharpasyouprotectingandservingthem.”

“Youusuallywearglasses.”“OnlywhenI’mworking.Ineedthemtoread.”AndwhenIusuallyseeyou,you’reworking.That was why he hadn’t noticed before that Alex Cormier was attractive:

before this,when theycrossedpaths, shewas in fullbuttoned-up judgemode.Shehadnotbeencurledover thebar likeahothouseflower.Shehadnotbeenquiteso…human.

“Alex!”Thevoicecamefrombehind them.Themanwasspiffy, inagoodsuitandwingtips,withjustenoughgrayhairathistemplestolookdistinguished.Hehadlawyerwrittenalloverhim.Hewasnodoubtrichanddivorced;thekind

ofguywhowouldsitupatnightandtalkaboutpenalcodebeforemakinglove;thekindofguywhosleptonhissideofthebedinsteadofwithhisarmswrappedsotightaroundherthatevenafterfallingasleep,theystayedtangled.

JesusChrist, Patrick thought, looking down at the ground.Where did thatcomefrom?

WhatdidhecarewhoAlexCormierdated,even if theguywaspracticallyoldenoughtobeherfather?

“Whit,” she said, “I’m so glad you could come.” She kissed him on thecheekandthen,stillholdinghishand,turnedtoPatrick.“Whit,thisisDetectivePatrickDucharme.Patrick,WhitHobart.”

Themanhad agoodhandshake,whichonlypissedPatrickoff evenmore.Patrickwaitedtoseewhatelsethejudgewasgoingtosayabouthimbywayofintroduction.Butthen,whatoptionsdidshehave?Patrickwasn’tanoldfriend.Hewasn’tsomeoneshe’dmetsittingatthebar.Shecouldn’tevensaythattheywereboth involvedwith theHoughton trial,because in thatcase,he shouldn’thavebeentalkingtoher.

Which,Patrickrealized,iswhatshe’dbeentryingtotellhimallalong.May appeared from the kitchen, holding a paper bag folded and neatly

stapled.“Hereyougo,Pat,”shesaid.“Weseeyounextweek,okay?”He could feel the judge staring. “Happy family,” she said, offering a

consolationprize,thesmallestofsmiles.“Niceseeingyou,YourHonor,”Patricksaidpolitely.Hethrewthedoorof

therestaurantopensohardthatitbangedonitshingesagainsttheoutsidewall.He was halfway to his car when he realized he wasn’t even really hungryanymore.

Theleadstoryonthelocalnewsat11:00p.m.wasthehearingatthesuperiorcourttogetJudgeCormierremovedfromthecase.JordanandSelenasatinbedinthedark,eachwithabowlofcerealbalancedontheirstomachs,watchingthetearful mother of a paraplegic girl cry into the television camera. “No one’sspeaking for our children,” she said. “If this case gets messed up because ofsomelegalsnafu…well,theyaren’tstrongenoughtogothroughittwice.”

“Neither’sPeter,”Jordanpointedout.Selenaputdownherspoon.“Cormier’sgonnasitonthatcaseifshehasto

crawlherwaytothebench.”“Well,Ican’tverywellgetsomeonetogilhoolyherkneecaps,canI?”“Let’slookatthebrightside,”Selenasaid.“NothinginJosie’sstatementcan

hurtPeter.”“MyGod,you’reright.”Jordansatupsoquicklythathesloshedmilkonto

thequilt.Hesethisbowlonthenightstand.“It’sbrilliant.”

“Whatis?”“Diana’snotcallingJosieasawitnessfortheprosecution,becauseshe’sgot

nothing they can use. But there’s nothing to stop me from calling her as awitnessforthedefense.”

“Areyoukidding?You’regoingtoputthejudge’sdaughteronyourwitnesslist?”

“Whynot?SheusedtobePeter’sfriend.He’sgotpreciousfewofthem.It’sallingoodfaith.”

“Youwouldn’treally-”“Nah, I’msureI’llneveruseher.But theprosecutordoesn’tneed toknow

that.”HegrinnedatDiana.“Andincidentally…neitherdoesthejudge.”Selena set her bowl aside, too. “If you put Josie on your witness list…

Cormierhastostepdown.”“Exactly.”Selenareachedforward,bracketinghisfacewithherpalmstoplantakisson

hislips.“You’reawfullygood.”“Whatwasthat?”“Youheardmethefirsttime.”“Iknow,”Jordangrinned,“butIwouldn’tmindhearingitagain.”The quilt slipped down as he wrapped his arms around her. “Greedy li’l

thing,aren’tyou,”Selenamurmured.“Isn’tthatwhatmadeyoufallinlovewithme?”Selenalaughed.“Well,itwasn’tyourcharmandgrace,honey.”Jordanleanedoverher,kissingSelenauntil-hehoped-shehadforgottenshe

wasinthethroesofmakingfunofhim.“Let’shaveanotherbaby,”hewhispered.“I’mstillnursingthefirstone!”“Thenlet’spracticehavinganotherone.”Therewasnooneintheworldquitelikehiswife,Jordanthought-statuesque

andstunning,smarterthanhewas(notthathe’deveradmitittoherface),andsoperfectlyattunedtohimthathenearlyhadtoconcedehisskepticismandbelievethatpsychics trulydidwalkamongus.Heburiedhis face in thespothe lovedbestonSelena:thepartwherethenapeofherneckranintohershoulder,whereherskinwasthecolorofmaplesyrupandtastedevensweeter.

“Jordan?”shesaid.“Doyoueverworryaboutourkids?Imean…youknow.Doingwhatyoudo…andseeingwhatwesee?”

Herolledontohisback.“Well,”hesaid.“Thatcertainlykilledthemoment.”“I’mserious.”Jordansighed.“OfcourseIthinkaboutit.IworryaboutThomas.AndSam.

Andwhoeverelsemightcomealong.”Hecameuponanelbowsothathecould

findhereyesinthedark.“ButthenIfigurethat’sthereasonwehadthem.”“Howso?”He looked over Selena’s shoulder, to the blinking green eye of the baby

monitor.“Maybe,”Jordansaid,“they’retheoneswho’llchangetheworld.”Whithadn’treallymadeupAlex’smindforher;thathadalreadybeendone

when she met him for dinner. But he’d been the salve she needed for herwounds, the justification shewas afraid togiveherself.You’ll get anotherbigcase,eventually,hehadsaid.Youwon’tgetbackthismomentwithJosie.

Shewalkedintochambersbriskly,mostlybecausesheknewthatthiswastheeasypart.Divorcingherselffromthecase,writingthemotiontorecuseherself-thatwasnotnearlyasterrifyingaswhatwouldhappentomorrow,whenshewasnolongerthejudgeontheHoughtoncase.

When,instead,shehadtobeamother.Eleanorwasnowheretobefound,butshe’dleftAlexthepaperworkonher

desk.Shesatdownandscannedit.JordanMcAfee,whoyesterdayhadn’tevenopenedhismouthatthehearing,

wasnoticinguphisintentiontocallJosieasawitness.She felt a fire spark inherbelly. ItwasanemotionAlexdidn’t evenhave

wordsfor-theanimalinstinctthatcamewhenyourealizedsomeoneyoulovehasbeentakenhostage.

McAfee had committed the grievous sin of dragging Josie into this, andAlex’smindspiraledwildlyasshewonderedwhatshecoulddotogethimfired,orevendisbarred.Cometothinkofit,shedidn’tevenreallycareifretributioncamewithintheconfinesofthelaworoutsideit.Butsuddenly,Alexstilled.Itwasn’tJordanMcAfeeshe’dchasetotheendsoftheearth-itwasJosie.She’ddoanythingtokeepherdaughterfrombeinghurtagain.

Maybe she should thank Jordan McAfee for making her realize that shealreadyhadtherawmaterialinhertobeagoodmother,afterall.

Alexsatdownatherlaptopandbegantotype.Herheartwashammeringasshewalkedouttotheclerk’sdeskandhandedthesheetofpapertoEleanor;butthatwasnormal,wasn’tit,whenyouwereabouttoleapoffacliff?

“YouneedtocallJudgeWagner,”Alexsaid.Itwasn’tPatrickwhoneededthesearchwarrant.Butwhenheheardanother

officertalkingaboutswingingbythecourthouse,heinterceded.“I’mheadedoutthatway,”he’dsaid.“I’lldoitforyou.”

Intruth,hehadn’tbeenheadingtowardthecourthouse,atleastnotuntilhe’dvolunteered.Andhewasn’tsuchaSamaritanthathe’ddrivefortymilesoutofthegoodnessofhisheart.Patrickwantedtogothereforonereasononly:itwasanotherexcusetoseeAlexCormier.

Hepulledintoanemptyspotandgotoutofhiscar,immediatelyspottingherHonda.Thiswasagoodthing;forallheknew,shemightnotevenhavebeenincourttoday.Butthenhedidadoubletakeasherealizedthatsomeonewasinthecar…andthatthatsomeonewasthejudge.

Shewasn’tmoving,juststaringoutthewindshield.Thewiperswereon,butitwasn’training.Itlookedlikeshedidn’tevenrealizeshewascrying.

He felt that sameuneasy sway in thepit of his stomach that usually camewhen he’d reached a crime scene and saw a victim’s tears. I’m too late, hethought.Again.

Patrick approached the car, but the judgemust not have seenhimcoming.Whenheknockedon thewindow, she jumped a foot andhurriedlywipedhereyes.Hemimedforhertorolldownthewindow.“Everythingokay?”heasked.

“I’mfine.”“Youdon’tlookfine.”“Thenstoplooking,”shesnapped.Hehookedhisfingersoverthecurlofthecardoor.“Listen.Youwanttogo

somewhereandtalk?I’llbuyyoucoffee.”Thejudgesighed.“Youcan’tbuymecoffee.”“Well, we can still get some.” He stood up and walked around to the

passengerdoor,openedit,slidintotheseatbesideher.“You’reonduty,”shepointedout.“I’mtakingmylunchbreak.”“Atteninthemorning?”He reached across the console to the keys, dangling in the ignition, and

startedthecar.“Headoutoftheparkinglotandtakealeft,allright?”“Orwhat?”“ForGod’ssake,don’tyouknowbetter than toarguewithsomeonewho’s

wearingaGlock?”Shelookedathimforalongmoment.“Youcouldn’tpossiblybecarjacking

me,”thejudgesaid,butshestarteddriving,ashe’dasked.“Remindmetoarrestmyselflater,”Patricksaid.Alex had been raised by her father to give everything her best shot, and

apparently, that includedfallingoff thedeepend.Whynotrecuseherself fromthebiggesttrialofhercareer,askforadministrativeleave,andgooutforcoffeewiththedetectiveonthecaseallinonefellswoop?

Thenagain,shetoldherself,ifshehadn’tgoneoutwithPatrickDucharme,shewouldneverhaveknownthattheGoldenDragonChineserestaurantopenedforbusinessat10:00a.m.

Ifshehadn’tgoneoutwithhim,shewouldhavehadtodrivehomeandstart

herlifeover.Everyoneattherestaurantseemedtoknowthedetectiveanddidn’tmindhim

goingintothekitchentogetAlexhercupofcoffee.“Whatyousawbackthere,”Alexsaidhesitantly.“Youwon’t…”

“Tellanyoneyouwerehavingalittlebreakdowninyourcar?”Shelookeddownatthemughesetinfrontofher,notevenreallyknowing

howtorespond.Inherexperience, themomentyoushowedyouwereweak infrontofsomeone,they’duseitagainstyou.“It’shardtobeajudgesometimes.People expect you to act like one, evenwhenyou’vegot the flu and feel likecrawlingupintoaballanddying,orcursingoutthecashierwhoshortchangedyouonpurpose.There’snotalotofroomformistakes.”

“Your secret’s safe,” Patrick said. “I won’t tell anyone in the lawenforcementcommunitythatyou’veactuallygotemotions.”

Alextookasipofthecoffee,thenlookedupathim.“Sugar?”Patrickfoldedhisarmsonthebarandleanedtowardher.“Darling?”Ather

expression,hestartedtolaugh,andthenhandedherthebowl.“Honestly,it’snobigdeal.Weallhavelousydaysatwork.”

“Doyousitinyourcarandcry?”“Notrecently,butIhavebeenknowntooverturnevidencelockersduringfits

offrustration.”Hepouredmilkintoacreamerandsetitdown.“Youknow,it’snotmutuallyexclusive.”

“What’snot?”“Beingajudgeandbeinghuman.”Alex added themilk to hermug. “Tell that to everyonewhowantsme to

recusemyself.”“Isn’tthisthepartwhereyoutellmewecan’ttalkaboutthecase?”“Yes,”Alexsaid.“ExceptI’mnotonthecaseanymore.Asofnoon,it’llbe

publicknowledge.”Hesobered.“Isthatwhyyouwereupset?”“No.I’dalreadymadethedecisiontoleavethecase.ButthenIgotwordthat

Josie’sonthewitnesslistforthedefense.”“Why?” Patrick said. “She doesn’t remember anything. What could she

possiblysay?”“I don’t know.” Alex glanced up. “But what if it’smy fault?What if the

lawyeronlydidthattogetmeoffthecasebecauseIwastoostubborntorecusemyselfwhen the issuewas first raised?”To her great shame, she realized shewasstartingtocryagain,andshestareddownatthebarinthehopethatPatrickwouldnotnotice.“What if shehas togetup in frontofeveryone incourtandrelivethatwholeday?”Patrickpassedheracocktailnapkin,andshewipedher

eyes.“I’msorry.I’mnotusuallylikethis.”“Anymother whose daughter came that close to dying has a right to fall

apartat theseams,”Patricksaid.“Look. I’ve talked toJosie twice. Iknowherstatement back and forth. It doesn’t matter if McAfee puts her on the stand-there’snothingshecansaythat’sgoingtohurther.Thesilverliningisthatnowyoudon’thavetoworryaboutaconflictofinterest.Josieneedsagoodmotherrightnowmorethansheneedsagoodjudge.”

Alexsmiledruefully.“Whatashameshe’sstuckwithmeinstead.”“Comeon.”“It’strue.MywholelifewithJosiehasbeenaseriesofdisconnects.”“Well,” Patrick pointed out, “that presumes that at one point, you were

connected.”“Neitherofusremembersbackthatfar.You’vehadbetterconversationswith

JosiethanIhavelately.”Alexstaredintothemugofcoffee.“EverythingIsaytoJosie comes outwrong. She looks atme like I’m from another planet. Like IhavenorighttoactlikeaconcernedparentnowbecauseIwasn’tactinglikeonebeforeithappened.”

“Whyweren’tyou?”“Iwasworking.Hard,”Alexsaid.“Lotsofparentsworkhard-”“ButI’mgoodatbeingajudge.Andlousyatbeingamother.”Alexcovered

hermouthwithherhand,butitwastoolatetotakebackthetruth,whichcoiledon the bar in front of her, poisonous.What had she been thinking, confessingthat to someonewhen she couldbarely admit it to herself?Shemight aswellhavedrawnabull’s-eyeonherAchilles’heel.

“MaybeyoushouldtrytalkingtoJosiethewayyoutalktothepeoplewhocomeintoyourcourt,then,”Patricksuggested.

“ShehatesitwhenIactlikealawyer.Besides,Ihardlytalkincourt.Mostly,Ilisten.”

“Well,YourHonor,”Patricksaid.“Thatmightwork,too.”Once,whenJosiehadbeenababy,Alexletheroutofhersightlongenough

forJosietoclimbuponastool.Fromacrosstheroom,AlexwatchedinterrorasJosie’s slight weight upset the balance. She couldn’t get there fast enough tokeepJosiefromfalling;shedidn’twanttoyellout,becauseshewasafraidthatifshestartledJosie,thatwouldmakeherfall,too.SoAlexhadstood,waitingforanaccidenttohappen.

But instead,Josiemanagedtoperchherselfon thestool; tostandupon itslittlediscseat; toreachthe lightswitchshe’dbeenheadingforallalong.Alexwatchedherflickthelightsonandoff,watchedherfacesplitwithasmileevery

timesherealizedthatheractionscouldtransformtheworld.“Sincewe’renot incourt,”shesaidhesitantly,“I’d like it ifyoucalledme

Alex.”Patrick smiled. “And I’d like it if you called me Your Majesty King

Kamehameha.”Alexcouldn’thelpherself;shelaughed.“Butifthat’stoohardtoremember,Patrickwouldbefine.”Hereachedfor

thecoffeepotandpouredsomeintohermug.“Freerefills,”hesaid.Shewatchedhimaddsugarandcream,inthesamequantitiesthatshe’dused

for her first cup. He was a detective; his job was to notice details. But Alexthoughtthatprobablywasn’twhatmadehimsuchagoodcop.Itwasthathehadthecapacitytouseforce,likeanyotherpoliceofficer-butinstead,he’dtrapyouwithkindness.

That,Alexknew,wasalwaysmoredeadly.It wasn’t something he’d put on his résumé, but Jordan was

especiallygiftedatcuttingtherugtoWigglessongs.Hispersonalfavoritewas“HotPotato,”buttheonethatreallygotSamjazzedupwas“FruitSalad.”WhileSelenawasupstairstakingahotbath,JordanputontheDVD-shewasopposedtobombardingSamwithmedia, anddidn’twanthim tobe able to spellD-O-RO-T-H-Y, as in Dinosaur, before he could evenwrite his own name. SelenaalwayswantedJordantobedoingsomethingelsewiththebaby,likememorizingShakespeare or solving differential equations-but Jordanwas a big believer inlettingthetelevisiondoitsjobinturningone’sbrainintoporridge…atleastlongenoughtogetonegood,sillytangosessionoutofit.

Babieswerealwaysjusttherightweight,sothatwhenyoufinallyputthemdown, you felt like something was missing. “Fruit salad…yummy yummy!”Jordancrooned,whirlingarounduntilSamopenedhismouthand letapealofgigglesribbonout.

Thedoorbellrang,andJordansashayedhimselfandhistinypartnerthroughthe entryway to answer it. Harmonizing-sort of-with Jeff, Murray, Greg, andAnthony in the background, Jordan opened the door. “Let’s make some fruitsaladtoday,”hesang,andthenhesawwhowasstandingonhisporch.“JudgeCormier!”

“Sorrytointerrupt.”He already knew that she’d recused herself from the case-that happy

announcement had been passed down this afternoon. “No, that’s fine. Comeon…in.”JordanglancedbackatthetrailoftoysthatheandSamhadleftintheirwake (he had to clean those up before Selena came back downstairs, too).Kickingasmanyashecouldbehindthecouch,heledthejudgeintohisliving

roomandswitchedofftheDVD.“Thismustbeyourson.”“Yeah.”Jordanlookeddownatthebaby,whowasintheprocessofdeciding

whetherornottothrowafitnowthatthemusichadbeenturnedoff.“Sam.”Shereachedout,lettingSamcurlhishandaroundherforefinger.Samcould

charmthepantsoffHitler,probably,butseeinghimonlyseemedtomakeJudgeCormiermoreagitated.“Whydidyouputmydaughteronyourwitnesslist?”

Ah.“Because,”Jordansaid,“JosieandPeterusedtobefriends,andImayneed

herasacharacterwitness.”“Theywerefriendstenyearsago.Behonest.Youdidthistogetmeoffthe

case.”JordanheftedSamhigheronhiship.“YourHonor,withallduerespect,I’m

notgoing to allowanyone to try this case forme.Especiallynot a judgewhoisn’teveninvolvedinitanymore.”

He watched something flare behind her eyes. “Of course not,” she saidtightly,andthensheturnedonherheelandwalkedout.

Ask a randomkid today if shewants to be popular and she’ll tell youno,evenifthetruthisthatifshewasinadesertdyingofthirstandhadthechoicebetweenaglassofwaterandinstantpopularity,she’dprobablychoosethelatter.

As soon as she heard the knock, Josie took her notebook and shoved itbetween themattress and the box spring, which had to be theworld’s lamesthidingspot.

Hermothersteppedinsidethebedroom,andforasecond,Josiecouldn’tputherfingeronwhatwasn’tquiteright.Thenshefigureditout:itwasn’tdarkoutyet.Usuallybythetimehermothergothomefromcourt,itwasdinnertime-butnowitwasonly3:45;Josiehadbarelygottenhomefromschool.

“I have to talk to you,” her mother said, sitting down beside her on thecomforter.“Itookmyselfoffthecasetoday.”

Josiestaredather.Inherwholelife,she’dneverknownhermothertobackdownfromanylegalchallenge;plus,hadn’ttheyjusthadaconversationaboutthefactthatshewasn’trecusingherself?

Shefelt thatsicksinkingthatcamewhentheteachercalledonherandshehadn’t been paying attention.What had hermother found out that she hadn’tknowndaysago?

“What happened?” Josie asked, and she hoped her mother wasn’t payingattentionenoughtohearthewayhervoicewasjumpingallovertheplace.

“Well, that’s theother thing I need to talk to you about,” hermother said.“Thedefenseputyouontheirwitnesslist.Theymayaskyoutogotocourt.”

“What?” Josie cried, and for just one moment, everything stopped: herbreath,herheart,hercourage.“Ican’tgotocourt,Mom,”shesaid.“Don’tmakeme.Please…”

Hermotherreachedoutforher,whichwasagoodthing,becauseJosiewascertain that at any second, she was going to simply vanish. Sublimation, shethought,theactofgoingfromsolidtovapor.Andthensherealizedthatthistermwasoneshe’dstudiedforthesciencetestshe’dneverhadbecauseofeverythingelsethathadhappened.

“I’vebeentalkingtothedetective,andIknowyoudon’trememberanything.Theonlyreasonyou’reevenonthatlistisbecauseyouusedtobefriendswithPeteralong,longtimeago.”

Josiedrewback.“DoyouswearthatIwon’thavetogotocourt?”Hermotherhesitated.“Honey,Ican’t-”“Youhaveto!”“Whatifwegotalktothedefenseattorney?”hermothersaid.“Whatgoodwouldthatdo?”“Well, ifheseeshowupset this ismakingyou,hemight thinktwiceabout

usingyouasawitnessatall.”Josielaydownonherbed.Forafewmoments,hermotherstrokedherhair.

JosiethoughtsheheardherwhisperI’msorry,andthenshegotupandclosedthedoorbehindher.

“Matt,”Josiewhispered,asifhecouldhearher;asifhecouldanswer.Matt. She drew in his name like oxygen and imagined it breaking into a

thousand tiny pieces, funneling into her red blood cells, beating through herheart.

Petersnappedapencil inhalfandstuck theeraserend intohiscornbread.“Happy birthday tome,” he sang under his breath.He didn’t finish the song;whatwasthepointwhenyoualreadyknewwhereitwasheading?

“Hey,Houghton,”acorrectionalofficersaid,“wegotapresentforyou.”Standingbehindhimwasakidnotmucholder thanPeter.Hewasrocking

backandforthontheballsofhisfeetandhehadsnotrunningdownhisnose.Theofficer ledhiminto thecell.“Makesureyoushareyourcake,” theofficersaid.

Petersatdownonthelowerbunk,justtoletthiskidknowexactlywhowasin charge. The boy stoodwith his arms crossed tight around the blanket he’dbeengiven,staringdownattheground.Hereachedupandpushedhisglassesuphisnose,andthat’swhenPeterrealizedtherewassomething,well,wrongwithhim.Hehadthatglassy-eyed,gum-lippedlookofaspecial-needskid.

Peterrealizedwhythey’dstuckthekid inhiscell insteadofanyoneelse’s:

theyfiguredPeterwouldbeleastlikelytofuckwithhim.Hefelthishandsballintofists.“Hey,you,”Petersaid.Theboyswiveledhishead towardPeter.“Ihaveadog,”hesaid.“Doyou

haveadog?”Peter pictured the correctional officerswatching this comedy through their

littlevideohookups,expectingPetertoputupwiththisshit.Expectingsomethingofhim,period.He reached forward andplucked theglasses off thekid’s nose.Theywere

Coke-bottle-thick,withblackplasticframes.Theboystartedtoshriek,grabbingathisownface.Hisscreamsoundedlikeanairhorn.

Peter put the glasses down on the floor and stomped on them, but in hisrubber flip-flops that didn’t do much damage. So he picked them up andsmashedthemintothebarsofthecelluntiltheglassshattered.

BythentheofficershadarrivedtopullPeterawayfromthekid,notthathewas touchinghimanyway.Theyhandcuffedhimas the other inmates cheeredhimon.Hewasdraggeddownthehalltothesuperintendent’soffice.

He sat hunched in a chair, with a guard watching him breathe, until thesuperintendentcamein.“Whatwasthatallabout,Peter?”

“It’smybirthday,”Petersaid.“Ijustwantedtobealoneforit.”Thefunnything,herealized,wasthatbeforetheshooting,he’dbelievedthat

the best thing in theworldwas being left alone, so nobody could tell him hedidn’tfitin.Butasitturnedout-notthathewasabouttotellthesuperintendentthis-hedidn’tmuchlikehimself,either.

Thesuperintendentstarted to talkaboutdisciplinaryaction;how thiscouldaffecthimintheeventofaconviction,whatfewprivilegeswerelefttobetakenaway.Peterdeliberatelytunedhimout.

He thought instead of how angry the rest of the pod would be when thisincidentcostthemtelevisionforaweek.

HethoughtofJordan’sbulliedvictimsyndromeandwonderedifhebelievedit;ifanyonewould.

He thought of how nobody who saw him in jail-not his mother, not hislawyer-eversaidwhattheyshould:thatPeterwouldbeimprisonedforever,thathe’ddieinacellthatlookedjustlikethisone.

Hethoughtofhowhewouldratherendhislifewithabullet.Hethoughtofhowatnight,youcouldhearthewingsofbatsbeatinginthe

cementcornersofthejail,andscreams.Noonewasstupidenoughtocry.At9:00a.m.onSaturday,whenJordanopenedthedoor,hewasstillwearing

pajamabottoms.“You’vegottobekidding,”hesaid.JudgeCormierpastedonasmile.“I’mreallysorrywegotoffonthewrong

foot,”shesaid.“Butyouknowhowitiswhenit’syourchildwho’sintrouble…youjustcan’t thinkstraight.”Shestoodarminarmwith themini-mestandingbesideher.JosieCormier,Jordanthought,scrutinizingthegirlwhowasshakinglikeanaspenleaf.Shehadchestnuthairthathithershoulders,andblueeyesthatwouldn’tmeethis.

“Josieisreallyscared,”thejudgesaid.“Iwonderedifwecouldsitdownforaminute…maybeyoucouldputherateaseaboutbeingawitness.Hearwhetherornotwhatsheknowswillevenhelpyourcase.”

“Jordan?Whoisit?”HeturnedaroundtofindSelenastandingintheentryway,holdingontoSam.

Shewaswearingflannelpajamas,whichmightormightnothavebeenonestepmoreformal.

“Judge Cormier was wondering if we could talk to Josie about hertestimony,”he saidpointedly, tryingdesperately to telegraph toSelena thathewasindeeptrouble-sincetheyallknew,withtheexceptionperhapsofJosie,thattheonlyreasonhe’dnoticeduphisintenttouseherwastogetCormieroffthecase.

Jordanturnedtowardthejudgeagain.“Yousee,I’mnotreallyatthatstageofplanningyet.”

“Surely you have some idea of what you’re after if you call her as awitness…oryouwouldn’thaveputheronthelist,”Alexpointedout.

“Whydon’tyouringmysecretary,andmakeanappointment-”“I was thinking of now,” Judge Cormier said. “Please. I’m not here as a

judge.Justasamother.”Selenasteppedforward.“Youcomerightonin,”shesaid,usingherfreearm

tocircleJosie’sshoulders.“YoumustbeJosie,right?Thishere’sSam.”Josiesmiledshylyatthebaby.“Hi,Sam.”“Baby,whydon’tyougetthejudgesomecoffeeorjuice?”Jordanstaredathiswife,wonderingwhatthehellshewasuptonow.“Right.

Whydon’tyoucomeonin?”Thankfully, thehouse lookednothing like ithad thefirst timeCormierhad

showedupunannounced: therewerenodishes in the sink;nopapersclutteredthetables;toysweremysteriouslymissing.WhatcouldJordansay-hiswifewasaneatfreak.HepulledoutoneofthechairsatthekitchentableandofferedittoJosie,thendidthesameforthejudge.“Howdoyoutakeyourcoffee?”heasked.

“Oh,we’re fine,” she said. She reached under the table for her daughter’shand.

“SamandI,we’rejustgoingintothelivingroomtoplay,”Selenasaid.“Whydon’tyoustay?”Hegaveherameasuredglance,onethatbeggedher

nottoleavehimalonetobeeviscerated.“You don’t need us distracting you,” Selena said, and she took the baby

away.JordansatdownheavilyacrossfromtheCormiers.Hewasgoodatthinking

onhis feet; surelyhecouldsuffer through this.“Well,”hesaid,“it really isn’tanythingtobescaredofatall.IwasjustgoingtoaskyousomebasicquestionsaboutyourfriendshipwithPeter.”

“We’renotfriends,”Josiesaid.“Yes,Iknowthat.Butyouusedtobe.I’minterestedinthefirsttimeyoumet

him.”JosieglancedatAlex.“Aroundnurseryschool,ormaybebefore.”“Okay.Didyouplayatyourhouse?His?”“Both.”“Didyouhaveotherfriendswhousedtohangoutwithyou?”“Notreally,”Josiesaid.Alex listened, but she couldn’t help tuning a lawyer’s ear to McAfee’s

questions.He’sgotnothing,shethought.Thisisnothing.“Whendidyoutwostophangingaround?”“Sixth grade,” Josie answered. “We just kind of started liking different

things.”“DidyouhaveanycontactwithPeterafterthat?”Josieshiftedinherchair.“Onlyinthehallsandstuff.”“Youworkedwithhim,too,right?”Josielookedathermotheragain.“Notforverylong.”Both mother and daughter stared at him, anticipatory-which was awfully

funny, because Jordan was making this all up as he went. “What about therelationshipbetweenMattandPeter?”

“Theydidn’thaveone,”Josiesaid,buthercheekswentpink.“DidMattdoanythingtoPeterthatmighthavebeenupsetting?”“Maybe.”“Canyoubemorespecific?”Sheshookherhead,herlipspressedtightlytogether.“WhenwasthelasttimeyousawMattandPetertogether?”“Idon’tremember,”Josiewhispered.“Didtheyfight?”Tearscloudedhereyes.“Idon’tknow.”She turned tohermotherand then

slowlysankherheaddown to the table,her facepressed into thecurveofherownarm.

“Honey,whydon’tyougowaitintheotherroom?”thejudgesaidevenly.

TheybothwatchedJosiesitdownonachairinthelivingroom,wipinghereyes,hunchingforwardtowatchthebabyplayingonthefloor.

“Look,”JudgeCormiersighed.“I’moffthecase.Iknowthat’swhyyouputheronthewitnesslist,evenifyou’dneveractuallyintendedtocallher.ButI’mnotquestioningthatrightnow.I’mtalkingtoyouparenttoparent.IfIgiveyouanaffidavit signedbyJosiesayingshedoesn’t rememberanything,wouldyouthinktwiceaboutputtingheronthestand?”

Jordanglancedintothelivingroom.SelenahadcoaxedJosieontothefloorwithher.ShewaspushingatoyplanetowardSam’sfeet.Whenheburstoutwiththesheerbellylaughthatonlyababyhas,Josiesmiledthetiniestbit,too.Selenacaughthisgaze,raisedherbrowsinaquestion.

He’d gotten what he wanted: Cormier’s recusal. He could be generousenoughtodothisforher.

“Allright,”hetoldthejudge.“Getmetheaffidavit.”“Whentheysaytoscaldthemilk,”Josiesaid,scrubbinganotherBrillopad

againsttheblackenedbottomofthepot,“Idon’tthinktheymeanlikethis.”Hermotherpickedupadishtowel.“Well,howwasIsupposedtoknow?”“Maybe we should start with something easier than pudding,” Josie

suggested.“Like?”Shesmiled.“Toast?”Nowthathermotherwashomeduringtheday,shewasrestless.Tothatend,

she’dtakenupcooking-whichwasagoodideaonlyifyouhappenedtoworkforthefiredepartmentandneededjobsecurity.Evenwhenhermotherfollowedtherecipe, itdidn’t turnout theway itwas supposed to, and then inevitably Josiewould press her for details and find out she’d used baking powder instead ofbakingsoda,orwholewheatflourinsteadofcornmeal(Wedidn’thaveany,shecomplained).

Atfirst,Josiehadsuggestednightlyculinaryclassesoutofself-preservation-shereallydidn’tknowwhattosaywhenhermotherplunkedacharredbrickofmeatloafdownwiththesamedramaticreverencethatmighthavebeengiventotheHolyGrail.As it turnedout, though, itwas sort of fun.Whenhermotherwasn’tactinglikesheknewitall(becauseshesototallydidn’t,whenitcametocooking),sheactuallywasprettyamusingtohangoutwith.Itwascool,too,forJosie to feel as if she had control over a situation-any situation, even if ithappened tobemakingchocolatepudding,orscrubbing its final remains fromthebottomofasaucepan.

Tonight, they’dmadepizza-whichJosiehadcountedasasuccess,untilhermotherhadtriedtoslidethepizzaoutoftheovenandithadfolded,halfway,on

thecoilsinside,whichmeanttheyhadtomakegrilledcheeseasadefaultdinner.They had salad out of a bag-something her mother couldn’t screw up, Josiefigured,evenifsheworkedhardat it.Butnow,thankstothepuddingdisaster,therewasn’tanydessert.

“HowdidyougettobeJuliaChild,anyway?”hermotherasked.“JuliaChild’sdead.”“NigellaLawson,then.”Josie shrugged and turned off the water; stripped off the yellow plastic

gloves.“Ikindofgotsickofsoup,”shesaid.“Didn’tItellyounottoturnontheovenwhenIwasn’thome?”“Yeah,butIdidn’tlistentoyou.”Once,whenJosiewasinfifthgrade,thestudentshadhadtobuildabridge

out of popsicle sticks.The ideawas to craft a design that couldwithstand themost pressure. She could remember riding in the car across the ConnecticutRiver,andstudyingthearchesandstrutsandsupportsoftherealbridges,tryingher best to copy them. At the end of the unit, two engineers from the ArmyCorpscame inwithamachine speciallydesigned toputweightand torqueoneachbridge,toseewhichchild’swasthestrongest.

Theparentswereinvitedinforthetesting.Josie’smotherhadbeenincourt,theonlymothernotpresentthatday.Orsoshe’dremembereduntilnow,whenJosierealizedthathermotherhadbeenthere,forthelasttenminutes.ShemighthavemissedJosie’sbridge test-duringwhich thestickssplinteredandgroaned,andthenburstapart incatastrophicfailure-butshe’dbeenthereintimetohelpJosiepickupthepieces.

Thepotwassparkling,silver.Themilkcartonwashalffull.“Wecouldstartover,”Josiesuggested.

Whentherewasnoanswer,Josieturnedaround.“I’dlikethat,”hermotheranswered quietly, but by that time, neither one of them was talking aboutcooking.

Therewasaknockatthedoor,andthatconnectionbetweenthem-evanescentas a butterfly that lands on your hand-broke. “Are you expecting someone?”Josie’smotherasked.

Shewasn’t,butshewenttoansweritanyway.WhenJosieopenedthedoor,shefoundthedetectivewho’dinterviewedherstandingthere.

Didn’t detectives show up at your door only when you were in serioustrouble?

Breathe, Josie, she toldherself, andshenoticedhewasholdingabottleofwinejustashermothercameouttoseewhatwasgoingon.

“Oh,”hermothersaid.“Patrick.”

Patrick?Josieturnedandrealizedhermotherwasblushing.Heheldoutthebottleofwine.“Sincethisseemstobeaboneofcontention

betweenus…”“You know what?” Josie said, uncomfortable. “I’m just, um, going to go

study.”She’dleaveittohermothertofigureouthowshewasgoingtodothat,sinceshe’dfinishedherhomeworkbeforedinner.

Sheflewupthestairs,poundingextrahardwithherfeetsothatshewouldn’thearwhathermotherwassaying.Inherroom,sheturnedthemusiconherCDplayer up to its loudest level, threwherself onto her bed, and staredup at theceiling.

Josiehadamidnightcurfew,notthatshewasusingitatallnow.Butbefore,the bargainwent like this:Mattwould get Josie home bymidnight; in return,Josie’smotherwoulddisappearlikesmokethemomenttheyenteredthehouse,retreatingupstairssothatsheandMattcouldfoolaroundinthelivingroom.Shehad no ideawhat hermother’s rationale for thiswas-unless itwas that itwassaferforJosietobedoingthisinherownlivingroomthaninacarorunderthebleachers. She could remember how they’d come together in the dark, theirbodiesfusingandtheirsilencemeasured.Realizingthatatanymomenthermommightcomedownforadrinkofwateroranaspirinonlymadeitthatmuchmoreexciting.

At three or four in themorning, when her eyes were blurry and her chinrubbedrawbybeardstubble,JosiewouldkissMattgoodnightatthefrontdoor.She’d watch his taillights disappear like the glow of a dying cigarette. She’dtiptoeupstairs,pasthermother’sbedroom,thinking:Youdon’tknowmeatall.

“IfIwon’tletyoubuymeadrink,”Alexsaid,“thenwhatmakesyouthinkI’dtakeabottleofwinefromyou?”

Patrick grinned. “I’m not giving it to you. I’m going to open it, and youmightjustchoosetoborrowsome.”

As he said this, hewaswalking into the house, as if he already knew theway.He stepped into the kitchen, sniffed twice-it still smelled of the ashes ofpizzacrustandincineratedmilk-andbegantorandomlyopenandclosedrawersuntilhefoundacorkscrew.

Alexfoldedherarms,notbecauseshewascold,butbecauseshecouldnotrememberfeelingthislightinside,asifherbodyhousedasecondsolarsystem.ShewatchedPatrickremovetwowineglassesfromacabinetandpour.

“Tobeingacivilian,”hesaid,toasting.Thewinewasrichandfull; likevelvet; likeautumn.Alexclosedhereyes.

Shewouldhavelikedtoholdontothismoment,dragitwiderandfuller,untilit

coveredupsomanyothersthathadcomebefore.“So,howisit?”Patrickasked.“Beingunemployed?”Shethoughtforamoment.“Imadeagrilledcheesesandwichtodaywithout

burningthepan.”“Ihopeyouframedit.”“Nah,Ileftthattotheprosecution.”Shesmiledatherownlittleinsidejoke,

and then felt it dissolve on the tails of her thoughts as she imagined DianaLeven’sface.“Doyoueverfeelguilty?”Alexasked.

“Why?”“Because for a half a second, you’ve almost forgotten everything that

happened.”Patrick put down hiswineglass. “Sometimes,when I’m going through the

evidenceandIseeafingerprintoraphotoorashoethatbelongedtooneofthekidswhodied,Itakealittlemoretimetolookatit.It’scrazy,butitseemslikesomeone ought to, so that they’re remembered an extra minute or two.” Helookedupather.“Whensomeonedies,theirlivesaren’ttheonesthatstopatthatmoment,youknow?”

Alexliftedherglassofwineanddrainedit.“Tellmehowyoufoundher.”“Who?”“Josie.Thatday.”Patrickmet her gaze, andAlex knew he was weighing her right to know

whatherdaughterhadexperiencedagainsthiswishtosaveherfromatruththatwouldcuthertothequick.“Shewasinthelockerroom,”hebeganquietly.“AndI thought…I thought she was dead, too, because she was covered in blood,facedownnexttoMattRoyston.Butthenshemovedand-”Hisvoicebroke.“ItwasthemostbeautifulthingI’deverseen.”

“Youknowyou’reahero,don’tyou?”Patrick shook his head. “I’m a coward. The only reason I ran into that

buildingwasbecauseifIdidn’t,I’dhavenightmaresfortherestofmylife.”Alexshivered.“Ihavenightmares,andIwasn’teventhere.”Hetookawayherwineglassandstudiedherpalm,asifheweregoingtoread

herthelineofherlife.“Maybeyoushouldtrynotsleeping,”Patricksaid.Hisskinsmelledofevergreenandspearmint,thisclose.Alexcouldfeelher

heartpoundingthroughthetipsofherfingers.Sheimaginedhecouldfeelit,too.She didn’t know what was going to happen next-what was supposed to

happen next-but it would be random, unpredictable, uncomfortable. She wasgetting ready to push away from him when Patrick’s hands anchored her inplace.“Stopbeingsuchajudge,Alex,”hewhispered,andhekissedher.

When feeling came back, in a storm of color and force and sensation, the

most you coulddowashold on to the personbeside you andhopeyou couldweatherit.Alexclosedhereyesandexpectedtheworst-butitwasn’tabadthing;it was just a different thing. A messier one, a more complicated one. Shehesitated, and then shekissedPatrickback,willing to concede that youmighthavetolosecontrolbeforeyoucouldfindwhatyou’dbeenmissing.

TheMonthBeforeWhenyou love someone, there’s a pattern to thewayyou come together.

Youmightnotevenrealizeit,butyourbodiesarechoreographed:atouchonthehip, a stroke of the hair. A staccato kiss, break away, a longer one, his handslippingunderyourshirt.It’saroutine,butnotintheboringsenseoftheword.It’sjustthewayyou’velearnedtofit,andit’swhy,whenyou’vebeenwithoneguyforalongtime,yourteethdonotscrapetogetherwhenyoukiss;youdonotbumpnosesorelbows.

MattandJosiehadapattern.Whentheystartedmakingout,he’dleaninandlook at her as if he couldn’t possibly see any other part of the world. It washypnotism,sherealized,becauseafterawhileshesortoffeltthatway,too.Thenhe’dkissher,soslowly that therewashardlypressureonhermouth,until shewastheonepushingagainsthimformore.Heworkedhiswaydownherbody,from mouth to neck, from neck to breasts, and then his fingers would do asearch-and-rescuemission below thewaistband of her jeans. Thewhole thinglastedabouttenminutes,andthenMattwouldrolloffherandtakethecondomoutofhiswalletsotheycouldhavesex.

NotthatJosiemindedanyofit.Ifshewasgoingtobehonest,shelikedthepattern.Itfeltlikearollercoaster-goingupthathill,knowingwhatwascomingnextontrackandknowing,too,thatshecouldn’tdoanythingtostopit.

They were in her living room, in the dark, with the television on forbackground noise. Matt had already peeled off her clothes, and now he wasleaningoverherlikeatidalwave,pullingdownhisboxers.HesprangfreeandsettledbetweenJosie’slegs.

“Hey,” she said, as he tried to push into her. “Aren’t you forgettingsomething?”

“Aw,Jo.Justonce,Idon’twanttheretobeanythingbetweenus.”Hiswordscouldmeltherjustassurelyashiskissorhistouch;shealready

knew that by now. She hated that rubbery smell that permeated the air themoment he ripped open the Trojan packet and stayed on his hands until theywere finished.AndGod,didanything feelbetter thanhavingMatt insideher?Josieshiftedjustalittle,feltherbodyadjusttohim,andherlegstrembled.

WhenJosiehadgottenherperiodat thirteen,hermotherhadnotgivenherthetypicalheart-to-heartmother/daughterchat.Instead,shehandedJosieabook

onprobabilityandstatistics.“Everytimeyouhavesex,youcangetpregnantoryou can not get pregnant,” her mother said. “That’s fifty-fifty. So don’t foolyourselfintothinkingthatifyouonlydoitoncewithoutprotection,theoddsareinyourfavor.”

JosiepushedatMatt.“Idon’tthinkweshoulddothis,”shewhispered.“Havesex?”“Havesexwithout…youknow.Anything.”Hewas disappointed, Josie could tell by theway his face froze for just a

moment.Buthepulledoutandfishedforhiswallet,foundacondom.Josietookitoutofhishand,toreopenthepackage,helpedhimputiton.“Oneday,”shebegan,andthenhekissedher,andJosieforgotwhatshewasgoingtosay.

Lacyhadstartedspreadingcornonthe lawnbackinNovember tohelp thedeer through the winter. There were plenty of locals who frowned uponartificially giving the deer a helping hand during the winter-mostly the samepeoplewhosegardenswerewreckedbythosesurvivingdeerinthesummer-butforLacy, therewaskarmainvolved.AslongasLewis insistedonhunting,shewasgoingtodowhatlittleshecouldtocancelouthisactions.

She put on her heavy boots-therewas still enough snow on the ground tomeritit,althoughithadgottenwarmenoughforthesaptostartflowing,whichmeant that at least in theory, spring was coming. As soon as Lacy walkedoutside,shecouldsmellthemaplesyruprefiningintheneighbor’ssugarhouse,likecandycrystalsintheair.Shecarriedthebucketoffeedcorntotheswingsetinthebackyard-awoodenstructurethattheboyshadplayedonwhentheyweresmall,andthatLewishadneverquitegottenaroundtodismantling.

“Hey,Mom.”Lacy turned to find Peter standing nearby, his hands dug deep into the

pockets of his jeans. He was wearing a T-shirt and a down vest, and sheimaginedhehadtobefreezing.“Hi,sweetie,”shesaid.“What’sgoingon?”

ShecouldprobablycountononehandthenumberoftimesPeterhadcomeoutofhis roomlately,muchlessoutside. Itwaspartofpuberty,sheknew,foradolescentstoholeupinburrowsanddowhateveritwastheydidbehindcloseddoors.InPeter’scase,itinvolvedthecomputer.Hewasonlineconstantly-notforweb surfing as much as programming, and how could she fault that kind ofpassion?

“Nothing.Whatareyoudoing?”“SamethingI’vedoneallwinter.”“Really?”Shelookedupathim.Againstthebeautyofthebriskoutdoors,Peterseemed

wildlyoutofplace.His featureswere toodelicate tomatch thecraggy lineof

mountains in thebackdropbehindhim;hisskinseemednearlyaswhiteas thesnow.Hedidn’tfit,andLacyrealizedthatmostofthetimewhenshesawPetersomewhere,shecouldmakethesameobservation.

“Here,”Lacysaid,handinghimthebucket.“Help.”Petertookthebucketandbegantotosshandfulsofcornontheground.“Can

Iaskyousomething?”“Sure.”“IsittruethatyouweretheonewhoaskedoutDad?”Lacygrinned.“Well, ifIhadn’t,Iwouldhaveprobablyhadtowaitaround

forever.Yourfatherismanythings,butperceptiveisn’toneofthem.”ShehadmetLewisatapro-choicerally.AlthoughLacywouldbethefirstto

tellyouthattherewasnogreatergiftthanhavingababy,shewasarealist-she’dsenthomeenoughmotherswhoweretooyoungortoopoorortoooverburdenedtoknowthattheoddsofthatchildhavingagoodlifewereslim.ShehadgonewithafriendtoamarchatthestatehouseinConcordandstoodonthestepswithasisterhoodofwomenwhoheldupsigns:I’MPRO-CHOICEANDIVOTE…AGAINST ABORTION? DON’T HAVE ONE. She had looked around thecrowdthatdayandrealizedthat therewasoneloneman-well-dressedinasuitandtie,rightinthethickoftheprotesters.Lacyhadbeenfascinatedbyhim-asaprotester,hewascompletelycastagainsttype.Wow,Lacyhadsaid,workingherwaytowardhim.Whataday.

Tellmeaboutit.Haveyoueverbeenherebefore?Lacyhadasked.Myfirsttime,Lewissaid.Mine,too.They had gotten separated as a new influx ofmarchers cameup the stone

steps.ApaperhadblownoffthestackthatLewiswascarrying,butbythetimeLacycouldgrabit,he’dbeenswallowedbythecrowd.Itwasthecoverpagetosomethingbigger;sheknewbythestapleholesatthetop,andithadatitlethatnearly put her to sleep: “The allocation of public education resources inNewHampshire: a critical analysis.” But there was also an author’s name: LewisHoughton,SterlingCollegeDept.ofEconomics.

Whenshecalled to tellLewis thatshehadhispaper,hesaid thathedidn’tneedit.Hecouldprintoutanothercopy.Yes,Lacyhadsaid,butIhavetobringthisonebacktoyou.

Why?Soyoucanexplainittomeoverdinner.Itwasn’tuntilthey’dgoneoutforsushithatLacylearnedthereasonLewis

hadbeenat thestatehousehadnothing todowithattendingapro-choicerally,

butonlybecausehehadascheduledappointmentwiththegovernor.“Buthowdidyou tell him?”Peter asked. “Thatyou likedhim,youknow,

likethat?”“AsIrecall,Igrabbedhimafterourthirddateandkissedhim.Thenagain,

thatmayhavebeentoshuthimupbecausehewasgoingonandonaboutfreetrade.”Sheglancedbackoverhershoulder,andsuddenlythequestionsallmadesense.“Peter,”shesaid,asmilebreakingoverher.“Istheresomeoneyoulike?”

Peterdidn’tevenhavetoanswer-hisfaceturnedcrimson.“DoIgettoknowhername?”“No,”Petersaidemphatically.“Well,itdoesn’tmatter.”SheloopedherarmthroughPeter’s.“Gosh,Ienvy

you.There’snothingthatcomparestothosefirstfewmonthswhenallyoucanthinkofiseachother.Imean,loveinanyformisprettyfabulous…butfallinginlove…well.”

“It’snotlikethat,”Petersaid.“Imean,it’skindofone-sided.”“Ibetshe’sjustasnervousasyouare.”He grimaced. “Mom. She barely even registers my existence. I’m not…I

don’thangoutwiththekindofpeopleshehangsoutwith.”Lacylookedatherson.“Well,”shesaid.“Thenyourfirstorderofbusinessis

tochangethat.”“How?”“Findwaystoconnectwithher.Maybeinplaceswhereyouknowherfriends

won’tbearound.Andtrytoshowherthesideofyouthatshedoesn’tnormallysee.”

“Likewhat?”“Theinside.”LacytappedPeter’schest.“Ifyoutellherhowyoufeel,Ithink

youmightbesurprisedatthereaction.”Peterduckedhisheadandkickedatahummockofsnow.Thenheglanced

upathershyly.“Really?”Lacynodded.“Itworkedforme.”“Okay,”Petersaid.“Thanks.”Shewatchedhim trudgebackup thehill to thehouse,and thenshe turned

her attention back to the deer. Lacy would have to feed them until the snowmelted.Onceyoustartedtakingcareofthem,youhadtofollowthrough,ortheyjustwouldn’tmakeit.

Theywereonthefloorofthelivingroomandtheywerenearlynaked.JosiecouldtastebeeronMatt’sbreath,butshemusthavetastedlikethat,too.They’dbothdrunk a fewatDrew’s-not enough to getwasted, just buzzed, enough sothatMatt’shandsseemed tobealloverheratonce,so thathisskinset fire to

hers.She’dbeenfloatingalongpleasantlyinahazeofthefamiliar.Yes,Matthad

kissedher-oneshortone,thenalonger,hungrykiss,ashishandworkedopentheclasponherbra.Shelaylazy,spreadbeneathhimlikeafeast,ashepulledoffher jeans.But then, insteadofdoingwhatusuallycamenext,Mattrearedoverheragain.Hekissedhersohardthatithurt.“Mmmph,”shesaid,pushingathim.

“Relax,”Mattmurmured, and thenhe sankhis teeth intoher shoulder.Hepinnedherhandsoverherheadandgroundhishipsagainsthers.Shecouldfeelhiserection,hotagainstherstomach.

Itwasn’tthewayitnormallywas,butJosiehadtoadmitthatitwasexciting.She couldn’t remember ever feeling so heavy, as if her heart were beatingbetweenherlegs.SheclawedatMatt’sbacktobringhimcloser.

“Yeah,”hegroaned,andhepushedherthighsapart.AndthensuddenlyMattwas inside her, pumping so hard that she scooted backward on the carpet,burningthebacksofherlegs.

“Wait,”Josiesaid,tryingtorollawaybeneathhim,butheclampedhishandoverhermouthanddroveharderandharderuntilJosiefelthimcome.

Semen, sticky and hot, pooled on the carpet beneath her.Matt framed herfacewithhishands.“Jesus,Josie,”hewhispered,andsherealizedthathewasintears.“Iloveyousogoddamnmuch.”

Josieturnedherfaceaway.“Iloveyou,too.”Shelayinhisarmsfortenminutesandthensaidshewastiredandneededto

gotosleep.AftershekissedMattgood-byeatthefrontdoor,shewentintothekitchenandtooktherugcleaneroutfromunderneaththesink.Shescrubbeditintothewetspotonthecarpet,prayeditwouldnotleaveastain.

#include‹stdio.h›main(){inttime;for(time=0;time‹infinity(1);time++){printf(“Iloveyou|n”);}}Peterhighlightedthetextonhiscomputerscreenanddeletedit.Althoughhe

thought itwould be pretty cool to open an email and automatically have an ILOVEYOUmessagewrittenoverandoveron thescreen,hecouldseewheresomeoneelse-someonewhodidn’tgiveacrapaboutC++-wouldthinkitwasjustdownrightstrange.

He’d decided on an email because thatway if she blewhimoff, he couldsuffer the embarrassment in private.The problemwas, hismother had said to

showwhatwasinsidehimandhewasn’tverygoodwhenitcametowords.Hethoughtabouthowsometimes,whenhesawher,itwasjustapartofher:

her arm resting on the passenger window of the car, her hair blowing out itswindow.Hethoughtabouthowmanytimeshe’dfantasizedaboutbeingtheoneatthewheel.

Myjourneywaspointless,hewrote.UntilItookaYOU-turn.Groaning, Peter deleted that, too. Itmade him sound like aHallmark card

writer,orevenworse,onethatHallmarkwouldn’tevenhire.Hethoughtaboutwhathewishedhecouldsaytoher,ifhehadtheguts,and

poisedhishandsoverthekeyboard.Iknowyoudon’tthinkofme.Andyoucertainlywouldneverpictureustogether.But probably peanut butter was just peanut butter for a long time, before

someoneeverthoughtofpairingitupwithjelly.Andtherewassalt,butitstartedto taste betterwhen therewas pepper.Andwhat’s the point of butterwithoutbread?

(WhyarealltheseexamplesFOODS!?!?!??)Anyway,bymyself,I’mnothingspecial.Butwithyou,IthinkIcouldbe.Heagonizedabouttheending.Yourfriend,PeterHoughtonWell,technicallythatwasn’ttrue.Sincerely,PeterHoughtonThatwastrue,butitwasstillsortoflame.Ofcourse,therewastheobvious:Love,PeterHoughtonHetypeditin,readitoveronce.Andthen,beforehecouldstophimself,he

pushedtheEnterbuttonandsenthisheartacrosstheEthernettoJosieCormier.CourtneyIgnatiowassofreakingbored.Josie was her friend and all, but there was, like, nothing to do. They’d

alreadywatched threePaulWalkermoviesonDVD,checked theLostwebsitefor the bio on the hot guywho played Sawyer, and read all the Cosmos thathadn’tbeenrecycled,buttherewasnoHBO,nothingchocolateinthefridge,andnopartyatSterlingCollegetosneakinto.ThiswasCourtney’ssecondnightattheCormier household, thanks to her brainiac older brother,whohaddraggedher parents on a whirlwind tour of Ivy League colleges on the East Coast.Courtney plopped a stuffed hippo on her stomach and frowned into its buttoneyes. She’d already tried to get details out of Josie last night about Matt-importantthings,likehowbigadickhehadandifhehadacluehowtouseit-butJosiehadgoneallHilaryDuffonherandacted likeshe’dneverheard thewordsexbefore.

Josie was in the bathroom taking a shower; Courtney could still hear thewater running. She rolled to her side and scrutinized a framed photograph ofJosie andMatt. It would have been easy to hate Josie, becauseMatt was theüber-boyfriend-alwaysglancingaroundatapartytomakesurehehadn’tgottentoofarawayfromJosie;callingheruptosaygoodnight,evenwhenhe’djustdroppedheroffahalfhourbefore(yes,Courtneyhadbeenprivytoadisplayofthatverythingjustlastnight).Unlikemostoftheguysonthehockeyteam-several of whom Courtney had dated-Matt honestly seemed to prefer Josie’scompany to anyone else’s. But there was something about Josie that keptCourtneyfrombeingjealous.Itwasthewayherexpressionslippedeverynowand then, like a colored contact lens, so you could see what was actuallyunderneath. Josie might have been one-half of Sterling High School’s MostFaithfulCouple,but it almost seemed like thebiggest reasonsheclung to thatlabelwasbecausethatwastheonlyreasonsheknewwhoshewas.

You’vegotmail.The automaton on Josie’s computer spoke; until then, Courtney hadn’t

realized that they’d left the computer running, much less online. She settleddownatthedesk,wigglingthemousesothatthescreencamebackintofocus.Maybe Matt was writing some kind of cyberporn. It would be fun to screwaroundwithhimalittleandpretendthatshewasJosie.

The return address, though, wasn’t one that Courtney recognized-she andJosie,afterall,hadnearlyidenticalBuddyLists.Therewasnosubject.Courtneyclickedonthelink,assumingitwassomekindofjunkmail:enlargeyourpenisinthirtydays;refinanceyourhome;realdealsonprinterribboncartridges.

Theemailopened,andCourtneystartedtoread.“OhmyGod,”shemurmured.“Thisistoofuckinggood.”She swiped the body of the email and forwarded it to RTWING90@

yahoo.com.Drew,shetyped.Spamthisouttothewholewideworld.The door to the bathroom opened, and Josie came back into the bedroom

wearing a bathrobe, a towel wrapped around her head. Courtney closed theserverwindow.“Good-bye,”theautomatonsaid.

“What’sup?”Josieasked.Courtneyturnedaroundin thechair,smiling.“Justcheckingmymail,”she

said.Josiecouldn’tsleep;hermindwas tumbling likeaspringstream.Thiswas

exactly the sortofproblemshewishedshecould talkaboutwith someone-butwho?Hermother?Yeah,right.Mattwasoutof thequestion.AndCourtney-oranyothergirlfriendshehad-well,shewasafraidthatifshespokeherworstfears

outloud,maybethatwouldbeenoughforthemtocometrue.JosiewaiteduntilsheheardCourtney’sevenbreathing.Shecreptoutofbed

andintothebathroom.Sheclosedthedoorandpulleddownherpajamapants.Nothing.Herperiodwasthreedayslate.OnTuesday afternoon, Josie sat on a couch inMatt’s basement,writing a

socialstudiesessayforhimaboutthehistoricalabuseofpowerinAmericawhileheandDrewliftedfreeweights.

“There are amillion things you could talk about,” Josie said. “Watergate.AbuGhraib.KentState.”

Matt strained beneath the weight of a barbell as Drew spotted him.“Whatever’seasiest,Jo,”hesaid.

“Comeon,youpussy,”Drewsaid.“Atthisratethey’regoingtodemoteyoutoJV.”

Matt grinned and fully extended his arms. “Let’s see you bench this,” hegrunted.Josiewatchedtheplayofhismuscles,imaginedthemstrongenoughtodothatandalsotenderenoughtoholdher.Hesatup,wipinghisforeheadandthebackoftheweightbench,sothatDrewcouldtakehisturn.

“IcoulddosomethingonthePatriotAct,”Josiesuggested,bitingdownontheendofthepencil.

“I’mjustlookingoutforyourownbestinterests,dude,”Drewsaid.“Imean,ifyou’renotgoingtobulkupforCoach,doitforJosie.”

Sheglancedup.“Drew,wereyoubornanidiot,ordidthatevolve?”“Iintelligentlydesigned,”hejoked.“AllI’msayingisthatMattbetterwatch

out,nowthathe’sgotsomecompetition.”“Whatareyoutalkingabout?”Josie lookedathimas ifhewerecrazy,but

secretly, she was panicking. It didn’t really matter whether or not Josie hadshownattentiontosomeoneelse;itonlymatteredwhetherMattthoughtso.

“Itwasa joke,Josie,”Drewsaid, lyingdownon thebenchandcurlinghisfistsaroundthemetalbar.

Mattlaughed.“Yeah,that’sagooddescriptionofPeterHoughton.”“Areyougoingtofuckwithhim?”“Hopefully,”Mattsaid.“Ijusthaven’tdecidedhowyet.”“Maybeyouneedsomepoeticinspirationtocomeupwithasuitableplan,”

Drew said. “Hey, Jo, grab my binder. The email’s right in the pocket in thefront.”

JosiereachedacrossthecouchforDrew’sbackpackandrummagedthroughhisbooks.Shepulledoutafoldedpieceofpaperandopenedittofindherownemail address right at the top, thewhole student bodyofSterlingHigh as the

destinationaddress.Wherehadthiscomefrom?Andwhyhadn’tsheeverseenit?“Readit,”Drewsaid,liftingtheweights.Josie hesitated. “‘I knowyou don’t think ofme.And you certainlywould

neverpictureustogether.’”Thewordsfeltlikestonesinherthroat.Shestoppedspeaking,butthatdidn’t

matter,becauseDrewandMattwererecitingtheemailwordforword.“‘Bymyself,I’mnothingspecial,’”Mattsaid.“‘Butwithyou…Ithink…’”Drewconvulsed, laughing, theweightsfalling

hardbackintotheircradle.“Fuck,Ican’tdothiswhenI’mcrackingup.”Mattsankdownon thecouchbesideJosieandslippedhisarmaroundher,

histhumbgrazingherbreast.Sheshifted,becauseshedidn’twantDrewtosee,butMattdid,andshiftedwithher.“Youinspirepoetry,”hesaid,smiling.“Badpoetry,butevenHelenofTroyprobablystartedwith,like,alimerick,right?”

Josie’s face reddened. She could not believe that Peter had written thesethingstoher,thathe’deverthinkshemightbereceptivetothem.Shecouldn’tbelievethatthewholeschoolknewthatPeterHoughtonlikedher.Shecouldn’taffordforthemtothinkthatshefeltanythingforhim.

Evensorry.Moredevastatingwasthefactsomeonehaddecidedtomakeherthefool.It

wasnotasurprisethatsomeonehadgottenintoheremailaccount-theyallkneweachother’spasswords;itcouldhavebeenanyofthegirls,orevenMatthimself.Butwhatwouldmakeher friendsdo something like this, something so totallyhumiliating?

Josiealreadyknewtheanswer.Thisgroupofkids-theyweren’therfriends.Popularkidsdidn’treallyhavefriends;theyhadalliances.Youweresafeonlyaslong as you hid your trust-at any moment someone might make you thelaughingstock,becausethentheyknewnoonewaslaughingatthem.

Josiewassmarting,butshealsoknewpartoftheprankwasatesttoseehowshe reacted. If she turned around and accused her friends of hacking into heremail and invading her privacy, she was doomed. Above all else, she wasn’tsupposed to showemotion.Shewas so socially abovePeterHoughton that anemaillikethiswasn’tmortifying,buthilarious.

Inotherwords:Laugh,don’tcry.“Whatatotalloser,”Josiesaid,asifitdidn’tbotherheratall;asifshefound

this justas funnyasDrewandMattdid.Sheballedup theemailand tossed itbehindthecouch.Herhandswereshaking.

Mattlayhisheaddowninherlap,stillsweaty.“WhatdidIofficiallydecidetowriteabout?”

“Native Americans,” Josie replied absently. “How the government broketreatiesandtookawaytheirland.”

Itwas,sherealized,somethingshecouldsympathizewith:thatrootlessness,theunderstandingthatyouwerenevergoingtofeelathome.

Drewsatup,straddlingtheweightbench.“Hey,howdoIgetmyselfagirlwhocanboostmyGPA?”

“AskPeterHoughton,”Mattanswered,grinning.“He’sthelovemeister.”As Drew snickered, Matt reached for Josie’s hand, the one holding the

pencil.Hekissedtheknuckles.“You’retoogoodtome,”hesaid.ThelockersinSterlingHighwerestaggered,onerowontopandonerowon

thebottom,whichmeant that ifyouhappenedtobea lower lockeryouhad tosuffergettingyourbooksandcoatandstuffwhilesomeoneelsewaspracticallystandingonyourhead.Peter’slockerwasnotonlyonthebottomrow,itwasalsoinacorner-whichmeantthathecouldneverquitemakehimselfsmallenoughtogetwhatheneeded.

Peterhadfiveminutestogetfromclasstoclass,buthewasthefirstoneintothehallswhenthebellrang.Itwasacarefullycalculatedplan:ifheleftassoonas possible, he’d be in the hallways during the biggest crush of traffic, andthereforewas less likely tobe singledoutbyoneof thecoolkids.Hewalkedwithhisheadducked,hiseyesonthefloor,untilhereachedhislocker.

Hewaskneeling in frontof it, tradinghismathbook forhis social studiestext,whenapairofblackwedgeheelsstoppedbesidehim.Heglancedup thepatterned stockings to the tweedminiskirt and asymmetrical sweater and longwaterfallofblondhair.CourtneyIgnatiowasstandingwithherarmscrossed,asifPeterhadalreadytakenuptoomuchofhertime,whenhewasn’teventheonewho’dstoppedherinthefirstplace.

“Getup,”shesaid.“I’mnotgoingtobelateforclass.”Peterstoodandclosedhislocker.Hedidn’twantCourtneytoseethatinside,

hehadtapedapictureofhimselfandJosiefromwhentheywerelittle.He’dhadto climb up into the attic where hismother kept her old photo albums, sinceshe’dgonedigitaltwoyearsago,andnowalltheyhadwereCDs.Inthephoto,heandJosieweresittingontheedgeofasandboxatnurseryschool.Josie’shandwasonPeter’sshoulder.Thatwastheparthelikedthebest.

“Look, the last thingIwant todoisstandhereandbeseentalkingtoyou,butJosie’smyfriend,whichiswhyIvolunteeredtodothis inthefirstplace.”Courtney looked down the hall, tomake sure no onewas coming. “She likesyou.”

Peterjuststaredather.“Imeanshe likesyou,youretard.She’s totallyoverMatt; she justdoesn’t

want to ditch him until she knows for sure that you’re serious about her.”CourtneyglancedatPeter.“Itoldherit’ssocialsuicide,butIguessthat’swhatpeopledoforlove.”

Peterfeltallthebloodrushtohishead,anoceaninhisears.“WhyshouldIbelieveyou?”

Courtney tossedherhair.“Idon’tgiveadamnifyoudooryoudon’t. I’mjusttellingyouwhatshesaid.Whatyoudowithitisuptoyou.”

Shewalkeddown thehallway anddisappeared around a corner just as thebellrang.Peterwasgoingtobelatenow;hehatedbeinglate,becausethenyoucouldfeeleveryone’seyesonyouwhenyouwalkedintoclass,likeathousandcrowspeckingatyourskin.

Butthathardlymattered,notinthegrandschemeofthings.The best item the cafeteria served was Tater Tots, soaked in grease. You

could practically feel the waist of your jeans getting snugger and your facebreaking out-and yet, when the cafeteria lady held out her massive spoonful,Josie couldn’t resist. She sometimes wondered: If they were as nutritious asbroccoli, would she want them so much?Would they taste this good if theyweren’tsobadforyou?

MostofJosie’sfriendsonlydrankdietsodafortheirmeals;gettinganythingsubstantialandcarbohydrate-basedpracticallylabeledyouaseitherawhaleorabulimic.Usually,JosielimitedherselftothreeTaterTots,andthengavetherestto theguys todevour.But today, she’dpracticallybeen salivating for thepasttwoclassesjustthinkingaboutTaterTots,andshecouldn’tstoptakingjustonemore.Ifitwasn’tpicklesandicecream,diditstillqualifyasacraving?

CourtneyleanedacrossthetableandsweptherfingerthroughthegreasethatlinedtheTaterTottray.“Gross,”shesaid.“Howcomegasissoexpensive,whenthere’senoughoilonthesebabiestofillDrew’spickuptruck?”

“Differentkindofoil,Einstein,”Drewsaid.“DidyoureallythinkyouwerepumpingoutCriscoattheMobilstation?”

Josiebentdowntounzipherbackpack.Shehadpackedherselfanapple;ithadtobeinheresomewhere.Sherummagedthroughloosepapersandmakeup,so focused on her search that she didn’t realize the banter betweenDrew andCourtney-oranyoneelse,forthatmatter-hadfallensilent.

PeterHoughtonwasstandingnexttotheirtable,holdingabrownbaginonehandandanopenmilkcartonintheother.“Hi,Josie,”hesaid,asifshemightbelistening,asifsheweren’tdyingathousandkindsofdeathinthatonesecond.“Ithoughtyoumightliketojoinmeforlunch.”

Thewordmortified sounded like you’d gone to granite, like you couldn’tmove to save your soul. Josie imagined how years from now, studentswould

pointtothefrozengargoylethatusedtobeher,stillrootedtotheplasticcafeteriachair,andsay,Oh,right,Iheardaboutwhathappenedtoher.

Josie heard a rustling behind her, but she couldn’t have moved at thatmoment ifher lifedependedon it.She lookedupatPeter,wishing thereweresomekindofsecretlanguagewherewhatyousaidwasnotwhatyoumeant,andthe listenerwould automatically know youwere speaking that tongue. “Um,”Josiebegan.“I…”

“She’dloveto,”Courtneysaid.“Whenhellfreezesover.”The entire table dissolved into a fizz of laughter, an inside joke that Peter

didn’tunderstand.“What’sinthebag?”Drewasked.“Peanutbutterandjelly?”“Saltandpepper?”Courtneychimedin.“Breadandbutter?”The smile onPeter’s facewilted as he realizedhowdeep a pit he’d fallen

into, andhowmanypeoplehaddug it.Heglanced fromDrew toCourtney toEmmaand thenback at Josie-andwhenhe did, she had to look away, so thatnobody-includingPeter-wouldseehowmuch ithurther tohurthim; to realizethat-in spite of what Peter had believed about her-she was no different fromanyoneelse.

“IthinkJosieshouldatleastgettosamplethemerchandise,”Mattsaid,andwhen he spoke she realized that he was no longer sitting beside her. Hewasstanding,infact,behindPeter;andinonesmoothstrokehehookedhisthumbsintotheloopsofPeter’spantsandyankedthemdowntohisankles.

Peter’s skin was moon-white under the harsh fluorescent lamps of thecafeteria, his penis a tiny spiral shell on a sparse nest of pubic hair. Heimmediatelycoveredhisgenitalswithhislunchbag,andashedid,hedroppedhismilkcarton.Itspilledonthefloorbetweenhisfeet.

“Hey,lookatthat,”Drewsaid.“Prematureejaculation.”Theentirecafeteriabegantospinlikeacarousel-brightlightsandharlequin

colors.Josiecouldhearlaughter,andshetriedtomatchherowntoit.Mr.Isles,aSpanishteacherwhohadnoneck,hurriedovertoPeterashewaspullinguphispants.He grabbedMattwith one arm andPeterwith the other. “Are you twodone,”hebarked,“ordoweneedtogoseetheprincipal?”

Peter fled, but by that time, everyone in the cafeteria was reliving thegloriousmomentofhispantsing.Drewhigh-fivedMatt.“Dude,thatwasthebestfuckinglunchentertainmentI’veeverseen.”

Josiereachedintoherbackpack,pretendingtosearchforthatapple,butshewasn’t hungry anymore.She just didn’twant to see themall right now; to letthemseeher.

PeterHoughton’slunchbagwasbesideherfoot,wherehe’ddroppeditwhen

heranaway.Sheglancedinside.Asandwich,maybeturkey.Abagofpretzels.Carrots,whichhadbeenpeeledandcutintoevenstripsbysomeonewhocaredabouthim.

Josieslippedthebrownbagintoherknapsack,tellingherselfthatshe’dfindPeter and give it back to him, or leave it near his locker,when she knew shewoulddoneither.Instead,shewouldcarryitarounduntilitstartedtoreek,untilshehadtothrowitoutandcouldpretenditwasthateasytogetridof.

Peterburstoutofthecafeteriaandcareeneddownthenarrowhallwayslikeapinballuntilhefinallyreachedhislocker.Hefelltohiskneesandrestedhisheadagainst the coldmetal. How could he have been so stupid, trustingCourtney,thinking Josiemight give a rat’s ass about him, thinking hewas someone shecouldfallfor?

He banged his head until it hurt, then blindly dialed the numbers on hislocker.Itswungopen,andhereachedinsideforthephotoofhimselfandJosie.Hecrusheditintohispalmandwalkeddownthehallagain.

Ontheway,hewasstoppedbyateacher.Mr.McCabewasfrowningathim,puttingahandonhisshoulder,whensurelyhecouldseethatPetercouldn’tbearto be touched, that it felt like a hundred needleswere going through his skin.“Peter,”Mr.McCabesaid,“areyouallright?”

“Bathroom,” Peter ground out, and he pushed away, hurrying down thehallway.

He lockedhimself insidea stalland threw thepictureofhimselfandJosieinto the toiletbowl.Thenheunzippedhis flyandurinatedon topof it. “Fuckyou,” hewhispered, and then he said it loud enough to rattle thewalls of thestall.“Fuckyouall.”

TheminuteJosie’smotherlefttheroom,Josiepluckedthethermometeroutof hermouth and held it up against the lightbulb of her nightstand lamp. Shesquintedtoreadthetinynumbers,andthenstuckitbackintohermouthassheheardhermother’sfootsteps.“Hunh,”hermothersaid,holdingthethermometeruptothewindowtobetterreadit.“Iguessyouaresick.”

Josiegavewhatshehopedwasaconvincingmoanandrolledover.“Yousureyou’regoingtobeallrighthere,alone?”“Yeah.”“Youcancallmeifyouneedme.Icanrecesscourtandcomebackhome.”“Okay.”Shesatdownonthebedandkissedherforehead.“Youwantjuice?Soup?”Josieshookherhead.“IthinkIjustneedtogobacktosleep.”Sheclosedher

eyessothathermotherwouldgetthemessage.Shewaiteduntil sheheard thecardriveaway,andeven thenshestayed in

bedforanextratenminutestomakesureshewasalone.ThenJosiegotoutofbed and booted up her computer. She Googled abortifacient-the word she’dlookedupyesterday,theonethatmeantsomethingthatterminatesapregnancy.

Josiehadbeenthinkingabout this. Itwasn’t thatshedidn’twantababy; itwasn’teventhatshedidn’twantMatt’sbaby.Allsheknewforcertainwasthatshedidn’twanttohavetomakethatdecisionyet.

Ifshetoldhermother,hermomwouldcurseandscreamandthenfindawaytotakehertoPlannedParenthoodorthedoctor’soffice.Tobehonest,itwasn’teventhecursingandscreamingthatworriedJosie.Itwasrealizingthat-hadherownmotherdone this, seventeenyearsago-Josiewouldn’t evenbealive tobehavingthisproblem.

Josiehadtoyedwithcontactingherfatheragain,whichwouldhavetakenanenormous helping of humility. He hadn’t wanted Josie born, so theoretically,he’dprobablygooutofhiswaytohelpherhaveanabortion.

But.Therewassomethingaboutgoingtoadoctor,oraclinic,oreventoaparent,

thatshecouldn’tquiteswallow.Itseemedso…deliberate.Sobefore she reached that point, Josiehad chosen todo abit of research.

Shecouldn’triskbeingcaughtonacomputeratschoollookingthesethingsup,so she’d decided to play hooky. She sank into the desk chair, one leg foldedbeneathher,andmarveledasshereceivednearly99,000hits.

Someshealreadyknew:theoldwives’talesaboutstickingaknittingneedleup inside her, or drinking laxatives or castor oil. Some she’d never imagined:douchingwithpotassium,swallowinggingerroot,eatingunripepineapple.Andthen there were the herbs: oil infusions of calamus, mugwort, sage, andwintergreen;cocktailsmadeoutofblackcohoshandpennyroyal.Josiewonderedwhereyouevengotthesethings-itwasn’tliketheywereintheaislenexttotheaspirinatCVS.

Herbalremedies,thewebsitesaid,worked40-45percentofthetime.Which,shesupposed,wasatleastastart.

Sheleanedcloser,reading.Don’tstartherbaltreatmentafterthesixthweekofpregnancy.Keepinmindthesearenotreliablewaystoendpregnancy.Drinktheteasdayandnight,soyoudon’truintheprogressyoumadeduring

theday.Catchthebloodandaddwatertodiluteit,andlookattheclotsandtissueto

makesuretheplacentahaspassed.Josiegrimaced.Use1/2 to1 teaspoonof thedriedherbper cupofwater,3-4 timesaday.

Don’tconfusetansywithtansyragwort,whichhasbeenfataltocowsthathaveeatenitgrowingnearby.

Then she found something that looked less, well, medieval: vitamin C.Surelythatcouldn’tbetoobadforher?Josieclickedonthelink.Ascorbicacid,eight grams, for five days.Menstruation should begin on the sixth or seventhday.

Josiegotupfromhercomputerandwentintohermother’smedicinecabinet.There was a big white bottle of vitamin C, along with smaller ones ofacidophilus,vitaminB12,andcalciumsupplements.

Sheopenedthebottleandhesitated.Theotherwarningthatthewebsitesallgavewastomakesureyouhadreasontosubjectyourbodytotheseherbsbeforeyoustarted.

Josiepaddedbackintoherroomandopenedherbackpack.Inside,stillinitsplasticbag from thepharmacy,was thepregnancy test she’dboughtyesterdaybeforeshecamehomefromschool.

Shereadthedirectionstwice.Howcouldanyonepeeonastickforthatlong?Withafrown,shesatdownandwenttothebathroom,holdingthesmallwandbetweenherlegs.Thenshesetitintoitslittleholderandwashedherhands.

Josiesatonthelipofthebathtubandwatchedthecontrollineturnblue.Andthen, slowly, shewatched the second,perpendicular lineappear: aplus sign, apositive,acrosstobear.

When thesnowblower ranoutofgas in themiddleof thedriveway,Peterwenttothesparecantheykeptinthegarage,onlytodiscoveritwasempty.Hetippeditover,watchedasingledropstrikethegroundbetweenhissneakers.

Heusuallyhadtobeasked,like,sixtimestogooutandclearthepathsthatledtothefrontandbackdoors,buttodayhe’dturnedtothechorewithoutanybadgering from his parents. He wanted-no, scratch that-he needed to get outthere so that his feet couldmove at the same pace as hismind.Butwhen hesquinted against the lowering sun, he could still see a scroll of images on thebacksofhiseyelids:thecoldairstrikinghisassasMattRoystonpulledhispantsdown,themilksplatteringonhissneakers,Josie’sgazeslidingaway.

Petertrudgeddownthedrivewaytowardthehomeofhisneighboracrossthestreet.Mr.Weatherhallwasaretiredcop,andhishouselookedit.Therewasabig flagpole in themiddle of the front yard; in the summertime thegrasswastrimmed like a crew cut; therewere never any leaves on the lawn in the fall.PeterusedtowonderifWeatherhallcameoutinthemiddleofthenighttorakethem.

As far as Peter knew,Mr.Weatherhall now passed his time watching theGameShowNetworkanddoinghismilitaristicgardeninginsandalswithblack

socks.Becausehedidn’t lethisgrassgrow longer thanahalf inch,heusuallyhadasparegallonofgaslyingaround;Peterhadborroweditonhisdad’sbehalfothertimesforthelawnmowerorthesnowblower.

Peter rang the doorbell-which played “Hail to the Chief”-and Mr.Weatherhallanswered.“Son,”hesaid,althoughheknewPeter’snameandhadforyears.“Howareyoudoing?”

“Fine,Mr.Weatherhall. But I was wondering if you had any gas I couldborrowforthesnowblower.Well,gasIcoulduse.Imean,Ican’treallygiveitback.”

“Comeonin,comeonin.”HeheldthedooropenforPeter,whowalkedintothehouse.Itsmelledofcigarsandcatfood.AbowlofFritoswassetnexttohisLa-Z-Boy; on the television, Vanna White flipped a vowel. “GreatExpectations,”Mr.Weatherhall shoutedat thecontestantsashepassed.“Whatareyou,morons?”

He led Peter into the kitchen. “You wait here. The basement’s not fit forcompany.”Which, Peter realized, probablymeant therewas a dustmote on ashelf.

Heleanedagainstthecounter,hishandssplayedontheFormica.PeterlikedMr.Weatherhall, because evenwhenhewas trying to be gruff, you could tellthathejustreallymissedbeingapolicemanandhadnooneelsetopracticeon.WhenPeterwasyounger,JoeyandhisfriendshadalwaystriedtoscrewaroundwithWeatherhall, bypiling snowat theendofhisploweddrivewayor lettingtheirdogstakeadumponthemanicuredlawn.HecouldrememberwhenJoeywasaroundelevenandhadeggedWeatherhall’shouseonHalloween.Heandhisfriendshadbeencaughtintheact.Weatherhalldraggedthemintothehousefora“scaredstraight”chat.Theguy’safruitcake,Joeyhadtoldhim.Hekeepsaguninhisflourcanister.

Petercockedaneartowardthestairwell thatleddowntothebasement.HecouldstillhearMr.Weatherhallputteringarounddownthere,gettingthegascan.

Hesidledcloser to thesink,wheretherewerefourstainlesssteelcanisters.SODA, read the tiny one, and then in increasing size: BROWN SUGAR.SUGAR.FLOUR.Petergingerlyopeneduptheflourcanister.

Apuffofwhitepowderflewintohisface.Hecoughedandshookhishead.Itfigured;Joeyhadbeenlying.Idly,Peteropenedupthesugarcanisterbeside itandfoundhimselfstaring

downata9-millimetersemiautomatic.ItwasaGlock17-probably thesameoneMr.Weatherhallhadcarriedasa

policeman. Peter knew this because he knew about guns-he’d grown up withthem.But therewasadifferencebetweenahunting rifleorashotgunand this

neatandcompactweapon.Hisfathersaidthatanyonewhowasn’tinactivelawenforcementandkeptahandgunwasanidiot;itwasmorelikelytododamagethanprotectyou.Theproblemwithahandgunwasthatthemuzzlewassoshortthatyouforgotaboutholdingitawayfromyouforsafety’ssake;aimingwasassimpleandnonchalantaspointingyourfinger.

Peter touched it. Cold; smooth. Mesmerizing. He brushed the trigger,cuppinghishandaroundthegun;thatslight,sleekweight.

Footsteps.Peterjammedthecoverbackonthecanisterandwhippedaround,foldinghis

arms in front of himself. Mr. Weatherhall appeared at the top of the stairs,cradlingaredgascan.“Allset,”hesaid.“Bringitbackfull.”

“Iwill,” Peter replied.He left the kitchen and did not look in the generaldirection of the canister, although it was what he wanted to do, more thananything.

After school, Matt arrived with chicken soup from a local restaurant andcomicbooks.“Whatareyoudoingoutofbed?”heasked.

“Yourangthedoorbell,”Josiesaid.“Ihadtoanswerit,didn’tI?”Hefussedoverheras ifshehadmonoorcancer,not justavirus,which is

what she’d toldhimwhenhe calledheronhis cell from school thatmorning.Tucking her back into bed, he settled her with the soup in her lap. “This issupposedtocure,like,anything,right?”

“Whataboutthecomics?”Matt shrugged. “Mymom used to get those formewhen Iwas little and

stayedhomesick.Idon’tknow.Theyalwayssortofmademefeelbetter.”Ashe sat downbesideher on thebed, Josie pickeduponeof the comics.

WhywasWonderWomanalwayssobodacious?Ifyouwerea38DD,wouldyouhonestlygoleapingoffbuildingsandfightingcrimewithoutagoodjoggingbra?

Thinking of that reminded Josie that she could barely put on her own brathesedays,herbreastswereso tender.Andthatmadeherrecall thepregnancytest that she’d wrapped up in paper towels and thrown away outside in thegarbagecansohermotherwouldn’tfindit.

“Drew’s planning a shindig this Friday night,”Matt said. “His parents aregoing to Foxwoods for the weekend.” Matt frowned. “I hope you’re feelingbetterbythen,soyoucango.Whatdoyouthinkyou’vegot,anyway?”

Sheturnedtohimandtookadeepbreath.“It’swhatIdon’thave.Myperiod.I’mtwoweekslate.Itookapregnancytesttoday.”

“He’salreadytalkedtosomeguyatSterlingCollegeaboutbuyingacoupleofkegsfromafrat.I’mtellingyou,thispartywillbeoffthehook.”

“Didyouhearme?”

Mattsmiledatherthewayyou’dindulgeachildwhojusttoldyoutheskyisfalling.“Ithinkyou’reoverreacting.”

“Itwaspositive.”“Stresscandothat.”Josie’s jaw dropped. “Andwhat if it’s not stress?What if it’s, you know,

real?”“Thenwe’re in it together.”Matt leaned forward and kissed her forehead.

“Baby,”hesaid,“youcouldnevergetridofme.”Afewdayslater,whenitsnowed,Peterdeliberatelydrainedthesnowblower

ofitsgas,andthenwalkedacrossthestreettoMr.Weatherhall’shouse.“Don’ttellmeyouranoutagain,”hesaidasheopenedthedoor.“I guessmy dad didn’t get around to filling up our spare tank yet,” Peter

replied.“Gottamaketime,”Mr.Weatherhallsaid,buthewasalreadymovingintohis

house, leaving thedoorwidesoPetercouldfollow.“Gottastick toaschedule,that’showit’sdone.”

Astheypassedthetelevision,PeterglancedatthecastoftheMatchGame.“Big Bertha is so big,” Gene Rayburnwas saying, “that instead of skydivingwithaparachute,sheusesablank.”

ThemomentMr.Weatherhalldisappeareddownstairs,Peteropenedthesugarcanisteronthekitchencounter.Thegunwasstillinside.Peterreachedforitandremindedhimselftobreathe.

Hecoveredthecanisterandputitbackexactlywhereithadbeen.Thenhetookthegunandjammedit,nosefirst,intothewaistbandofhisjeans.Hisdownjacketbillowedoverthefront,soyoucouldn’tseeabulgeatall.

Hegingerlyslidopen thesilverwaredrawer,peeked in thecabinets. Itwaswhen he ran his hand along the dusty top of the refrigerator that he felt thesmoothbodyofasecondhandgun.

“Youknow,it’swisetokeepasparetank…”Mr.Weatherhall’svoicefloatedfrom thebottomof thebasement stairs, accompaniedby thepercussionof hisfootsteps.Peterletgoofthegun,snappedhishandsbacktohissides.

HewassweatingbythetimeMr.Weatherhallwalkedintothekitchen.“Youallright?”heasked,peeringatPeter.“Youlookalittlewhitearoundthegills.”

“Istayeduplatedoinghomework.Thanksforthegas.Again.”“YoutellyourdadI’mnotbailinghimoutnexttime,”Mr.Weatherhallsaid,

andhewavedPeterofffromtheporch.PeterwaiteduntilMr.Weatherhallhadclosedthedoor,andthenhestartedto

run,kickingupsnowinhiswake.Heleft thegascannext to thesnowblowerand burst into his house.He locked his bedroom door, took the gun from his

pants,andsatdown.It was black and heavy crafted out of alloyed steel. What was really

surprisingwas how fake theGlock looked-like a kid’s toy gun-althoughPetersupposedheoughttobemarvelinginsteadathowrealisticthetoygunsactuallywere.Herackedtheslideandreleasedit.Heejectedthemagazine.

Heclosedhiseyesandheldthegunuptohishead.“Bang,”hewhispered.Then he set the gun on his bed and pulled off one of his pillowcases.He

wrapped theGlock inside it, rolling it up like a bandage. He slipped the gunbetweenhismattressandhisboxspringandlaydown.

Itwouldbe like that fairy tale, theonewith theprincesswhocould feel abeanorapeaorwhatever.ExceptPeterwasn’taprince,andthelumpwouldn’tkeephimupatnight.

Infact,itmightmakehimsleepbetter.In Josie’s dream, she was standing in themost beautiful tepee. The walls

weremadeofbutterydeerskin,sewedtightwithgoldenthread.Storieshadbeenpaintedallaroundherinshadesofred,ochre,violet,andblue-talesofhuntsandlovesandlosses.Richbuffaloskinswerepiledhighforcushions;coalsglowedlikerubiesinthefirepit.Whenshelookedup,shecouldseestarsfallingthroughthesmokehole.

SuddenlyJosierealized thatherfeetweresliding;worse, that therewasnowaytostopthis.Sheglanceddownandsawonlysky;wonderedwhethershe’dbeensillyenoughtobelieveshecouldwalkamongtheclouds,orifthegroundbeneathherfeethaddisappearedwhenshelookedaway.

Shestartedtofall.Shecouldfeelherselftumblingheadoverheels;felt theskirt shewaswearingballoon and thewind rushbetweenher legs.Shedidn’twanttoopenhereyes,butshecouldn’thelppeeking:thegroundwasrushingupat an alarming pace, postage-stamp squares of green and brown and blue thatgrewlarger,moredetailed,morerealistic.

There was her school. Her house. The roof over her bedroom. Josie feltherselfhurtletowarditandshesteeledherselffortheinevitablecrash.Butyouneverhitthegroundinyourdreams;younevergettoseeyourselfdie.Instead,Josiefeltherselfsplash,herclothesbillowinglikethesailsofajellyfishasshetreadedwarmwater.

Shewokeup,breathless,andrealizedthatshestillfeltwet.Shesatup,liftedupthecovers,andsawthepoolofbloodbeneathher.

After threepositivepregnancy tests, afterherperiodwas threeweeks late-shewasmiscarrying.

Thankgodthankgodthankgod. Josieburiedher face in thesheetsandstartedtocry.

LewiswassittingatthekitchentableonSaturdaymorning,readingthelatestissue of The Economist and methodically working his way through a whole-wheatwaffle,when thephone rang.Heglanced atLacy,who-beside the sink-wastechnicallyclosertoit,butsheheldupherhands,drippingwithwaterandsoap.“Couldyou…?”

Hestoodupandansweredit.“Hello?”“Mr.Houghton?”“Speaking,”Lewissaid.“ThisisTony,fromBurnside’s.Yourhollow-pointbulletsarein.”Burnside’s was a gun shop; Lewis went there in the fall for his Hoppe’s

solvent andhis ammunition; onceor twicehe’dbeen lucky enough tobring adeerintobeweighed.ButitwasFebruary;deerseasonwasovernow.“Ididn’torderthose,”Lewissaid.“Theremustbesomemistake.”

Hehungupthephoneandsatdownagaininfrontofhiswaffle.Lacyliftedalargefryingpanoutofthesinkandsetitonthedrainertodry.“Whowasthat?”

Lewisturnedthepageinhismagazine.“Wrongnumber,”hesaid.MatthadahockeygameinExeter.Josiewenttohishomegames,butrarely

theoneswhere the team traveled.Today, though, shehadaskedhermother toborrow the car and drove to the seacoast, leaving early enough to be able tocatchhiminthelockerroombeforehand.Shepokedherheadinsidethevisitingteam’slockerroomandwasimmediatelyhitwiththereekofalltheequipment.Mattstoodwithhisbacktoher,wearinghischestprotectorandhispaddedpantsandhisskates.Hehadn’tyetpulledonhisjersey.

Someof theotherguysnoticedher first. “Hey,Royston,” a senior said. “Ithinkyourfanclubpresident’sarrived.”

Mattdidn’tlikeitwhensheshowedupbeforeagame.Afterward:well,thatwasmandatory-heneededsomeonetocelebratehiswin.Buthe’dmadeitveryclearthathedidn’thavetimeforJosiewhenhewasgettingready;thathe’donlygetshitfromtheguysifsheclungthatclosely;thatCoachwantedtheteamtobealonetofocusontheirgame.Still,shethoughtthatthismightbeanexception.

Ashadowpassedoverhisfaceashisteamstartedcatcalls.Matt,youneedhelpputtingonyourjock?Hey,quick,gettheguyabiggerstick…“Yeah,”Matt shot back as hewalked across the rubbermats toward Josie.

“You just wish you had someone who could suck the chrome off a hoodornament.”

Josiefelthercheeksflameastheentirelockerroomburstintolaughteratherexpense,andtherudecommentsshiftedfocusfromMatttoher.Graspingherbythearm,MattpulledJosieoutside.

“Itoldyounottointerruptmebeforeagame,”hesaid.“Iknow.Butitwasimportant…”“Thisisimportant,”Mattcorrected,gesturingaroundtherink.“I’mfine,”Josieblurtedout.“Good.”Shestaredathim.“No,Matt.Imean…I’mfine.Youwereright.”As he realized what Josie was really trying to tell him, he put his arms

around her waist and lifted her off the ground. His gear caught like armorbetween them as he kissed her. Itmade Josie think of knights heading off tobattle; of the girls they left behind. “Don’t you forget it,” Matt said, and hegrinned.

NineteenMinutes

PARTTWO

Whenyoubeginajourneyofrevenge,startbydiggingtwograves:oneforyourenemy,andoneforyourself.-CHINESEPROVERBSterlingisn’ttheinnercity.Youdon’tfindcrackdealersonMainStreet,or

householdsbelowthepovertylevel.Thecrimerateisvirtuallynonexistent.That’swhypeoplearestillsoshell-shocked.Theyask,Howcouldthishappenhere?Well.Howcoulditnothappenhere?Allittakesisatroubledkidwithaccesstoguns.You don’t have to go to an inner city to find someone who meets those

criteria.Youonlyhave toopenyour eyes.Thenext likely candidatemight beupstairs,orsprawledinfrontofyourTVrightnow.Buthey,youjustgorightonpretending itwon’t happen here. Tell yourself that you’re immune because ofwhereyouliveorwhoyouare.

It’seasierthatway,isn’tit?FiveMonthsAfterY ou can tell a lot about people by their habits. For example, Jordan had

come across potential jurorswho religiously took their cups of coffee to theircomputersandreadtheentireNewYorkTimesonline.TherewereotherswhosewelcomescreenonAOLdidn’tevenincludenewsupdates,becausetheyfoundittoodepressing.Therewereruralpeoplewhoownedtelevisionsbutonlygotagrainy public broadcasting station because they couldn’t afford the money itwouldtaketobringcablelinesuptheirdirtroad;andtherewereotherswhohadbought elaborate satellite systems so that they could catch Japanese soaps orSisterMaryMargaret’sPrayerHourat three in themorning.Therewere thosewhowatchedCNN,andthosewhowatchedFOXNews.

Itwasthesixthhourofindividualvoirdire,theprocessbywhichthejuryforPeter’s trialwouldbe selected.This involved longdays in thecourtroomwithDianaLevenandJudgeWagner,as thepoolof jurorsdribbledonebyoneintothe witness seat to be asked a variety of questions by the defense and theprosecution.Thegoalwas to find twelve folks,plusanalternate,whoweren’tpersonally affectedby the shooting; a jury that couldcommit to a long trial ifnecessary,insteadofworryingabouttheirhomebusinessorwhowastakingcareoftheir toddlers.Agroupofpeoplewhohadnotbeenlivingandbreathingthe

news about this trial for the past fivemonths-or, as Jordanwas affectionatelystartingtothinkofthem:theblessedfewthathadbeenlivingunderarock.

ItwasAugust,andforthepastweekthetemperatureshadclimbedtonearlyahundreddegreesduringtheday.Tomakemattersworse,theair-conditioninginthe courtroomwas on the fritz, and JudgeWagner smelled likemothballs andfeetwhenhesweated.

Jordan had already taken off his jacket and loosened the top button of hisshirtbeneathhistie.EvenDiana-whohesecretlybelievedhadtobesomekindofStepford robot-had twistedherhairupand jammedapencil into thebun tosecureit.“Whatareweupto?”JudgeWagnerasked.

“Juror number six million seven hundred and thirty thousand,” Jordanmurmured.

“Jurornumbereighty-eight,”theclerkannounced.Itwasamanthistime,wearingkhakipantsandashort-sleevedshirt.Hehad

thinning hair, boat shoes, and awedding band. Jordan noted all of this on hispad.

Diana stood up and introduced herself, then began asking her litany ofquestions.Theanswerswoulddetermineifapotentialjurorcouldbedismissedforcause-iftheyhadakid,forexample,who’dbeenkilledatSterlingHighandcouldn’tbe impartial. Ifnot,Dianacouldchoose touseoneofherperemptorystrikes.BothsheandJordanhadfifteenopportunitiestodismissapotentialjuroroutofgutinstinct.Sofar,Dianahadusedoneofhersagainstashort,bald,quietsoftwaredeveloper.JordanhaddismissedaformerNavySEAL.

“Whatdoyoudoforwork,Mr.Alstrop?”Dianaasked.“I’manarchitect.”“You’remarried?”“Fortwentyyears,thisOctober.”“Doyouhaveanychildren?”“Two,afourteen-year-oldboyandanineteen-year-oldgirl.”“Dotheygotopublichighschool?”“Well,mysondoes.Mydaughter’sincollege.Princeton,”hesaidproudly.“Doyouknowanythingaboutthiscase?”Sayinghedid,Jordanknew,wouldn’texcludehim.Itwaswhathebelieved

ordidn’tbelieve,inspiteofwhatthemediahadsaid.“Well,onlywhat I read in thepapers,”Alstropsaid,andJordanclosedhis

eyes.“Doyoureadacertainnewspaperdaily?”“IusedtogettheUnionLeader,”hesaid,“buttheeditorialsdrovemecrazy.

ItrytoreadthemainsectionofTheNewYorkTimesnow,atleast.”

Jordan considered this. The Union Leader was a notoriously conservativepaper,TheNewYorkTimesaliberalone.

“Whatabouttelevision?”Dianaasked.“Anyshowsyouparticularlylike?”Youprobablydidn’twant a jurorwhowatched ten hours ofCourtTVper

day.Youalsodidn’twanttheguywhosavoredPee-weeHermanmarathons.“60Minutes,”Alstropreplied.“AndTheSimpsons.”Now that, Jordan thought, was a normal guy. He got to his feet as Diana

turnedthequestioningovertohim.“Whatdoyourememberreadingaboutthiscase?”heasked.

Alstropshrugged.“Therewasashootingat thehighschoolandoneof thestudentswascharged.”

“Didyouknowanyofthestudents?”“No.”“DoyouknowanyonewhoworksatSterlingHigh?”Alstropshookhishead.“No.”“Haveyoutalkedtoanyoneinvolvedinthiscase?”“No.”Jordanwalkeduptothewitnessstand.“There’saruleinthisstatethatsays

youcantakearightonred, ifyoustopfirstat theredlight.Youfamiliarwithit?”

“Sure,”Alstropsaid.“What if the judge toldyou that you can’t turn right on red-that youmust

staystoppeduntilthelightgoesgreenagain,evenifthere’sasigninfrontofyouthatspecificallysaysRIGHTTURNONRED.Whatwouldyoudo?”

AlstroplookedatJudgeWagner.“IguessI’ddowhathesaid.”Jordan smiled to himself. He didn’t give a damn about Alstrop’s driving

habits-thatsetupandquestionwasaway toweedout thepeoplewhocouldn’tsee past convention. There would be information in this trial that wasn’tnecessarily intuitive, and he needed people on a jury who were open-mindedenoughtounderstandthatrulesweren’talwayswhatyouthoughttheywere,whocouldlistentothenewregulationsandfollowthemaccordingly.

Whenhe finishedhisquestioning,he andDianawalked toward thebench.“Isthereanyreasontodismissthisjurorforcause?”JudgeWagnerasked.

“No,YourHonor,”Dianasaid,andJordanshookhishead.“So?”Diananodded.Jordanglancedat theman,stillsittingon thewitnessstand.

“Thisoneworksforme,”hesaid.WhenAlexwokeup,shepretendednotto.Instead,shekepthereyesnearly

closedsothatshecouldstareatthemansprawledontheothersideofherbed.

Thisrelationship-fourmonthsoldnow-wasstillamysterytoher,asmuchastheconstellation of freckles on Patrick’s shoulders, the valley of his spine, thestartlingcontrastofhisblackhairagainstawhite sheet. It seemed thathehadinvadedherlifebyosmosis:she’dfindhisshirtmixedinwithherlaundry;she’dsmellhisshampooonherpillowcase;shewouldpickupthephone,thinkingtocallhim,andhe’dalreadybeontheline.Alexhadbeensingleforsolong;shewas practical, resolute, and set in herways (oh,whowas she kidding…thosewere all just euphemisms for what she really was: stubborn)-she would haveguessed that this sudden attack on her privacy would be unnerving. Instead,though, she foundherself feelingdisorientedwhenPatrickwasn’t around, likethe sailorwho’s just landed aftermonths at sea andwho still feels the oceanrollingbeneathhimevenwhenitisn’tthere.

“Icanfeelyoustaring,youknow,”Patrickmurmured.Alazysmileheatedhisface,buthiseyeswerestillshut.

Alexleanedover,slippingherhandunderthecovers.“Whatcanyoufeel?”“Whatcan’tI?”Strikingquickaslightning,hegrabbedherwristandpulled

herunderneathhim.Hiseyes,stillsoftenedbysleep,wereacrispbluethatmadeAlex thinkof glaciers andnorthern seas.Hekissedher, and shevined aroundhim.

Thensuddenlyhereyessnappedopen.“Oh,shit,”shesaid.“Thatwasn’treallywhatIwasgoingfor…”“Doyouknowwhattimeitis?”Theyhaddrawntheshadesinherbedroombecauseofafullmoonlastnight.

Butbynow,thesunwasstreamingthroughthethinnestcrackat thebottomofthewindowsill.AlexcouldhearJosiebangingpotsandpansdownstairs in thekitchen.

Patrick reached over Alex for the wristwatch he’d left on her nightstand.“Oh,shit,”herepeated,andhethrewbackthecovers.“I’manhourlateforworkalready.”

HegrabbedhisboxersasAlexjumpedoutofbedandreachedforherrobe.“WhataboutJosie?”

Itwasn’tthattheyhadbeenhidingtheirrelationshipfromJosie-Patrickoftendroppedbyafterworkorfordinnerortohangoutintheevenings.Afewtimes,AlexhadtriedtotalktoJosieabouthim,toseewhatshethoughtofthewholemiracle of her mother dating again, but Josie did whatever it took to avoidhavingthatconversation.Alexwasn’tsureherselfwherethiswasallgoing,butshedidknowthatsheandJosiehadbeenaunitforsolongthataddingPatricktothemixmeant Josie became the loner-and right now,Alexwas determined tokeepthatfromhappening.Shewasmakingupfor lost time,really, thinkingof

Josiebeforeshethoughtofanythingelse.Tothatend,ifPatrickspentthenight,shemadesureheleftbeforeJosiecouldwakeuptofindhimthere.

Excepttoday,whenitwasalazysummerThursdayandnearlyteno’clock.“Maybethisisagoodtimetotellher,”Patricksuggested.“Tellherwhat?”“Thatwe’re…”Helookedather.Alexstaredathim.Shecouldn’tfinishhissentence;shedidn’treallyknow

the answer herself. She never expected that thiswas theway she and Patrickwouldhavethisconversation.WasshewithPatrickbecausehewasgoodatthat-rescuingtheunderdogwhoneededit?Whenthistrialwasover,wouldhemoveon?Wouldshe?

“We’retogether,”Patricksaiddecisively.Alexturnedherbacktohimandyankedshutthetieofherrobe.Thatwasn’t,

toparaphrasePatrickearlier,whatshehadbeengoingfor.Butthenagain,howwould he know that? If he asked her right now what she wanted out of thisrelationship…well,sheknew:shewantedlove.Shewantedtohavesomeonetocome home to. Shewanted to dream about a vacation they’d takewhen theyweresixtyandknowhe’dbetherethedayshesteppedontotheplane.Butshe’dnever admit any of this to him. What if she did, and he just looked at herblankly?Whatifitwastoosoontothinkaboutthingslikethis?

Ifheaskedherrightnow,shewouldn’tanswer,becauseansweringwasthesurestwaytogetyourhearthandedbacktoyou.

Alexrummagedunderneaththebed,searchingforherslippers.Instead,shelocatedPatrick’sbeltandtossedittohim.Maybethereasonshehadn’topenlytoldJosieshewassleepingwithPatrickhadnothingtodowithprotectingJosie,andeverythingtodowithprotectingherself.

Patrick threaded the belt through his jeans. “It doesn’t have to be a statesecret,”hesaid.“Youareallowedto…youknow.”

Alexglancedathim.“Havesex?”“Iwastryingtocomeupwithsomethingalittlelessblunt,”Patrickadmitted.“I’malsoallowedtokeepthingsprivate,”Alexpointedout.“GuessIoughttogetbackthedepositonthebillboard,then.”“Thatmightbeagoodidea.”“IsupposeIcouldjustgetyoujewelryinstead.”AlexlookeddownatthecarpetsothatPatrickcouldn’tseehertryingtopick

apartthatsentence,findthecommitmentstrungbetweenthewords.God,was it always this frustratingwhen youweren’t the one running the

show?“Mom,” Josie yelled up the stairs, “I’ve got pancakes ready, if you want

some.”“Look,”Patrick sighed. “Wecan still keep Josie from findingout.Allyou

havetodoisdistractherwhileIsneakout.”She nodded. “I’ll try to keep her in the kitchen. You…” She glanced at

Patrick.“Justhurry.”AsAlexstartedoutoftheroom,Patrickgrabbedherhandandyanked.

“Hey,”hesaid.“Good-bye.”Heleaneddownandkissedher.“Mom,they’regettingcold!”“Seeyoulater,”Alexsaid,pushingaway.ShehurrieddownstairsandfoundJosieeatingaplateofblueberrypancakes.

“Those smell sogood…Ican’t believe I slept this late,”Alexbegan, and thensherealizedthattherewerethreeplacesettingsatthekitchentable.

Josiefoldedherarms.“Sohowdoeshetakehiscoffee?”Alexsankintoachairacrossfromher.“Youweren’tsupposedtofindout.”“A.Iamabiggirl.B.Thenthebrilliantdetectiveshouldn’thavelefthiscar

inthedriveway.”Alexpickedatathreadontheplacemat.“Nomilk,twosugars.”“Well,”Josiesaid.“GuessI’llknowfornexttime.”“Howdoyoufeelaboutthat?”Alexaskedquietly.“Gettinghimcoffee?”“No.Thenexttimepart.”Josie poked at a fat blueberry on the top of her pancake. “It’s not really

somethingIgettochoose,isit?”“Yes,”Alex said. “Because ifyou’renot all rightwith this, Josie, then I’ll

stopseeinghim.”“Youlikehim?”Josieasked,staringdownatherplate.“Yeah.”“Andhelikesyou?”“Ithinkso.”Josie lifted her gaze. “Then you shouldn’t worry about what anyone else

thinks.”“Iworry aboutwhat you think,”Alex said. “I don’twant you to feel like

you’reanylessimportanttomebecauseofhim.”“Just be responsible,” Josie answered,with a slow smile. “Every timeyou

havesex,youcangetpregnantoryoucannotgetpregnant.That’sfifty-fifty.”Alexraisedherbrows.“Wow.Ididn’teventhinkyouwerelisteningwhenI

gavethatspeech.”Josiepressedherfingeragainstaspotofmaplesyrupthathadfallenontothe

table,hereyestrainedonthewood.“So,doyou…like…lovehim?”

Thewordsseemedbruised, tender.“No,”Alexsaidquickly,because if shecouldconvinceJosie, thenshesurelycouldconvinceherself thatwhatshe feltforPatrickhad everything todowithpassion andnothing todowith…well…that.“It’sonlybeenafewmonths.”

“Idon’tthinkthere’sagraceperiod,”Josiesaid.Alexdecided that thebest road to take through thisminefieldwas theone

thatwouldkeepbothJosieandherselffrombeinghurt:pretendthiswasnothing,afling,afancy.“Iwouldn’tknowwhatbeinginlovefeltlikeifithitmeintheface,”shesaidlightly.

“It’snotlikeonTV,likeeverything’sperfectallofasudden.”Josie’svoiceshrankuntilitwasbarelyathought.“It’smorelike,onceithappens,youspendallyourtimerealizinghowmuchcangowrong.”

Alexlookedupather,frozen.“Oh,Josie.”“Anyway.”“Ididn’tmeantomakeyou-”“Let’s justdropit,okay?”Josieforcedasmile.“He’snotbad-looking,you

know,forsomeonethatold.”“He’sayearyoungerthanIam,”Alexpointedout.“Mymother, thecradle robber.” Josiepickedup theplateofpancakes and

passedit.“Thesearegettingcold.”Alex took the plate. “Thank you,” she said, but she held Josie’s gaze just

longenoughforherdaughtertorealizewhatAlexwasreallygratefulfor.JustthenPatrickcamecreepingdownthestairs.Atthelanding,heturnedto

giveAlex a thumbs-up sign. “Patrick,” she called out. “Josie’smade us somepancakes.”

Selena knew the party line-you were supposed to say that there was nodifferencebetweenboysandgirls-butshealsoknewifyouaskedanymomornurseryschoolteacher,they’dtellyoudifferently,offtherecord.Thismorning,she sat on a park bench watching Sam negotiate a sandbox with a group offellowtoddlers.Twolittlegirlswerepretendingtobakepizzasmadeoutofsandand pebbles. The boy beside Sam was trying to demolish a dump truck bysmashingitrepeatedlyintothesandbox’swoodenframe.Nodifference,Selenathought.Yeah,right.

ShewatchedwithinterestasSamturnedfromtheboybesidehimandstartedtocopythegirls,siftingsandintoabuckettomakeacake.

Selena grinned, hoping that this was some small clue that her son wouldgrow up to act against stereotype and do whatever he was most comfortabledoing.Butdid itwork thatway?Couldyou lookat a child and seewhohe’dbecome?SometimeswhenshestudiedSam,shecouldglimpsetheadulthe’dbe

oneday-itwasthereinhiseyes,theshellofthemanhewouldgrowtoinhabit.Butitwasmorethanphysicalattributesyoucouldsometimespuzzleout.Wouldthese little girls become stay-at-home Betty Crocker moms, or businessentrepreneurslikeMrs.Fields?Wouldthelittleboy’sdestructivebehaviorbloominto drug addiction or alcoholism? Had Peter Houghton shoved playmates orstompedoncricketsordonesomethingelseasachildthatmighthavepredictedhisfutureasakiller?

The boy in the sandbox put down the truck and moved on to digging,seeminglytoChina.Samabandonedhisbakingtoreachfortheplasticvehicle,and thenhe lost his balance and fell down, smackinghiskneeon thewoodenframe.

Selenawas out of her seat in a shot, ready to scoop up her son before hestartedtobawl.ButSamglancedaroundattheotherkids,asifrealizinghehadanaudience.Andalthoughhislittlefacefurrowedandreddened,araisinofpain,hedidn’tcry.

Itwas easier for girls. They could sayThis hurts, or I don’t like how thisfeels,andhavethecomplaintbesociallyacceptable.Boys,though,didn’tspeakthatlanguage.Theydidn’tlearnitaschildrenandtheydidn’tmanagetopickitup as adults, either. Selena remembered last summer, when Jordan had gonefishingwithanoldfriendwhosewifehad just filedfordivorce.Whatdidyoutalkabout?sheaskedwhenJordancamehome.

Nothing,Jordanhadsaid.Wewerefishing.This had made no sense to Selena; they’d been gone for six hours. How

couldyousitbesidesomeoneinasmallboatforthatlongandnothaveaheart-to-heartabouthowhewasdoing;ifhewasholdingupinthewakeofthiscrisis;ifheworriedabouttherestofhislife.

ShelookedatSam,whonowhadthedumptruckinhishandandwasrollingit across his former pizza.Change could come that quickly, Selena knew.ShethoughtofhowSamwouldwraphistinyarmsaroundherandkissher;howhe’dcomerunningtoherifsheheldoutherarms.Butsoonerorlaterhe’drealizethathis friends didn’t hold theirmothers’ handswhen they crossed the street; thattheydidn’t bakepizzas andcakes in the sandbox, instead theybuilt cities anddugcaverns.Oneday-inmiddleschool,orevenearlier-Samwouldstarttoholehimselfupinhisroom.Hewouldshyawayfromhertouch.Hewouldgrunthisresponses,acttough,beaman.

Maybe it was our own damn fault that men turned out the way they did,Selenathought.Maybeempathy,likeanyunusedmuscle,simplyatrophied.

Josietoldhermotherthatshehadgottenasummerjobvolunteeringwiththeschool system to tutormiddle and elementary school kids inmath.She talked

aboutAngie,whose parents had split up during the school year andwho hadfailed algebra as an indirect consequence. She described Joseph, a leukemiapatient who’d missed school for treatment and had the hardest timeunderstanding fractions. Every day at dinner, hermotherwould ask her aboutwork,andJosiewouldhaveastory.Theproblemwas,itwasjustthat-afiction.Joseph andAngie didn’t exist; and for thatmatter, neither did Josie’s tutoringjob.

This morning, like every morning, Josie left the house. She got on theAdvanceTransitbusandsaidhellotoRita,thedriverwho’dbeenonthisrouteallsummer.Whentheotherpassengersgotoffatthestopthatwasclosesttotheschool,Josiestayedinherseat.Shedidn’tgetup,infact,untiltheverylaststop-theonethatwasamilesouthoftheWhisperingPinesCemetery.

Shelikeditthere.Atthecemetery,shedidn’trunintoanyoneshedidn’tfeellike talking to.Shedidn’thave tospeakatall ifshewasn’t in themood.Josiewalkedupthewindingtrail,whichwassofamiliartoherbynowthatshecouldtell,withhereyesclosed,whenthepavementwasgoingtomakeadipandwhenitwouldveerleft.SheknewthattheviolentlybluehydrangeabushwashalfwaytoMatt’s grave; that you could smell honeysuckle when youwere only stepsawayfromit.

Bynow,therewasaheadstone,apristineblockofwhitemarblewithMatt’snamecarefullycarved.Grasshadstarted togrow.Josiesatdownon theraisedhummockofdirt,whichwaswarm,asifthesunhadbeenseepingintotheearthandholdingthatheatinwaitforher.Shereachedintoherbackpackandtookoutabottleofwater,apeanutbuttersandwich,abagofsaltines.

“Can you believe school’s starting in a week?” she said toMatt, becausesometimes she did that. Itwasn’t like she expected him to answer; it just feltbettertalkingtohimaftersomanymonthsofnottalking.“They’renotopeningthe real school yet, though. They said maybe by Thanksgiving, when theconstruction’sdone.”

Whattheywereactuallydoingtotheschoolwasamystery-Josiehaddrivenbyenoughtoknowthatthegymnasiumandlibraryhadbeentorndown,ashadthe cafeteria. She wondered if the administration was naïve enough tothinkthatiftheygotridofthesceneofthecrime,thestudentscouldbefooledintothinkingithadneverhappened.

She’dreadsomewherethatghostsdidn’tjusthangaroundphysicallocations-thatsometimes,apersoncouldbehaunted.Josiehadn’treallyconsideredherselfbig on the paranormal, but this she believed.Therewere somememories, sheknew,youcouldrunfromforeverandnevershake.

Josielaydown,herhairspreadoverthenewborngrass.“Doyoulikehaving

mehere?”shewhispered.“Orwouldyoutellmetogetlost,ifyouweretheonewhocouldtalk?”

She didn’t want to hear the answer. She didn’t even really want to thinkabout it.So sheopenedhereyesaswideas shecouldandstared into the sky,untilthebrilliantblueburnedthebacksofhereyes.

Lacy stood in themen’s department at Filene’s, touching her hands to thebristledtweedsandhallowedblueandpuckeredseersuckerfabricsofthesportsjackets. She’d driven two hours to Boston so that she would have the bestchoices tooutfitPeterforhis trial.BrooksBrothers,HugoBoss,CalvinKlein,ErmenegildoZegna. They had beenmade in Italy, France, Britain, California.She peeked at a price tag, sucked in her breath, and then realized she did notcare.Thiswouldmostlikelybethelasttimeshewouldeverbuyclothesforherson.

Lacy moved systematically through the department. She picked up boxershortsmadeofthefinestEgyptiancotton,apacketofRalphLaurenwhitetees,cashmeresocks.Shefoundkhakitrousers-30x30.Shepluckedabutton-downoxfordshirtoffarack,becausePeterhadalwayshatedhavinghiscollarpeekoutfromacrewnecksweater.Shechoseablueblazer,asJordanhadinstructed.Wewanthimdressedasifyou’resendinghimtoPhillipsExeter,hehadsaid.

She remembered how, when Peter was around eleven, he’d developed anaversiontobuttons.You’dthinkitwouldbeeasytogetaroundsomethinglikethat,but iteliminatedmostpants.Lacycouldrememberdriving to theendsoftheearth to findelastic-waist flannelplaidpajamapants thatmightdouble fordailywear.She remembered seeingkidswearingpajamabottoms to school asrecentlyaslastyearandwonderingifPeterhadstartedthetrend,orsimplybeenslightlyoutofsync.

Even after Lacy had gathered what she needed, she continued to walkthroughthemen’sdepartment.Shetouchedarainbowofsilkhandkerchiefsthatmelted over her fingers, choosing one thatwas the color of Peter’s eyes. Sherifledthroughleatherbelts-black,brown,stippled,alligator-andnecktiesprintedwithdots,withfleurs-de-lis,withstripes.Shepickedupabathrobethatwassosoft itnearlybroughther to tears, shearlingslippers,acherry-redbathingsuit.Sheshoppeduntiltheweightinherarmswasasheavyasachild.

“Oh, letme help youwith those,” a saleswoman said, taking some of theitemsfromherarmsandcarryingthemtothecounter.Shebegantofoldthem,onebyone.“Iknowhowitfeels,”shesaid,smilingsympathetically.“Whenmysonwentaway,IthoughtIwasgoingtodie.”

Lacystaredather.Wasitpossiblethatshewasn’ttheonlywomanwhohadgone throughsomethingasawfulas this?Onceyouhad, like this salesperson,

wouldyoubeabletopickothersoutofacrowd,asiftherewereasecretsocietyofthosemotherswhosechildrencutthemtothequick?

“You think it’s forever,” thewomansaid,“butbelieveme,once theycomehomeforChristmasbreakorsummervacationandstarteatingyououtofhouseandhomeagain,you’llbewishingcollegewasyear-round.”

Lacy’sfacefroze.“Right,”shesaid.“College.”“I’ve got a girl at the University of New Hampshire, and my son’s at

Rochester,”thesaleswomansaid.“Harvard.That’swheremyson’sgoing.”Theyhadtalkedaboutitonce-Peterlikedthecomputersciencedepartmentat

Stanford better, and Lacy had joked around, saying she’d throw away anybrochuresfromcollegeswestoftheMississippi,becausetheyweresofaraway.

Thestateprisonwassixtymilessouth,inConcord.“Harvard,”thesaleswomansaid.“Hemustbeasmartone.”“He is,” Lacy said, and she continued to tell this woman about Peter’s

fictional transition to college, until the lie did not taste like licorice on hertongue;untilshecouldnearlybelieveitherself.

Just after three o’clock, Josie rolled over onto her belly, spread her armswide,andpressedherfaceintothegrass.Itlookedlikeshewastryingtoholdonto the ground, which, she supposed, wasn’t all that far from the truth. Shebreathed in deeply-usually, she smelled nothing butweeds and soil, but everynowand thenwhen it had just rained, shegot thebarest scentof ice andPertshampoo,asifMattwerestillhimselfjustunderthatsurface.

Shegatheredthewrapperfromhersandwichandheremptywaterbottleandputthemintoherbackpack,thenheadeddownthewindingpathtothecemeterygates.Therewasacarblocking theentrance-only twice thissummerhadJosiebeenpresentwhenafuneralprocessioncame,andithadmadeheralittlesicktoherstomach.Shestartedtowalkfaster,inthehopethatshewouldbelonggoneand sitting on herAdvanceTransit bus before the service began-and then sherealizedthatthecarblockingthegateswasnotahearse,notevenblackforthatmatter.Itwasthesamecarthathadbeenparkedintheirdrivewaythismorning,andPatrickwasleaningagainstitwithhisarmscrossed.

“Whatareyoudoinghere?”Josieasked.“Icouldaskyouthesamething.”Sheshrugged.“It’safreecountry.”Josiedidn’treallyhaveanythingagainstPatrickDucharmehimself.Hejust

madehernervous,onsomanycounts.Shecouldn’tlookathimwithoutthinkingofThatDay.Butnowshehadto,becausehealsowashermother’slover(howweird was it to say that?) and in a way, that was even more upsetting. Her

mother was on cloud nine, falling in love, while Josie had to sneak off to agraveyardtovisitherboyfriend.

Patrickpushedhimselfoffthecarandtookasteptowardher.“Yourmotherthinksyou’reteachinglongdivisionrightnow.”

“Didshetellyoutostalkme?”Josiesaid.“Iprefersurveillance,”Patrickcorrected.Josie snorted. She didn’twant to sound like such a snot, but she couldn’t

helpit.Sarcasmwaslikeaforcefield;oncesheturneditoff,hemightbeabletoseethatshewasthisclosetofallingtopieces.

“Your mother doesn’t know I’m here,” Patrick said. “I wanted to talk toyou.”

“I’mgoingtomissmybus.”“ThenI’lldriveyouwhereveryouwant togo,”hesaid,exasperated.“You

know,whenI’mdoingmyjob,IspendalotoftimewishingIcouldturnbacktheclock-get to the rapevictimbefore ithappened, stakeout thehousebeforethethiefcomesby.Iknowwhatit’sliketofeellikenothingyoudoorsayisevergoingtomakethingsbetter.AndIknowwhatit’sliketowakeupinthemiddleof thenight replayingonemomentoverandover sovividly thatyoumightaswellbelivingitagain.Infact,IbetyouandIreplaythesamemoment.”

Josie swallowed. In all these months, out of all the well-meaningconversationsshe’dhadwithdoctorsandpsychiatristsandevenotherkidsfromtheschool,noonehadcaptured,sosuccinctly,whatitfeltliketobeher.Butshecouldn’tletPatrickknowthat-couldn’tadmittoherweakness,eventhoughshehad the feeling that he could spot it all the same. “Don’t pretend we haveanythingincommon,”Josiesaid.

“Butwedo,”Patrickreplied.“Yourmother.”HelookedJosieintheeye.“Ilikeher.Alot.AndI’dliketoknowthatyou’reokaywiththat.”

Josiefeltherthroatclosing.ShetriedtorememberMattsayingthathelikedher;shewondered ifanyonewouldeversay itagain.“Mymother’sabiggirl.Shecanmakeherowndecisionsaboutwhoshef-”

“Don’t,”Patrickinterrupted.“Don’twhat.”“Don’tsaysomethingyou’regoingtowishyouhadn’t.”Josiesteppedback,hereyesglittering.“Ifyouthinkthatbuddyinguptome

is going to win her over, you’re wrong. You’re better off with flowers andchocolate.Shecouldn’tcarelessaboutme.”

“That’snottrue.”“Youhaven’texactlybeenaroundlongenoughtoknow,haveyou?”“Josie,”Patricksaid,“she’scrazyaboutyou.”

Josie felt herself choke on the truth, even harder to speak than it was toswallow.“Butnotascrazyassheisaboutyou.She’shappy.She’shappyandI…IknowIshouldbehappyforher…”

“But you’re here,” Patrick said, gesturing at the cemetery. “And you’realone.”

Josie nodded andburst into tears. She turned away, embarrassed, and thenfeltPatrick foldhis arms aroundher.Hedidn’t say anything, and for that onemoment, sheeven likedhim-anywordat all, evenawell-meaningone,wouldhave takenup the spacewhereherhurtneeded tobe.He just lether cryuntilfinally it all stopped, and Josie rested for a moment against his shoulder,wonderingifthiswasonlytheeyeofthestormoritsendpoint.

“I’mabitch,”shewhispered.“I’mjealous.”“Ithinkshe’dunderstand.”Josiedrewawayfromhimandwipedhereyes.“AreyougoingtotellherI

comehere?”“No.”Sheglancedupathim,surprised.Shewouldhavethoughtthathe’dtakeher

mother’sside.“You’rewrong,youknow,”Patricksaid.“Aboutwhat?”“Beingalone.”Josieglancedupthehill.Youcouldn’tseeMatt’sgravefromthegates,butit

wasstillthere-justlikeeverythingelseaboutThatDay.“Ghostsdon’tcount.”Patricksmiled.“Mothersdo.”WhatLewishated themostwas thesoundof themetaldoorsslamming. It

hardly mattered that, thirty minutes from now, he’d be able to leave the jail.What was important was that the inmates couldn’t. And that one of thoseinmateswasthesameboyhe’dtaughttorideabikewithouttrainingwheels;thesameboywhosenursery schoolpaperweightwas still sittingonLewis’sdesk;thesameboyhe’dwatchedtakehisveryfirstbreath.

HeknewitwouldbeashockforPetertoseehim-howmanymonthshadhetoldhimselfthatthiswouldbetheweekhegotupthecouragetoseehissoninjail,onlytofindanothererrandtorunorpapertostudy?But,asacorrectionalofficeropenedupadoorand ledPeter into thevisitationroom,Lewisrealizedthathe’dunderestimatedwhatashockitwouldbeforhimtoseePeter.

He was bigger. Maybe not taller, but broader-his shoulders filled out hisshirt;hisarmshadthickenedwithmuscle.Hisskinwastranslucent,almostblueunderthisunnaturallight.Hishandsdidn’tstopmoving-theyweretwitchingathissidesandthen,whenhesatdown,onthesidesofthechair.

“Well,”Petersaid.“Whatdoyouknow.”Lewishadrehearsedsixorsevenspeeches,explanationsofwhyhehadnot

beenable tobringhimself to seehis son,butwhenhe sawPeter sitting there,onlytwowordsrosetohislips.“I’msorry.”

Peter’smouthtightened.“Forwhat?Blowingmeoffforsixmonths?”“Iwasthinking,”Lewisadmitted,“morelikeeighteenyears.”Petersatbackinhischair,staringatLewis.Heforcedhimselftoreturnthe

stare.CouldPetergranthimabsolution,evenifLewisstillwasn’tentirelysurehecouldreturnthefavor?

Rubbing a hand down his face, Peter shook his head. Then he started tosmile. Lewis felt his bones loosen, his muscles relax. Until this moment, hehadn’treallyknownwhattoexpectfromPeter.Hecouldreasonwithhimselfallhewantedandassertthatanapologywouldalwaysbeaccepted;hecouldremindhimself that he was the parent here, the one in charge-but all of that wasextremelyhardtorememberwhenyouweresittinginavisitingroomata jail,withawomanonyourleftwhowastryingtoplayfootsiewithherloveracrossthatforbiddenredline,andamanonyourrightwhowascursingabluestreak.

ThesmileonPeter’sfacehardened,twistedintoasneer.“Fuckyou,”hespatout.“Fuckyouforcominghere.Youdon’tgiveashitaboutme.Youdon’twantto tellme you’re sorry.You justwant to hear yourself say it.You’re here foryourself,notme.”

Lewis’sheadfeltasifitwerefilledwithstones.Hebentforward,thestalkofhisneckunabletobeartheweightanymore,untilhecouldresthisforeheadinhishands.“Ican’tdoanything,Peter,”hewhispered.“Ican’twork,Ican’teat.Ican’tsleep.”Thenheliftedhisface.“Thenewstudents,they’recomingontothecollege campus right now. I look at them, out my window-they’re alwayspointingatthebuildingsordownMainStreetorlisteningtothetourguideswhotakethemacrossthecourtyard-andIthinkofhowmuchIwaslookingforwardtodoingthosesamethingswithyou.”

Hehadwrittenapaperyearsago,afterJoeywasborn,abouttheexponentialincreases of happiness-the moments that the quotient changed by leaps andbounds after a triggering incident.What he’d concludedwas that the outcomewas variable, based not on the event that caused the happiness, but rather thestateyouwereinwhenithappened.Forexample,thebirthofyourchildwasonethingwhenyouwerehappilymarriedandplanningafamily; itwassomethingentirelydifferentwhenyouweresixteenandhadgottenagirlknockedup.Coldweatherwasperfect ifyouwereonaskiingvacation,butdisappointing ifyouhappenedtobeenjoyingaweekatthebeach.Amanwhowasoncerichmightbedeliriouslyhappywithadollarinthemiddleofadepression;agourmetchef

wouldeatwormsifstrandedonadesertisland.Afatherwho’dhopedforasonthat was educated and successful and independent might, under differentcircumstances,simplybehappytohavehimaliveandsafe,sothathecouldtelltheboyhe’dneverstoppedlovinghim.

“Butyouknowwhat theysayaboutcollege,”Lewissaid,sittingupa littlestraighter.“It’soverrated.”

HiswordssurprisedPeter.“All thoseparentsforkingoverforty thousandayear,”Petersaid,smilingfaintly.“AndhereIam,gettingthemostoutofyourtaxdollar.”

“Whatmorecouldaneconomistaskfor?”Lewisjoked,althoughthiswasn’tfunny;neverwouldbefunny.Andherealizedthatthiswasasortofhappiness,too:youwouldsayanything-doanything-tokeepyoursonsmilinglikethat,asiftherewassomethingtostillsmileabout,evenifeverywordfelt likeyouwereswallowingglass.

Patrick’sfeetwerecrossedontheprosecutor’sdesk,asDianaLevenscannedthereportsthathadcomefromballisticsdaysaftertheshooting,inpreparationforhistestimonyatthetrial.“Thereweretwoshotguns,whichwereneverused,”Patrickexplained,“andtwomatchinghandguns-Glock17s-thatwereregisteredtoaneighboracrossthestreet.Aretiredcop.”

Dianaglancedupoverthepapers.“Lovely.”“Yeah.Well,youknowcops.What’sthepointofputtingtheguninalocked

cabinetwhenyouhavetogetatitquickly?Anyway,GunAistheonethatwasfiredaroundmostoftheschool-thestriationsonthebulletswerecoveredmatchit.GunBwasfired-ballisticstoldusthat-buttherehasn’tbeenabulletrecoveredthatmatchesitsbarrel.Thatgunwasfoundjammed,onthefloorof thelockerroom.HoughtonwasstillholdingGunAwhenhewasapprehended.”

Diana leaned back in her chair, her fingers steepled in front of her chest.“McAfee’sgoingtoaskyouwhyHoughtonwouldhavepulledoutGunBatallinthelockerroom,ifGunAhadworkedsosplendidlyuptillthatpoint.”

Patrickshrugged.“HemighthaveusedittoshootRoystoninthebelly,andthenwhenitjammed,switchedbacktoGunA.Orthenagain,itmightbeevensimplerthanthat.SincethebulletfromGunBwasn’trecovered,it’spossibleitwastheveryfirstshotfired.Theslugcouldbelodgedinthefiberglassinsulationin the cafeteria, for all we know. It jammed, the kid switched to Gun A andstuffedthejammedguninhispocket…andthenattheendofhiskillingspree,heeitherdiscardeditordroppeditbyaccident.”

“Or. I hate that word. It’s two letters long and stuffed to the gills withreasonabledoubt-”

Shebrokeoffas therewasaknockat thedoor,andhersecretarystuckher

headinside.“Yourtwoo’clock’shere.”Dianaturnedtohim.“I’mpreparingDrewGirardfortestifying.Whydon’t

youstayforthisone?”PatrickmovedtoachaironthesideoftheroomtogiveDrewthespotacross

fromtheprosecutor.Theboyenteredwithasoftknock.“Ms.Leven?”Dianacamearoundherdesk.“Drew.Thanksforcomingin.”Shegesturedat

Patrick.“YourememberDetectiveDucharme?”Drewnoddedathim.Patricksurveyedtheboy’spressedpants,hiscollared

shirt, his manners on display. This was not the cocky, big-man-on-campushockeystar,ashehadbeenpaintedbystudentsduringPatrick’sinvestigations,but then again, Drew had watched his best friend get killed; he’d been shothimselfintheshoulder.Whateverworldhehadlordedoverwasgonenow.

“Drew,”Dianasaid,“webroughtyou inherebecauseyougota subpoena,andthatmeansyou’regoingtobetestifyingsometimenextweek.We’llletyouknowwhen,forsure,aswegetcloser…butfornow,Iwantedtomakesureyouweren’tnervousaboutgoing tocourt.Today,we’llgooversomeof the thingsyou’ll be asked, andhow theprocedureworks. If youhave anyquestions,wecancoverthoseaswell.Okay?”

“Yes,ma’am.”Patrickleanedforward.“How’stheshoulder?”Drew swiveled to face him, unconsciously flexing that body part. “I still

havetodophysical therapyandstuff,but it’sa lotbetter.Except…”Hisvoicetrailedoff.

“Exceptwhat?”Dianaasked.“I’llmisshockeyseasonthiswholeyear.”Dianamet Patrick’s eye; this was sympathy for a witness. “Do you think

you’llbeabletoplayagain,eventually?”Drewflushed.“Thedoctorssayno,butIthinkthey’rewrong.”Hehesitated.

“I’maseniorthisyear,andIwassortofcountingonanathleticscholarshipforcollege.”

Therewasanuncomfortablesilence,asnooneacknowledgedeitherDrew’scourageorthetruth.“So,Drew,”Dianasaid.“Whenwegetintocourt,I’llstartbyaskingyourname,whereyoulive,ifyouwereinschoolthatday.”

“Okay.”“Let’stryitoutabit,allright?Whenyougottoschoolthatmorning,what

wasyourfirstclass?”Drewsatupalittlestraighter.“AmericanHistory.”“Andsecondperiod?”“English.”

“WheredidyougoafterEnglishclass?”“Ihad thirdperiod free,andmostpeoplewith freeperiodshangout in the

caf.”“Isthatwhereyouwent?”“Yeah.”“Wasanyonewithyou?”Dianacontinued.“Iwentdownbymyself,butwhenIgot there, Ihungoutwithabunchof

people.”HelookedatPatrick.“Friends.”“Howlongwereyouinthecafeteria?”“Idon’tknow,ahalfhour,maybe?”Diananodded.“Whathappenedthen?”Drewlookeddownathispantsanddrewhisthumbalongthecrease.Patrick

noticed that his handwas shaking. “Wewere all just, youknow, talking…andthenIheardthisreallybigboom.”

“Couldyoutellwherethesoundwascomingfrom?”“No.Ididn’tknowwhatitwas.”“Didyouseeanything?”“No.”“So,”Dianaasked,“whatdidyoudowhenyouheardit?”“Imadeajoke,”Drewsaid.“Isaiditwasprobablytheschoollunch,igniting

orsomething.Oh,finally,thatradioactivemacandcheese.”“Didyoustayinthecafeteriaaftertheboom?”“Yeah.”“Andthen?”Drew looked down at his hands. “There was this sound like firecrackers.

Before anyone could figure outwhat itwas,Peter came into the cafeteria.Hewascarryingaknapsackandholdingagun,andhestartedshooting.”

Dianaheldupherhand.“I’mgoingtostopyouthereforamoment,Drew….Whenyou’reonthestand,andyousaythat,I’llaskyoutolookatthedefendantandidentifyhimfortherecord.Gotit?”

“Yes.”Patrickrealized thathewasnot justseeing theshooting thewayhe’dhave

seenanyothercrime.Hewasn’tevenvisualizingitplayingoutasaprequeltothe chilling cafeteria videotape he’d watched. He was imagining Josie-one ofDrew’sfriends-sittingata longtable,hearing thosefirecrackers,not imaginingintheleastwhatcamenext.

“HowlonghaveyouknownPeter?”Dianaasked.“WebothgrewupinSterling.We’vebeeninthesameschool,like,forever.”“Wereyoufriends?”Drewshookhishead.“Enemies?”

“No,”hesaid.“Notreallyenemies.”“Everhaveanyproblemswithhim?”Drewglancedup.“No.”“Didyoueverbullyhim?”“No,ma’am,”hesaid.Patrickfelthishandscurlintofists.Heknew,frominterviewinghundredsof

kids,thatDrewGirardhadstuffedPeterHoughtonintolockers;hadtrippedhimwhilehewaswalkingdownthestairs;hadthrownspitballsintohishair.Noneofthat condonedwhat Peter had done…but still. Therewas a kid rotting in jail;therewere tenpeople decomposing in graves; thereweredozens in rehab andcorrective surgery; there were hundreds-like Josie-who still could not getthrough the daywithout bursting into tears; therewere parents-likeAlex-whotrustedDianatogetjusticedoneontheirbehalf.Andthislittleassholewaslyingthroughhisteeth.

Diana looked up from her notes and stared atDrew. “So if you get askedunder oathwhether you’ve ever pickedonPeter,what’s your answergoing tobe?”

Drewlookedupather,thebravadofadingjustenoughforPatricktorealizehewasscaredtodeaththattheyknewsomethingmorethantheywereadmittingto him. Diana glanced at Patrick and threw down her pen. That was all theinvitation he needed-he was out of his chair in an instant, his hand grabbingDrewGirard’sthroat.“Listen,youlittlefuck,”Patricksaid,“don’tscrewthisup.WeknowwhatyoudidtoPeterHoughton.Weknowyouweresittingfrontandcenter.There are ten deadvictims, and eighteenmorewho are never going tohave the lives they thought theywould,and therearesomany families in thiscommunitythatarenevergoingtostopgrievingthatIcan’tevencountthem.Idon’t knowwhat your game plan is here-if youwant to play the choirboy toprotectyourreputation,orifyou’rejustscaredtotellthetruth-butbelieveme,ifyougeton thatwitnessstandandyou lieaboutyouractions in thepast, Iwillmakesureyouwindupinjailforobstructionofjustice.”

HeletgoofDrewandturnedaway,staringoutthewindowinDiana’soffice.He had no authority to arrest Drew for anything-even if the kid did perjurehimself-much less send him to jail, but Drew would never know that. Andmaybeitwasenoughtoscarehimintobehaving.Takingadeepbreath,PatrickbentdownandpickedupthepenDianahaddroppedandhandedittoher.

“Letmeaskyouagain,Drew,”shesaidsmoothly.“DidyoueverbullyPeterHoughton?”

Drew glanced at Patrick and swallowed. Then he opened his mouth andstartedtospeak.

“It’s barbecued lasagna,”Alex announced after Patrick and Josie had eachtakentheirfirstbite.“Whatdoyouthink?”

“Ididn’tknowyoucouldbarbecuelasagna,”Josiesaidslowly.Shebegantopeelthenoodlesbackfromthecheese,asifshewerescalpingit.

“How’sthatwork,exactly?”Patrickasked,reachingforthepitcherofwatertorefillhisglass.

“Itwasregularlasagna.Butsomeoftheinsidesspilledoutintotheoven,andthere was all this smoke…and I was going to start over, but then I sort ofrealized that Iwasonlyaddinganextra, charcoal sortof flavor into themix.”Shebeamed.“Ingenious,right?Imean,Ilookedinallthecookbooks,Josie,andit’sneverbeendonebefore,asfarasIcantell.”

“Gofigure,”Patricksaid,andhecoughedintohisnapkin.“Iactually likecooking,”Alexsaid.“I like takinga recipeand,youknow,

goingoffonatangenttoseewhathappens.”“Recipesarekindof like laws,”Patrick replied.“Youmightwant to try to

sticktothem,beforeyoucommitafelony…”“I’mnothungry,”Josiesaidsuddenly.Shepushedherplateaway,stoodup,

andranupstairs.“Thetrialstartstomorrow,”Alexsaid,bywayofexplanation.Shewentafter

Josie, not even excusing herself first, because she knew Patrick wouldunderstand.Josiehadslammedthedoorshutandturneduphermusic;itwoulddonogoodtoknock.Alexturnedtheknobandsteppedinside,reachingtothestereototurndownthevolume.

Josie lay on her bed facedown, the pillow over her head.When Alex satdownonthemattressbesideher,shedidn’tmove.“Youwanttotalkaboutit?”Alexasked.

“No,”Josiesaid,hervoicemuffled.Alexreachedoutandyankedthepillowoffherhead.“Try.”“It’s just-God, Mom-what’s wrong with me? It’s like the world’s started

spinningagainforeveryoneelse,butIcan’tevengetbackonthecarousel.Evenyou two-youbothmustbe thinking likecrazyabout the trial, too-buthereyouare, laughingandsmiling likeyoucanputwhathappenedandwhat’sgoing tohappenoutofyourhead,whenIcan’tnotthinkaboutiteverywakingsecond.”Josie looked up at Alex, her eyes filling with tears. “Everyone’s moved on.Everyonebutme.”

Alex put her hand on Josie’s arm and rubbed it. She could rememberdelightinginthesheerphysicalproofofJosieaftershewasborn-thatsomehow,outofnothing,she’dcreatedthistiny,warm,squirming,flawlesscreature.She’dspendhoursonherbedwithJosiebesideher,touchingherbaby’sskin,herseed-

pearltoes,thepulseofherfontanel.“Once,”Alexsaid,“whenIwasworkingasa public defender, a guy in the office threw a Fourth of July party for all thelawyersand their families. I tookyou,even thoughyouwereonlyabout threeyearsold.Therewerefireworks,andIlookedawayforasecondtoseethem,andwhen I turned back youwere gone. I started to scream, and someone noticedyou-lyingatthebottomofthepool.”

Josiesatup,rivetedbyastoryshehadneverheardbefore.“Idoveinanddraggedyououtandgaveyoumouth-to-mouth,andyouspit

up. I couldn’t even speak, I was so scared. But you came back fighting andfuriousatme.Youtoldmeyou’dbeenlookingformermaids,andIinterruptedyou.”

Tuckingherkneesupunderherchin,Josiesmiledalittle.“Really?”Alexnodded.“Isaidthatnexttime,youhadtotakemewithyou.”“Wasthereanexttime?”“Well,youtellme,”Alexsaid,andshehesitated.“Youdon’tneedwaterto

feellikeyou’redrowning,doyou?”WhenJosieshookherhead,thetearsspilledover.Sheshifted,fittingherself

intohermother’sarms.This,Patrickknew,washisdownfall.Forthesecondtimeinhislife,hewas

growingsoclosetoawomanandherchildthatheforgothemightnotreallybepartof their family.He lookedaround the tableat thedetritusofAlex’sawfuldinnerandstartedclearingtheuntouchedplates.

Thebarbecuedlasagnahadcongealedinitsservingdish,ablackenedbrick.Hepiledthedishesin thesinkandbegantorunwarmwater, thenpickedupaspongeandstartedtoscrub.

“Ohmygosh,”Alexsaidbehindhim.“Youreallyaretheperfectman.”Patrick turned, his hands still soapy. “Far from it.” He reached for a dish

towel.“IsJosie-”“She’sfine.She’llbefine.Orat leastwe’rebothgoingtokeepsayingthat

untilit’strue.”“I’msorry,Alex.”“Whoisn’t?”Shestraddledakitchenchairandrestedhercheekonitsspine.

“I’mgoingtothetrialtomorrow.”“Iwouldn’thaveexpectedanyless.”“DoyoureallythinkMcAfeecangethimacquitted?”Patrick folded the dish towel beside the sink andwalked towardAlex.He

kneltinfrontofherchair.“Alex,”hesaid,“thatkidwalkedintotheschoollikehewasexecutingabattleplan.Hestartedintheparkinglotandsetoffabombtocauseadistraction.Hewentaroundtothefrontoftheschoolandtookoutakid

onthesteps.Hewentintothecafeteria,shotatabunchofkids,murderedsomeof them-and then he sat down and had a bowl of fucking cereal before hecontinuedhiskillingspree.Idon’tseehow,presentedwiththatkindofevidence,ajurycoulddismissthecharges.”

Alexstaredathim.“Tellmesomething…whywasJosielucky?”“Becauseshe’salive.”“No,Imean,whyisshealive?Shewasinthecafeteriaandthelockerroom.

Shesawpeopledieallaroundher.Whydidn’tPetershoother?”“Idon’tknow.ThingshappenthatIdon’tunderstandall thetime.Someof

them-well, they’re like theshooting.Andsomeof them…”HecoveredAlex’shandwithhisownwhereitgrippedthechairrail.“Someofthemaren’t.”

Alexlookedupathim,andPatrickwasremindedagainofhowfindingher-beingwith her-was like that first crocus you saw in the snow. Justwhen youassumedwinterwould last forever, this unexpected beauty could take you bysurprise-andifyoudidnottakeyoureyesoffit,ifyoukeptyourfocus,therestofthesnowwouldsomehowmelt.

“IfIaskyousomething,willyoubehonestwithme?”Alexasked.Patricknodded.“Mylasagnawasn’tverygood,wasit?”Hesmiledatherthroughtheslatsofthechair.“Don’tgiveupyourdayjob,”

hesaid.Inthemiddleofthenight,whenJosiecouldstillnotgettosleep,sheslipped

outsideandlaydownonthefrontlawn.Shestaredupatthesky,whichclungsolowbythistimeofthenightthatshecouldfeelstarsprickingherface.Outhere,withoutherbedroomclosinginaroundher,itwasalmostpossibletobelievethatwhateverproblemsshehadweretiny,inthegrandschemeoftheuniverse.

Tomorrow,PeterHoughtonwasgoingtobetriedfortenmurders.Eventhethoughtof it-of that lastmurder-madeJosiesicktoherstomach.Shecouldnotgo watch the trial, as much as she wanted to, because she was on a stupidwitnesslist.Instead,shewassequestered,whichwasafancywordforbeingkeptclueless.

Josietookadeepbreathandthoughtaboutasocialstudiesclassshe’dtakeninmiddleschoolwherethey’dlearnedthatsomeone-Eskimos,maybe?-believedstarswereholesintheskywherepeoplewho’ddiedcouldpeekthroughatyou.Itwassupposedtobecomforting,butJosiehadalwaysfounditalittlecreepy,asifitmeantshewasbeingspiedon.

It alsomade her think of a really dumb joke about a guy walking past amental institutionwithahighfence,whohearsthepatientschantingTen!Ten!Ten!andgoestopeekthroughaholeinthefencetoseewhat’sgoingon…only

togetpokedintheeyewithastickandhearthepatientschantEleven!Eleven!Eleven!

Matthadtoldherthatjoke.Maybeshe’devenlaughed.Here’swhattheEskimosdon’ttellyou:Thosepeopleontheotherside,they

havetogooutoftheirwaytowatchyou.Butyoucanseethemanyoldtime.Allyouhavetodoiscloseyoureyes.

Onthemorningofherson’smurdertrial,Lacypickedablackskirtoutofhercloset,alongwithablackblouseandblackstockings.Shedressedlikeshewasheadedtoafuneral,butmaybethatwasn’tsofaroffthemark.Sherippedthreepairsofhosebecauseherhandswereshaking,andfinallydecidedtogowithout.Bytheendofthedayhershoeswouldrubblistersonherfeet,andLacythoughtmaybethiswasagoodthing;maybeshecouldconcentrateinsteadonapainthatmadeperfectsense.

ShedidnotknowwhereLewiswas;ifhewasevengoingtothetrialtoday.Theyhadn’t reallyspokensince thedayshehad trackedhimto thegraveyard,andhehadtakentosleepinginJoey’sbedroom.NeitheroneofthemwentintoPeter’s.

But this morning, she forced herself to turn left instead of right at thelanding,andsheopenedthedoorofPeter’sbedroom.Afterthepolicehadcome,shehadput it back in some semblanceof order, tellingherself that shedidn’twantPeter to comehome to aplace thathadbeen ransacked.Therewere stillgapingholes-thedesklookednakedwithout itscomputer, thebookshelveshalfempty. She walked up to one and pulled down a paperback. The Picture ofDorianGray,byOscarWilde.PeterhadbeenreadingitforEnglishclasswhenhewasarrested.Shewonderedifhe’dhadthetimetofinish.

DorianGrayhadaportraitthatgrewoldandevilwhileheremainedyoungand innocent-looking.Maybe thequiet, reservedmotherwhowould testify forhersonhadaportraitsomewherethatwasravagedwithguilt,twistedwithpain.Maybethewomaninthatpicturewasallowedtocryandscream,tobreakdown,tograbherson’sshouldersandsayWhathaveyoudone?

Shestartledat thesoundofsomeoneopening thedoor.Lewisstoodon thethreshold,wearingthesuitthathekeptforconferencesandcollegegraduations.Hewasholdingabluesilktieinhishandanddidnotspeak.

LacytookthetieoutofLewis’shandandwalkedbehindhim.Shenooseditaroundhisneck,gentlypulledtheknotintoplace,andflippeddownthecollar.Asshedid,Lewisreachedforherhandanddidn’tletgo.

Thereweren’twords, really, formoments like this-when you realized thatyou’dlostonechildandtheotherwasslippingoutofyourreach.Stillholding

Lacy’shand,LewisledheroutofPeter’sroom.Heclosedthedoorbehindthem.At 6:00 a.m., when Jordan crept downstairs to read through his notes in

preparation for the trial, he founda singleplace settingat the table: abowl, aspoon,andaboxofCocoaKrispies-themealhealwaysusedtokickoffabattle.Grinning-Selenamusthavegottenupinthemiddleofthenighttodothis,sincethey’dheadedup to bed together last night-he sat down andpouredhimself ahealthyserving,thenwentintothefridgeforthemilk.

APost-itnotehadbeenstucktothecarton.GOODLUCK.JustasJordansatdowntoeat,thetelephonerang.Hegrabbedit-Selenaand

thebabywerestillasleep.“Hello?”“Dad?”“Thomas,”hesaid.“Whatareyoudoingupatthishour?”“Well,um,Isortofdidn’tgotobedyet.”Jordansmiled.“Ah,tobeyoungandcollegiateagain.”“Anyway,Ijustcalledtowishyouluck.Itstartstoday,right?”Helookeddownathiscerealandsuddenlyrememberedthefootagetakenby

thecafeteriavideocameraatSterlingHigh:Petersittingdown,justlikethis,tohaveabowlofcereal,deadstudentsflankinghim.Jordanpushedthebowlaway.“Yes,”hesaid.“Itdoes.”

The correctional officer opened up Peter’s cell and handed him a stack offoldedclothes.“Timefortheball,Cinderella,”hesaid.

Peter waited until he left. He knew hismother had bought these for him;she’d even left the tagson so thathe could see theyhadn’t come fromJoey’scloset. Theywere preppy, the kind of clothes he imaginedwereworn to polomatches-notthathe’deveractuallybeentoonetosee.

Peterstrippedoutofhisjumpsuitandpulledontheboxershorts,thesocks.Hesatdownonhisbunktopulluphistrousers,whichwerealittletightatthewaist.Hebuttonedtheshirtwrongthefirsttimeandhadtodoitover.Hedidn’tknowhowtodohistieright.HerolleditupandstuffeditintohispocketsothatJordancouldhelphim.

Therewasn’tamirrorinhiscell,butPeterimaginedhelookedordinarynow.If you beamed him from this jail into a crowdedNewYork street or into thestands of a football game, people probably wouldn’t glance twice at him;wouldn’trealizethatunderneathall thatwashedwoolandEgyptiancottonwassomeone they’d never imagine. Or in other words, after all this, nothing hadchanged.

Hewas about to leave the cellwhen he realized he had not been given abulletproof vest, as he had for the arraignment. It probablywasn’t because hewasanylesshatednow;morelikely,ithadbeenanoversight.Hestartedtoask

theguardaboutit,butthensnappedhismouthshut.Maybe,forthefirsttimeinhislife,Peterhadgottenlucky.Alex dressed like shewas going towork,which shewas, except not as a

judge.Shewonderedwhatitwouldbeliketositincourtintheroleofcivilian.Shewonderedifthegrievingmotherfromthearraignmentwouldbethere.

Sheknewitwasgoingtobehardtolistentothistrial,andtounderstandalloveragainhowcloseshehadcometolosingJosie.Alexwasthroughpretendingthatshewaslisteningonlybecauseitwasherjob;shewaslisteningbecauseshehad to.One day Josiewould remember andwould need someone to hold herupright; and sinceAlexhadn’t been there the first time to protect Josie, she’dbearwitnessnow.

ShehurrieddownstairsandfoundJosiesittingatthekitchentable,dressedinaskirtandblouse.“I’mgoing,”sheannounced.

Itwasdéjàvu-thiswasexactlywhathadhappened thedayofPeter’sarraignment,exceptthatseemedsolongago,andsheandJosiehadbothbeenverydifferentpeopleback then.Today, shewason thedefense’switnesslist, but she hadn’t been servedwith a subpoena,whichmeant that she didn’tactuallyhavetobeinthecourthouseatallduringthetrial.

“IknowIcan’tgoin,butPatrick’ssequestered,too,isn’the?”The last time Josiehad asked togo to court,Alexhad flatly refused.This

time, though,shesatdownacrossfromJosie.“Doyouhaveanyideawhat it’sgoing to be like? There are going to be cameras, lots of them. And kids inwheelchairs.Andangryparents.AndPeter.”

Josie’s gaze fell into her lap like a stone. “You’re trying to keepme fromgoingagain.”

“No,I’mtryingtokeepyoufromgettinghurt.”“Ididn’tgethurt,”Josiesaid.“That’swhyIhavetogo.”Fivemonths ago,Alex hadmade this decision for her daughter.Now she

knewthatJosiedeservedtospeakforherself.“I’llmeetyouinthecar,”shesaidcalmly.Sheheld thismaskuntilJosieclosed thedoorbehindherself,and thenboltedupstairstothebathroomandgotsick.

Shewasafraidthatrelivingtheshooting,evenfromadistance,wouldrattleJosiepastthepointofrecovery.Butmostlysheworriedthatforthesecondtime,shewouldbepowerlesstokeepherdaughterfrombeinghurt.

Alexrestedherforeheadagainstthecoolporcelainlipofthebathtub.Then,standing,shebrushedherteethandsplashedherfacewithwater.Shehurriedtothecar,whereherdaughterwasalreadywaiting.

Becausethesitterwaslate,JordanandSelenafoundthemselvesfightingthecrowd on the courtroom steps. Selena had been expecting it-and still wasn’t

entirelypreparedfor thehordesof reporters, the televisionvans, thespectatorsholdinguptheircameraphonestocaptureasnapshotofthemelee.

Jordanwasplayingthevillaintoday-thevastmajorityoftheonlookerswerefromSterling,andsincePeterwouldbetransportedtothecourtviaundergroundtunnel,Jordanwastheirfallguy.“Howdoyousleepatnight?”awomanshoutedas Jordanhurriedup the stepspasther.Anotherheldupa sign:There’s still adeathpenaltyinNH.

“Oohboy,”Jordansaidunderhisbreath.“Thisisgonnabeafunone.”“You’llbefine,”Selenareplied.Buthehadstoppedmoving.Therewasamanstandingonthestepsholding

upapieceofposterboardwithtwolargemountedphotos-oneofagirl,oneofaprettywoman.KaitlynHarvey, Selena realized, recognizing the face.And hermother.Atthetopofthedisplayweretwowords:NINETEENMINUTES.

Jordanmettheman’sgaze.Selenaknewwhathewasthinking-thatthiscouldbe him, that he had just asmuch to lose. “I’m sorry,” Jordanmurmured, andSelenaloopedherarmthroughhisandpulledhimupthestairsagain.

There was a different crowd up here, though. They wore startling yellowshirtswithBVAprintedacrossthechest,andtheywerechanting:“Peter,youarenotalone.Peter,youarenotalone.”

Jordanleanedclosertoher.“Whatthefuckisthis?”“TheBulliedVictimsofAmerica.”“Youmustbejoking,”Jordansaid.“Theyexist?”“Youbetterbelieveit,”Selenasaid.Jordanstartedtosmileforthefirsttimesincethey’dstarteddrivingtocourt.

“Andyoufoundthemforus?”Selenasqueezedhisarm.“Youcanthankmelater,”shesaid.Hisclientlookedlikehewasgoingtofaint.Jordannoddedatthedeputywho

lethimintotheholdingcellwherePeterwasbeingkeptatthecourthouse,andthensatdown.“Breathe,”hecommanded.

Peternoddedandfilleduphis lungs.Hewasshaking.Jordanhadexpectedthis,hadseenitatthestartofeverytrialhe’deverbeenapartof.Eventhemosthardenedcriminalsuddenlypanickedwhenherealizedthatthiswasthedayhislifewasontheline.“I’vegotsomethingforyou,”Jordansaid,andhetookapairofglassesoutofhispocket.

Theywere thick and tortoiseshell,Coke-bottle glasses, very different fromthe thinwireonesPeterusuallywore.“Idon’t,”Petersaid,and thenhisvoicecracked.“Idon’tneednewones.”

“Well,takethemanyway.”“Why?”

“Becauseeveryonewillnoticetheseonyourface,”Jordansaid.“Iwantyouto look like someonewho could never in amillion years see well enough toshoottenpeople.”

Peter’s hands curled around themetal edge of the bench. “Jordan?What’sgoingtohappentome?”

Thereweresomeclientsyouhadtolieto,justsothatthey’dgetthroughthetrial.But at this point, Jordan thoughtheowedPeter the truth. “I don’t know,Peter.Youhaven’tgotagreatcase,becauseofalltheevidenceagainstyou.Thelikelihoodofyoubeingacquittedisslim,butI’mstillgoingtodowhateverIcanforyou.Okay?”Peternodded.“AllIwantyoutodoistrytobequietoutthere.Lookpathetic.”

Peterbowedhishead,hisfacecontorting.Yes,justlikethat,Jordanthought,andthenherealizedthatPeterhadstartedtocry.

Jordanwalkedtowardthefrontofthecell.This,too,wasafamiliarmomentforhimasadefenseattorney.Jordanusuallyallowedhisclienttohavethisfinalbreakdown in private before theywent into the courtroom. Itwas none of hisbusiness, and to be honest, Jordan was all about business. But he could hearPetersobbingbehindhim;andinthatsadsongwasonenotethatreachedrightdownintoJordan.Beforehecouldthinkbetterof it,hehadturnedaroundandwas sittingon thebench again.Hewrappedan armaroundPeter, felt theboyrelax against him. “It’s going to be okay,” he said, and he hoped he was notlying.

DianaLevensurveyedthepackedgallery,thenaskedabailifftoturnoffthelights. She pushed the button on her laptop, beginning her PowerPointpresentation.

The screen beside Judge Wagner filled with an image of Sterling HighSchool.Therewasablueskyinthebackgroundandsomecotton-candyclouds.Aflagsnappedinthewind.Threeschoolbuseswerelineduplikeacaravaninthefrontcircle.Dianaletthispicturestandalone,insilence,forfifteenseconds.

Thecourtroomgrewsoquietyoucouldhearthehumofthetranscriptionist’slaptop.

Oh,God,Jordanthought.Ihavetositthroughthisforthenextthreeweeks.“This iswhat SterlingHigh School looked like onMarch 6, 2007. It was

7:50a.m.,andschoolhadjuststarted.CourtneyIgnatiowasinchemistryclass,taking a quiz. Whit Obermeyer was in the main office getting a late pass,because he’d had car trouble that morning. Grace Murtaugh was leaving thenurse’s office,where she’d taken someTylenol for a headache.Matt Roystonwasinhistoryclasswithhisbestfriend,DrewGirard.EdMcCabewaswritinghomeworkontheblackboardforthemathclasseshetaught.Therewasnothing

to suggest to any of these people or any othermembers of the SterlingHighSchoolcommunityat7:50a.m.onMarchsixththatthiswasanythingotherthanatypicalschoolday.”

Dianaclickedabutton,andanewphotoappeared:EdMcCabe,lyingonthefloorwithhisintestinesspillingoutofhisstomachasasobbingstudentpressedbothhandsagainstthegapingwound.“ThisiswhatSterlingHighSchoollookedlike at 10:19 a.m. on March 6, 2007. Ed McCabe never got to give hishomeworkassignmenttohismathclass,becausenineteenminutesearlier,PeterHoughton,aseventeen-year-oldjunioratSterlingHighSchool,burstthroughthedoorswithaknapsackthatcontainedfourguns-twosawed-offshotguns,aswellastwofullyloaded,semiautomatic9-millimeterpistols.”

Jordanfeltatugonhisarm.“Jordan,”Peterwhispered.“Notnow.”“ButI’mgoingtobesick…”“Swallowit,”Jordanordered.Dianaflickedbacktothepreviousslide,thepicture-perfectimageofSterling

High.“Itoldyou,ladiesandgentlemen,thatnoneofthepeopleinSterlingHighSchoolhadanyinclinationthiswouldbesomethingotherthanatypicalschoolday. But one person did know that it was going to be different.” Shewalkedtoward the defense table and pointed directly at Peter, who stared steadfastlydownathislap.“OnthemorningofMarch6,2007,PeterHoughtonstartedhisdaybyloadingablueknapsackwithfourgunsandthemakingsofabomb,plusenoughammunitiontopotentiallykillonehundredandninety-eightpeople.Theevidencewill show thatwhenhearrivedat the school,he setup thisbomb inMattRoyston’scartodivertattentionawayfromhimself.Whileitexploded,hewalked up the front steps of the school and shot Zoe Patterson. Then, in thehallway,heshotAlyssaCarr.HemadehiswaytothecafeteriaandshotAngelaPhlug and Maddie Shaw-his first casualty-and Courtney Ignatio. As studentsstarted runningaway,he shotHaleyWeaverandBradyPryce,NatalieZlenko,Emma Alexis, Jada Knight, and Richard Hicks. Then, as the wounded weresobbinganddyingallaroundhim,doyouknowwhatPeterHoughtondid?HesatdowninthecafeteriaandhehadabowlofRiceKrispies.”

Dianaletthisinformationsinkin.“Whenhefinished,hepickeduphisgunand left the cafeteria, shooting Jared Weiner, Whit Obermeyer, and GraceMurtaughinthehall,andLuciaRitolli-aFrenchteachertryingtoshepherdherstudents to safety. He stopped off in the boys’ bathroom and shot StevenBabourias, Min Horuka, and Topher McPhee; and then went into the girls’bathroomandshotKaitlynHarvey.HecontinuedupstairsandshotEdMcCabe,themathteacher,JohnEberhard,andTreyMacKenziebeforereachingthegym

andfiringatAustinProkiov,CoachDustySpears,NoahJames,JustinFriedman,and Drew Girard. Finally, in the locker room, the defendant shot MatthewRoystontwice-onceinthestomach,andagaininthehead.Youmightrememberthat name-it’s the owner of the car that Peter Houghton bombed at the verybeginningofhisrampage.”

Dianafacedthejury.“ThisentirespreelastednineteenminutesinthelifeofPeterHoughton,buttheevidencewillshowthatitseffectswilllastforever.Andthere’salotofevidence,ladiesandgentlemen.Therearealotofwitnesses,andthere’s a lot of testimony to come…but by the end of this trial, you will beconvinced beyond a reasonable doubt that Peter Houghton purposefully andknowingly,withpremeditation,causedthedeathsoftenpeopleandattemptedtocausethedeathsofnineteenothersatSterlingHighSchool.”

ShewalkedtowardPeter.“Innineteenminutes,youcanmowthefrontlawn,coloryourhair,watcha thirdofahockeygame.Youcanbakesconesorgetatoothfilledbyadentist.Youcanfoldlaundryforafamilyoffive.Or,asPeterHoughtonknows…innineteenminutes,youcanbringtheworldtoascreechinghalt.”

Jordanwalkedtowardthejury,hishandsinhispockets.“Ms.LeventoldyouthatonthemorningofMarch6,2007,PeterHoughtonwalkedintoSterlingHighSchool with a knapsack full of loaded weapons, and he shot a lot of people.Well,she’sright.Theevidenceisgoingtoshowthat,andwedon’tdisputeit.Weknow that it’s a tragedy forboth thepeoplewhodiedand thosewhowill livewith the aftermath. But here’s what Ms. Leven didn’t tell you: when PeterwalkedintoSterlingHighSchoolthatmorning,hehadnointentionofbecomingamassmurderer.Hewalkedinintendingtodefendhimselffromtheabusehe’dsufferedfortwelvestraightyears.

“OnPeter’s firstdayofschool,”Jordancontinued,“hismotherputhimonthekindergartenbuswithabrand-newSupermanlunchbox.Bytheendof theridetotheschool,thatlunchboxhadbeenthrownoutthewindow.Now,allofushavechildhoodmemoriesofotherkidsteasingusorbeingcruel,andmostofusareable toshake thatoff,butPeterHoughton’s lifewasn’tonewhere thesethings happened occasionally. From that very first day in kindergarten, Peterexperienced a daily barrage of taunting, tormenting, threatening, and bullying.Thischildhasbeenstuffed into lockers,hadhisheadshoved into toilets,beentrippedandpunchedandkicked.Hehashadaprivateemailspammedouttoanentire school. He’s had his pants pulled down in the middle of the cafeteria.Peter’s realitywasaworldwhere,nomatterwhathedid-nomatterhowsmallandinsignificanthemadehimself-hewasstillalwaysthevictim.Andasaresult,hestartedto turn toanalternateworld:onecreatedbyhimself in thesafetyof

HTMLcode.Petersetuphisownwebsite,createdvideogames,andfilledthemwiththekindofpeoplehewishedweresurroundinghim.”

Jordanranhishandalongtherailingofthejurybox.“Oneofthewitnessesyou’regoing tohear from isDr.KingWah.He’sa forensicpsychiatristwho’sexaminedPeterandhasspokenwithhim.He’sgoingtoexplaintoyouthatPeterwas suffering from an illness called post-traumatic stress disorder. It’s acomplicatedmedicaldiagnosis,butit’sarealone-andchildrenwhohaveitcan’tdistinguishbetweenan immediate threatandadistant threat.Even thoughyouand I might be able to walk down the hall and spy a bully who’s paying noattentiontous,Peterwouldseethatsamepersonandhisheartratewouldspeedup…hisbodywouldsidlealittleclosertothewall…becausePeterwassurehe’dbe noticed, threatened, beaten, and hurt.Dr.Wahwill not only tell you aboutstudiesthathavebeendoneonchildrenlikePeter,he’lltellyouhowPeterwasdirectlyaffectedby theyearsandyearsof tormentat thehandsof theSterlingHighSchoolcommunity.”

Jordanfacedthejurorsagain.“Doyourememberearlierthisweek,whenwewere talking toyouaboutwhetheryou’dbeanappropriate juror to sit on thiscase?Oneof the thingsIaskedeachandeveryoneofyouduringthatprocesswas whether you understood that you needed to listen to the evidence in thecourtroomandapplythelawasthejudgeinstructsyou.Asmuchaswelearnedfrom civics class in eighth grade or Law & Order on Wednesday-nightTV…untilyou’rehere listening to theevidenceandhearing the instructionsofthecourt,youdon’tknowwhattherulesreallyare.”

Heheldthegazeofeachjurorinturn.“Forexample,whenmostpeoplehearthetermself-defense,theyassumeitmeansthatsomeoneisholdingupagun,oraknife to the throat-that there’san immediatephysical threat.But in thiscase,self-defensemaynotmeanwhatyou think.Andwhat the evidencewill show,ladiesandgentlemen,isthatthepersonwhowalkedintoSterlingHighandfiredall those shotswas not a premeditated, cold-blooded killer, as the prosecutionwantsyoutobelieve.”JordanwalkedbehindthedefensetableandputhishandsonPeter’sshoulders.“Hewasaveryscaredboywhohadaskedforprotection…andhadneverreceivedit.”

ZoePattersonkeptbitinghernails,eventhoughhermotherhadtoldhernottodothat;eventhoughazillionpairsofeyesand(holycow)televisioncameraswerefocusedonherasshesaton thewitnessstand.“WhatdidyouhaveafterFrench class?” the prosecutor asked. She’d already gone through her name,address,andthebeginningofthathorribleday.

“Math,withMr.McCabe.”“Didyougotoclass?”

“Yes.”“Andwhattimedidthatclassstart?”“Nine-forty,”Zoesaid.“DidyouseePeterHoughtonatallbeforemathclass?”She couldn’t help it, she let her glance slide toward Peter sitting at the

defensetable.Herewastheweirdthing-shehadbeenafreshmanlastyearanddidn’tknowhimatall.Andevennow,evenafterhe’dshother,ifshe’dwalkeddownastreetandpassedhim,shedidn’tthinkshewouldhaverecognizedhim.

“No,”Zoesaid.“Anythingunusualhappenatmathclass?”“No.”“Didyoustayfortheentireperiod?”“No,”Zoesaid.“Ihadanorthodontistappointmentatten-fifteen,soIlefta

littlebeforetentosignoutintheofficeandwaitformymom.”“Wherewasshegoingtomeetyou?”“Onthefrontsteps.Shewasjustgoingtodriveup.”“Didyousignoutofschool?”“Yes.”“Didyougotothefrontsteps?”“Yes.”“Wasanyoneelseoutthere?”“No.Classwasinsession.”Shewatchedtheprosecutorpulloutabigoverheadphotographoftheschool

and theparking lot, theway itused tobe.Zoehaddrivenby theconstruction,andnowtherewasabigfencearoundtheentirearea.“Canyoushowmewhereyouwerestanding?”Zoepointed.“LettherecordshowthatthewitnesspointedtothefrontstepsofSterlingHigh,”Ms.Levensaid.“Now,whathappenedwhileyouwerestandingandwaitingforyourmother?”

“Therewasanexplosion.”“Didyouknowwhereitcamefrom?”“Somewherebehindtheschool,”Zoesaid,andsheglancedatthatbigposter

again,asifitmightevennowjustdetonate.“Whathappenednext?”Zoe rubbed her hand over her leg. “He…he came around the side of the

schoolandstartedtocomeupthesteps…”“By‘he,’doyoumeanthedefendant,PeterHoughton?”Zoe nodded, swallowing. “He came up the steps and I looked at him and

he…hepointedagunandshotme.”Shewasblinkingtoofastnow,tryingnottocry.

“Wheredidheshootyou,Zoe?”theprosecutoraskedgently.“Intheleg.”“DidPetersayanythingtoyoubeforeheshotyou?”“No.”“Didyouknowwhohewasatthatpointintime?”Zoeshookherhead.“No.”“Didyourecognizehisface?”“Yes,fromaroundschoolandall…”Ms. Leven turned her back to the jury and gave Zoe a little wink, which

madeherfeelbetter.“Whatkindofgunwasheusing,Zoe?Wasitasmallgunheheldinonehand,orabiggunthathecarriedwithtwohands?”

“Asmallgun.”“Howmanytimesdidheshoot?”“One.”“Didhesayanythingafterheshotyou?”“Idon’tremember,”Zoesaid.“Whatdidyoudo?”“Iwantedtogetawayfromhim,butmylegfeltlikeitwasonfire.Itriedto

runbutIcouldn’tdoit-Ijustsortofcrumpledandfelldownthestairs,andthenIcouldn’tmovemyarmeither.”

“Whatdidthedefendantdo?”“Hewentintotheschool.”“Didyouseewhichwayhewent?”“No.”“How’syourlegnow?”theprosecutorasked.“I still need a cane,”Zoe said. “I got an infection because the bullet blew

fabricfrommyjeansintomyleg.Thetendon’sattachedtothescartissue,andthat’s still really sensitive.The doctors don’t know if theywant to do anothersurgery,becauseitmightdomoredamage.”

“Zoe,wereyouonasportsteamlastyear?”“Soccer,”shesaid,andshelookeddownatherleg.“Todaytheystartpractice

fortheseason.”Ms. Leven turned to the judge. “Nothing further,” she said. “Zoe, Mr.

McAfeemighthaveafewquestionsforyou.”Theother lawyer stoodup.Zoewasnervous about thispart, because even

thoughshe’dgottentorehearsewiththeprosecutor,shehadnoideawhatPeter’sattorneywouldaskher.Itwaslikeanyotherexam;shewantedtohavetherightanswers.“WhenPeterwasholdingthegun,hewasaboutthreefeetawayfromyou?”thelawyerasked.

“Yes.”“Hedidn’tlooklikehewasrunningrighttowardyou,didhe?”“Iguessnot.”“Helookedlikehewasjusttryingtorunupthestairs,right?”“Yeah.”“Andyouwerejustwaitingonthestairs,correct?”“Yes.”“Soit’sfairtosaythatyouwereinthewrongplaceatthewrongtime?”“Objection,”Ms.Levensaid.Thejudge-abigmanwithamaneofwhitehairwhosortofscaredZoe-shook

hishead.“Overruled.”“No further questions,” the lawyer said, and then Ms. Leven rose again.

“AfterPeterwentinside,”sheasked,“whatdidyoudo?”“Istartedscreamingforhelp.”Zoelookedintothegallery,tryingtofindher

mother.Ifshelookedathermother,thenshecouldsaywhatshehadtosaynext,becauseitwasalreadyoverandthatwaswhatyouhadtokeepremembering,nomatterhowmuchitfeltlikeitwasn’t.“Atfirstnobodycame,”Zoemurmured.“Andthen…theneverybodydid.”

MichaelBeachhadseenZoePattersonleavingtheroomwherethewitnesseswere sequestered. It was a weird collection of kids-everyone from losers likehimself to popular kids likeBradyPryce.Even stranger, noone seemed tobeinclined to break into their usual pods-the geeks in one corner, the jocks inanother,andsoon.Instead,they’dalljustsatdownnexttoeachotherattheonelong conference table.EmmaAlexis-whowas oneof the cool, beautiful girls-wasnowparalyzedfromthewaistdown,andsherolledherwheelchairuprightbesideJustin.She’daskedhimifshecouldhavehalfofhisglazeddonut.

“WhenPeter first came into the gym,” the prosecutor asked, “what did hedo?”

“Waveagunaround,”Michaelsaid.“Couldyouseewhatkindofgunitwas?”“Well,likeasmallishone.”“Ahandgun?”“Yes.”“Didhesayanything?”Michael glanced at the defense table. “He said ‘All you jocks, front and

center.’”“Whathappened?”“Akidstartedtoruntowardhim,likehewasgoingtotakehimdown.”“Whowasthat?”

“NoahJames.He’s-hewas-asenior.Petershothim,andhejustcollapsed.”“Thenwhathappened?”theprosecutorasked.Michaeltookadeepbreath.“Petersaid,‘Who’snext?’andmyfriendJustin

grabbedmeandstarteddraggingmetothedoor.”“HowlonghadyouandJustinbeenfriends?”“Sincethirdgrade,”Michaelsaid.“Andthen?”“Petermusthave seen somethingmoving, sohe turnedaroundandhe just

startedtoshoot.”“Didhehityou?”Michaelshookhisheadandpressedhislipstogether.“Michael,”theprosecutorsaidgently,“whodidhehit?”“Justingot in frontofmewhen the shooting started.And thenhe…he fell

down.TherewasbloodeverywhereandIwastryingtostopit, liketheydoonTV, by pushing on his stomach. I wasn’t paying any attention to anythinganymore,exceptJustin,andthenallofasuddenIfeltagunpressupagainstmyhead.”

“Whathappened?”“Iclosedmyeyes,”Michaelsaid.“Ithoughthewasgoingtokillme.”“Andthen?”“Iheardthisnoise,andwhenIopenedmyeyes,hewaspullingoutthething

thathadallthebulletsinitandjamminginanotherone.”Theprosecutorwalkeduptoatableandheldupagunclip.Justseeingitin

herhandmadeMichaelshudder.“Isthiswhatwentintothegun?”sheasked.“Yes.”“Whathappenedafterthat?”“Hedidn’tshootme,”Michaelsaid.“Threepeopleranacrossthegym,and

hefollowedthemintothelockerroom.”“AndJustin?”“Iwatchedit,”Michaelwhispered.“Iwatchedhisfacewhilehedied.”Itwasthefirstthinghesawinthemorningwhenheawakened,andthelast

thinghesawbeforehewenttobed:thatmomentwheretheshineinJustin’seyesjustdulled.Whenthelifeleftaperson,itwasn’tbydegrees.Itwasinstant,likesomeonepullingdownashadeonawindow.

Theprosecutorcamecloser.“Michael,”shesaid,“youallright?”Henodded.“WereyouandJustinjocks?”“Notevenclose,”headmitted.“Wereyoupartofthepopularcrowd?”

“No.”“HadyouandJustineverbeenbulliedbyanyoneinschool?”Michael glanced, for the first time, at Peter Houghton. “Who hasn’t?” he

said.AsLacywaitedforherturntospeakonPeter’sbehalf,shethoughtbackto

thefirsttimesherealizedshecouldhateherownchild.Lewis had a bigwig economist from London coming to dinner, and in

preparation, Lacy had taken the day off work to clean. Although she had nodoubtsaboutherprowessasamidwife,thenatureofherworkmeantthattoiletsdidn’t get cleaned on a regular basis; that dust bunnies bloomed beneath thefurniture. Usually, she didn’t care-she thought a house that was lived in waspreferentialtoonethatwassterile-unlesscompanywascomingover;thenpridekicked in. So thatmorning, she’d gotten up,made breakfast, and had alreadydusted the living room by the time Peter-a sophomore, then-threw himselfangrilyintoachairatthekitchentable.“Ihavenocleanunderwear,”hefumed,althoughtheruleinthehousewasthatwhenhislaundrybinfilled,hehadtodohisownwash-therewassolittlethatLacyeveraskedhimtodo,shedidn’tthinkthisone taskwasunreasonable.Lacyhadsuggested thatheborrowsomefromhisfather,butPeterwasdisgustedby that,andshedecided to lethimfigure itoutonhisown.Shehadenoughonherplate.

SheusuallyletPeter’sroomstandinutterpigstydisarray,butasshepassedby that morning, she noticed his laundry bin. Well, she was already homeworking,andhewasatschool.Shecoulddothisonethingforhim.BythetimePetergothomethatday,Lacyhadnotonlyvacuumedandscrubbedthefloors,cookedafour-coursemeal,andcleanedthekitchen-shehadalsowashed,dried,and folded three loads of Peter’s laundry. They were piled on the bed, cleanclothing that covered the entire six-foot span of the mattress, segregated intopants, shirts, undershorts. All he had to do was set them into his closet, hisdrawers.

Peter arrived, sullen and moody, and immediately hurried upstairs to hisroomandhiscomputer-theplacehespentmostofhistime.Lacy-armdeepinthetoilet,atthatpoint,scouring-waitedforhimtonoticewhatshe’ddoneforhim.But instead, she heard him groan. “God! I’m supposed to put all this away?”Thenheslammedhisbedroomdoorsoloudthatthehouseshookaroundher.

Suddenly, Lacy couldn’t see straight. She had-of her own volition-donesomething nice for her son-her ridiculously spoiled son-and this was how heacted in return?She rinsedoff the scrubbinggloves and left them in the sink.Then she stompedupstairs toPeter’s roomand threwopen thedoor. “What isyourproblem?”

Peterglaredather.“What’syourproblem?Lookatthismess.”Something inside Lacy had snapped like a filament, igniting her. “Mess?”

sherepeated.“Icleanedupthemess.Youwanttoseeamess?”ShereachedpastPeter, knocking over a pile of neatly folded T-shirts. She grabbed his boxershortsandthrewthemonthefloor.Sheshovedhispantsoffthebed,hurledthemat his computer, so that his tower ofCD-ROMs fell over and the silver disksscattered. “I hate you!” Peter yelled, andwithoutmissing a beat, Lacy yelledback,“Ihateyou, too!”OnlythendidsherealizethatsheandPeterwerenowthesameheight;thatshewasarguingwithachildwhostoodeye-levelwithher.

ShebackedoutofPeter’sroom,andheslammedthedoorbehindher.Almostimmediately,Lacyburstintotears.Shehadn’tmeantit-ofcourseshehadn’t.Sheloved Peter. She just, at that moment, hated what he’d said; what he’d done.When she knocked, hewouldn’t answer. “Peter,” she said. “Peter, I’m sorry Isaidthat.”

Sheheldhereartothedoor,buttherewasnosoundcomingfromtheinside.Lacy had gone back downstairs and finished cleaning the bathroom. She hadmoved like a zombie throughdinner,making conversationwith the economistwithoutreallyknowingwhatshewassaying.Peterhadnotjoinedthem.Shedidnotseehim,infact,untilthenextmorning,whenLacywenttowakehimupandfoundhisroomalreadyempty-andspotless.Theclotheshadbeenrefoldedandplaced in theirdrawers.Thebedwasmade.TheCDsorganizedagain, in theirtower.

Peter was sitting at the kitchen table, eating a bowl of cereal, when Lacywentdownstairs.Hedidnotmeethereyes,andshedidnotmeethis-thegroundbetweenthemwasstill tootenderfor that.Butshepouredhimaglassof juiceandsetitonthetable.Hesaidthankyou.

Theyneverspokeofwhatthey’dsaidtoeachother,andLacyhadvowedtoherselfthatnomatterhowfrustratingitgot,beingtheparentofateenageboy,nomatter how selfish and self-centered Peter became, shewould never again letherselfreachapointwhereshetruly,viscerallyhatedherownson.

ButasthevictimsofSterlingHightoldtheirstoriesinacourtroomjustdownthehallfromwhereLacysat,shehopedthatshewasn’ttoolate.

Atfirst,Peterdidn’trecognizeher.Thegirlwhowasbeingleduptherampbyanurse-thegirlwhosehairhadbeencroppedtofitunderneathbandagesandwhose face was twisted with scar tissue and bone that had been broken andcarvedaway-settledherselfinsidethewitnessboxinawaythatremindedhimoffishbeingintroducedtoanewtank.They’dswimaroundtheperimetergingerly,as if they knew they had to assess the dangers of this new place before theycouldevenbegintofunction.

“Canyoustateyournamefortherecord?”theprosecutorasked.“Haley,”thegirlsaidsoftly.“HaleyWeaver.”“Lastyear,youwereasenioratSterlingHigh?”Hermouthrounded,flattened.Thepinkscarthatcurvedliketheseamona

baseballoverhertemplegrewdarker,anangryred.“Yes,”shesaid.Sheclosedhereyes,andatearsliddownherhollowcheek.“Iwasthehomecomingqueen.”Shebentforward,rockingslightlyasshecried.

Peter’schesthurt,asifitweregoingtoexplode.Hethoughtmaybehewouldjustdieonthespotandsaveeveryonethetroubleofgoingthroughthis.Hewasafraidtolookup,becauseifhedidhewouldhavetoseeHaleyWeaveragain.

Once, when he was little, he’d been playing with a Nerf football in hisparents’ bedroom and he knocked over an antique perfume bottle that hadbelonged to his great-grandmother. Itwasmade out of glass and it broke intopieces.Hismothertoldhimsheknewitwasanaccident,andshe’dglueditbacktogether.Shekeptitonherdresser,andeverytimehepassedbyhesawthelines.Foryears,he’dthoughtthatmighthavebeenworsethanbeingpunishedinthefirstplace.

“Let’s take a short recess,” JudgeWagner said, andPeter let hishead sinkdowntothedefensetable,aweighttooheavytobear.

The witnesses were sequestered by side, prosecution in one room anddefenseinanother.Thepolicemenhadtheirownroom,too.Witnesseswerenotsupposed to see each other, but nobody really noticed if you left to go to thecafeteria to get a cup of coffee or a donut, and Josie had taken to leaving forhours at a time. It was there that she’d run into Haley, who’d been drinkingorangejuicethroughastraw.Bradywaswithher,holdingthecupsoshecouldreachit.

They’d been happy to see Josie, but shewas gladwhen they left. It hurt,physically,tohavetosmileatHaleyandpretendthatyouweren’tstaringatthepits and gullies of her face. She’d told Josie that she had already had threeoperations with a plastic surgeon in New York City who had donated hisservices.

Brady never let go of her hand; sometimes he ran his fingers through herhair.ItmadeJosiewanttocry,becausesheknewthatwhenhelookedatHaley,hewasstillabletoseeherinawaythatnooneelsewouldagain.

There were others there, too, that Josie hadn’t seen since the shooting.Teachers,likeMs.RitolliandCoachSpears,whocameovertosayhello.TheDJwho ran the radio station at the school, thehonors studentwith the reallybadacne. They all cycled through the cafeteriawhile she sat and nursed a cup ofcoffee.

SheglancedupwhenDrewflunghimselfintoachairacrossfromher.“Howcomeyou’renotintheroomwiththerestofus?”

“I’monthedefense’s list.”Or,asshewassureeveryoneintheotherroomthoughtofit,thetraitors’side.

“Oh,” Drew said, as if he understood, although Josie was sure he didn’t.“Youreadyforthis?”

“Idon’thavetobeready.They’renotactuallygoingtocallme.”“Thenwhyareyouhere?”Beforeshecouldanswer,Drewwaved,andthensherealizedJohnEberhard

hadarrived.“Dude,”Drewsaid,andJohnheadedtowardthem.Hewalkedwithalimp,shenoticed,buthewaswalking.Heleaneddowntohigh-fiveDrewandwhenhedid,Josiecouldseethepuckerinhisscalpwherethebullethadenteredhishead.

“Where have you been?”Drew asked,making room for John to sit downbesidehim.“IthoughtI’dseeyouaroundthissummer,forsure.”

Henoddedatthem.“I’m…John.”Drew’ssmilefadedlikepaint.“This…is…”“Thisisfuckingunbelievable,”Drewmurmured.“Hecanhearyou,”Josiesnapped,andshecroucheddowninfrontofJohn.

“Hi,John.I’mJosie.”“Jooooz.”“Right.Josie.”“I’m…John,”hesaid.JohnEberhardhadplayedgoalieontheall-starstatehockeyteamsincehis

freshmanyear.Whenever the teamwon, the coachhadalwayscredited John’sreflexes.

“Shoooo,”hesaid,andheshuffledhisfoot.JosielookeddownattheundoneVelcrostrapofJohn’ssneaker.“Thereyou

go,”shesaid,fixingitforhim.Suddenlyshecouldnotstandbeinghere,seeingthis.“I’vegottogetback,”

Josie said, standing up. As she walked away, blindly turning the corner, shecrashedintosomeone.“Sorry,”shemurmured,andthenheardPatrick’svoice.

“Josie?Youallright?”Sheshrugged,andthensheshookherhead.“Thatmakestwoofus.”Patrickwasholdingacupofcoffeeandadonut.“Iknow,”hesaid.“I’ma

walkingcliché.Youwantit?”Heheldthepastryouttoher,andshetookit,eventhoughshewasn’thungry.“Youcomingorgoing?”

“Coming,”shelied,beforesheevenrealizedshewasdoingit.“Thenkeepmecompanyforafewminutes.”Heledhertoatableacrossthe

roomfromDrewandJohn;shecouldfeelthemlookingather,wonderingwhyshemightbehangingoutwithacop.“Ihatethewaitingpart,”Patricksaid.

“Atleastyou’renotnervousabouttestifying.”“SureIam.”“Don’tyoudothisallthetime?”Patricknodded.“But thatdoesn’tmakeitanyeasier togetupinfrontofa

roomfullofpeople.Idon’tknowhowyourmomdoesit.”“Sowhat doyoudo to get over the stage fright? Imagine the judge in his

underwear?”“Well, not this judge,” Patrick said, and then, realizing what he’d just

implied,heblusheddeepred.“That’sprobablyagoodthing,”Josiesaid.Patrickreachedforthedonutandtookabite,thenhandeditbacktoher.“I

justtrytotellmyself,whenIgetoutthere,thatIcan’tgetintotroubletellingthetruth.ThenIletDianadoallthework.”Hetookasipofhiscoffee.“Youneedanything?Adrink?Morefood?”

“I’mokay.”“ThenI’llwalkyouback.Comeon.”Theroomforthedefense’switnesseswastiny,becausethereweresofewof

them.AnAsianmanJosiehadneverseenbeforewassittingwithhisbacktoher,typingawayatalaptop.Therewasawomaninsidewhohadn’tbeentherewhenJosieleft,butJosiecouldn’tseeherface.

Patrickpausedinfrontofthedoor.“Howdoyouthinkit’sgoingincourt?”sheasked.

Hehesitated.“It’sgoing.”She slipped past the bailiffwhowas babysitting them, heading toward the

windowseatwhereshe’dbeencurledbefore,reading.Butatthelastminuteshesatdownatthetableinthemiddleoftheroom.Thewomanalreadyseatedtherehadherhandsfoldedinfrontofherandwasstaringatabsolutelynothing.

“Mrs.Houghton,”Josiemurmured.Peter’smotherturned.“Josie?”Shesquinted,asifthatmightbringJosieinto

betterfocus.“I’msosorry,”Josiewhispered.Mrs.Houghtonnodded.“Well,”shesaid,andthenshejuststopped,asifthe

sentencewerenomorethanaclifftojumpfrom.“How are you doing?” Josie immediately wished she could take back her

question-howdidshethinkPeter’smotherwasdoing,forGod’ssake?Shewas

probably using all of her self-control right now to keep from dissolving intofoam, blowing off into the atmosphere.Which, Josie realized,meant they hadsomethingincommon.

“Iwouldn’thaveexpectedtoseeyouhere,”Mrs.Houghtonsaidsoftly.Byhereshedidn’tmeanthecourthouse;shemeantthisroom.Withtheother

meagerwitnesseswhohadbeentappedtostickupforPeter.Josieclearedherthroat,tomakewayforthewordsshehadn’tsaidforyears,

thewordsshestillwouldhavebeenafraidtouseinfrontofnearlyanyoneelse,forfearoftheecho.“He’smyfriend,”shesaid.

“Westartedrunning,”Drewsaid.“Itwaslikethismassexodus.IjustwantedtogetasfarawayfromthecafeteriaasIcould,soIheadedforthegym.Twoofmyfriendshadheard theshots,but theydidn’tknowwhere theywerecomingfrom,soIgrabbedthemandtoldthemtofollowme.”

“Whowerethey?”Levenasked.“MattRoyston,”Drewsaid.“AndJosieCormier.”At thesoundofherdaughter’snamebeingspokenaloud,Alexshivered. It

madeitso…real.Soimmediate.DrewhadlocatedAlexinthegallery,andwasstaringrightatherwhenhesaidJosie’sname.

“Wheredidyougo?”“We figured if we could get to the locker room, we could climb out the

windowontothemapletreeandwe’dbesafe.”“Didyougettothelockerroom?”“JosieandMattdid,”Drewsaid.“ButIgotshot.”Alex listened as the prosecutor walked Drew through the extent of his

injuriesandhowtheyhadeffectivelyendedhishockeycareer.Thenshe facedhimsquarely.“DidyouknowPeterbeforethedayoftheshooting?”

“Yes.”“How?”“Wewereinthesamegrade.Everyoneknowseveryone.”“Wereyoufriends?”Levenasked.Alex glanced across the aisle at Lewis Houghton. He was sitting directly

behind his son, his eyes fixed straight on the bench.Alex had a flash of him,years ago, opening the front door when she’d gone to pick Josie up from aplaydate.Herecomedajudge,he’dsaid,andhelaughedathisownjoke.

Wereyoufriends?“No,”Drewsaid.“Didyouhaveanyproblemswithhim?”Drewhesitated.“No.”“Didyouevergetinanargumentwithhim?”Levenasked.

“Weprobablyhadafewwords,”Drewsaid.“Didyouevermakefunofhim?”“Sometimes.Wewerejustkiddingaround.”“Didyoueverphysicallyattackhim?”“Whenwewereyounger,Imighthavepushedhimaroundalittlebit.”AlexlookedatLewisHoughton.Hiseyesweresqueezedshut.“Haveyoudonethatsinceyou’vebeeninhighschool?”“Yes,”Drewadmitted.“DidyoueverthreatenPeterwithaweapon?”“No.”“Didyoueverthreatentokillhim?”“No…wewere,youknow.Justbeingkids.”“Thankyou.”Shesatdown,andAlexwatchedJordanMcAfeerise.Hewasagoodlawyer-better thanshewouldhavegivenhimcredit for.He

put on a fine show-whispering with Peter, putting his hand on the boy’s armwhenhegotupset, takingcopiousnoteson thedirectexaminationandsharingthem with his client. He was humanizing Peter, in spite of the fact that theprosecutionwasmaking him out to be amonster, in spite of the fact that thedefensehadn’tevenyetbeguntohavetheirturn.

“YouhadnoproblemswithPeter,”McAfeerepeated.“No.”“Buthehadproblemswithyou,didn’the?”Drewdidn’trespond.“Mr.Girard,you’regoingtohavetospeakup,”JudgeWagnersaid.“Sometimes,”Drewconceded.“HaveyoueverstuckyourelbowinPeter’schest?”Drew’sgazeslidsideways.“Maybe.Byaccident.”“Ah,yes. It’salwayseasy tofindyourselfstickingoutanelbowwhenyou

leastexpectto…”“Objection-”McAfeesmiled.“Infact,itwasn’tanaccident,wasit,Mr.Girard?”Attheprosecutor’stable,DianaLevenraisedherpenanddroppeditonthe

floor.ThenoisemadeDrewglanceover, andamuscle flexed inhis jaw. “Wewerejustjokingaround,”hesaid.

“EvershovePeterintoalocker?”“Maybe.”“Justjokingaround?”McAfeesaid.“Yeah.”“Okay,”hecontinued.“Didyouevertriphim?”

“Iguess.”“Wait…letmeguess…joke,right?”Drewglowered.“Yes.”“Actually,you’vebeendoing this sortof stuffasa joke toPeter sinceyou

werelittlekids,right?”“Wejustneverwerefriends,”Drewsaid.“Hewasn’tlikeus.”“Who’sus?”McAfeeasked.Drew shrugged. “Matt Royston, Josie Cormier, John Eberhard, Courtney

Ignatio.Kidslikethat.Wehadallhungouttogetherforyears.”“DidPeterknoweveryoneinthatgroup?”“It’sasmallschool,sure.”“DoesPeterknowJosieCormier?”Inthegallery,Alexdrewinherbreath.“Yes.”“DidyoueverseePetertalkingtoJosie?”“Idon’tknow.”“Well,amonthorsobeforetheshooting,whenyouallweretogetherinthe

cafeteria,PetercameovertospeaktoJosie.Canyoutellusaboutthat?”Alexleanedforwardonherchair.Shecouldfeeleyesonher,hotasthesun

in a desert. She realized, from the direction, that now Lewis Houghton wasstaringather.

“Idon’tknowwhattheyweretalkingabout.”“Butyouwerethere,right?”“Yes.”“And Josie’s a friend of yours?Not one of the peoplewho hung outwith

Peter?”“Yeah,”Drewsaid.“She’soneofus.”“Doyourememberhowthatconversation in thecafeteriaended?”McAfee

asked.Drewlookeddownattheground.“Letmehelpyou,Mr.Girard. It endedwithMattRoystonwalkingbehind

PeterandpullinghispantsdownwhilehewastryingtospeaktoJosieCormier.Doesthatsoundaboutright?”

“Yes.”“Thecafeteriawaspackedwithkidsthatday,wasn’tit?”“Yeah.”“And Matt didn’t just pull down Peter’s pants…he pulled down his

underweartoo,correct?”Drew’smouthtwitched.“Yeah.”

“Andyousawallofthis.”“Yes.”McAfeeturnedtothejury.“Letmeguess,”hesaid.“Joke,right?”The courtroom had gone utterly silent. Drewwas glaring atDiana Leven,

subliminally begging to be dragged off thewitness stand,Alex assumed.Thiswasthefirstperson,otherthanPeter,whohadbeenofferedupforsacrifice.

JordanMcAfeewalked back to the tablewhere Peter sat and picked up apieceofpaper.“DoyourememberwhatdayPeterwaspantsed,Mr.Girard?”

“No.”“Letmeshowyou,then,DefenseExhibitOne.Doyourecognizethis?”HehandedthepieceofpapertoDrew,whotookitandshrugged.“This is a piece of email that you received on February third, two days

beforePeterwaspantsedintheSterlingHighSchoolcafeteria.Canyoutelluswhosentittoyou?”

“CourtneyIgnatio.”“Wasitaletterthathadbeenwrittentoher?”“No,”Drewsaid.“IthadbeenwrittentoJosie.”“Bywhom?”McAfeepressed.“Peter.”“Whatdidhesay?”“ItwasaboutJosie.Andhowhewasintoher.”“Youmeanromantically.”“Iguess,”Drewsaid.“Whatdidyoudowiththatemail?”Drewlookedup.“Ispammeditouttothestudentbody.”“Letmeget thisstraight,”McAfeesaid.“Youtookaveryprivatenote that

didn’tbelongtoyou,apieceofpaperwithPeter’sdeepest,mostsecretfeelings,andyouforwardedthistoeverykidatyourschool?”

Drewwassilent.JordanMcAfeeslappedtheemaildownontherailinginfrontofhim.“Well,

Drew?”hesaid.“Wasitagoodjoke?”DrewGirardwassweatingsomuchthathecouldn’tbelieveallthosepeople

weren’t pointing at him. He could feel the perspiration running between hisshoulderbladesandmakingloopedcirclesbeneathhisarms.Andwhynot?Thatbitchofaprosecutorhadlefthiminthehotseat.She’dlethimgetskeweredbythisdickwadattorney,sothatnow,fortherestofhislife,everyonewouldthinkhewasanassholewhenhe-likeeveryotherkid inSterlingHigh-had justbeenhavingalittlefun.

Hestoodup,readytoboltoutofthecourtroomandpossiblyrunalltheway

tothetownboundaryofSterling-butDianaLevenwaswalkingtowardhim.“Mr.Girard,”shesaid,“I’mnotquitefinished.”

Hesankbackintohisseat,deflated.“HaveyouevercalledanyoneotherthanPeterHoughtonnames?”“Yes,”hesaidwarily.“It’swhatguysdo,right?”“Sometimes.”“Didanyoneyouevercallednamesevershootyou?”“No.”“EverseenanyoneotherthanPeterHoughtonbepantsed?”“Sure,”Drewsaid.“Didanyofthoseotherkidswhowerepantsedevershootyou?”“No.”“Everspammedanyoneelse’semailoutasajoke?”“Onceortwice.”Dianafoldedherarms.“Anyofthosefolksevershootyou?”“No,ma’am,”hesaid.Sheheadedbacktoherseat.“Nothingfurther.”DustySpearsunderstoodkids likeDrewGirard,becausehehadoncebeen

one. The way he saw it, bullies either were good enough to get footballscholarships to Big Ten schools, where they could make the businessconnectionstoplayongolfcoursesfortherestoftheirlives,ortheybustedtheirkneesandwoundupteachinggymatthemiddleschool.

Hewaswearingacollaredshirtandtie,andthatpissedhimoff,becausehisneckstilllookedlikeithadwhenhewasatightendatSterlingin’88,evenifhisabsdidn’t.“Peterwasn’tarealathlete,”hesaidtotheprosecutor.“Ineverreallysawhimoutsideofclass.”

“DidyoueverseePetergettingpickedonbyotherkids?”Dustyshrugged.“Theusuallockerroomstuff,Iguess.”“Didyouintervene?”“Iprobablytoldthekidstoknockitoff.Butit’spartofgrowingup,right?”“DidyoueverhearofPeterthreateninganyoneelse?”“Objection,”saidJordanMcAfee.“That’sahypotheticalquestion.”“Sustained,”thejudgereplied.“Ifyouhadheardthat,wouldyouhaveintervened?”“Objection!”“Sustained.Again.”Theprosecutordidn’tmissabeat.“ButPeterdidn’taskforhelp,didhe?”“No.”

Shesatbackdown,andHoughton’s lawyerstoodup.Hewasoneof thosesmarmyguys that rubbedDusty thewrongway-probably had been a kidwhocouldbarelyfieldaball,butsmirkedwhenyoutriedtoteachhimhow,asifhealreadyknewhe’dbemakingtwiceasmuchmoneyasDustyoneday,anyway.“IsthereabullyingpolicyinplaceatSterlingHigh?”

“Wedon’tallowit.”“Ah,”McAfee saiddryly. “Well, that’s refreshing tohear.So let’s sayyou

witness bullying on an almost daily basis in a locker room right under yournose…accordingtothepolicy,whatareyousupposedtodo?”

Dusty stared at him. “It’s in the policy.Obviously I don’t have it right infrontofme.”

“Luckily, I do,”McAfee said. “Let me show you what’s been marked asDefenseExhibitTwo.IsthisthebullyingpolicyforSterlingHighSchool?”

Reachingout,Dustytookalookattheprintedpage.“Yes.”“YougetthisinyourteacherhandbookeveryyearinAugust,correct?”“Yes.”“Andthisisthemostrecentversion,fortheacademicyearof2006-2007?”“Iassumeso,”Dustysaid.“Mr. Spears, I want you to go through that policy very carefully-all two

pages-and showmewhere it tellsyouwhat todo ifyou, as a teacher,witnessbullying.”

Dusty sighed and began to scan the papers. Usually, when he got thehandbook, he shoved it in a drawer with his take-out menus. He knew theimportantthings:don’tmissanin-serviceday;submitcurriculumchangestothedepartmentheads;refrainfrombeingaloneinaroomwithafemalestudent.“Itsaysrighthere,”hesaid,reading,“thattheSterlingSchoolBoardiscommittedtoprovidingalearningandworkingenvironmentthatensuresthepersonalsafetyofitsmembers.Physicalorverbal threats,harassment,hazing,bullying,verbalabuse, and intimidationwillnotbe tolerated.”Glancingup,Dusty said, “Doesthatansweryourquestion?”

“No, actually, it doesn’t.What are you, as a teacher, supposed to do if astudentbulliesanotherstudent?”

Dusty read further.Therewasadefinitionofhazing,ofbullying,ofverbalabuse.Therewasmentionofateacherorschooladministratorbeingreportedto,if thebehaviorhadbeenwitnessedbyanotherstudent.But therewasnosetofrules, no chain of events to be set in motion by the teacher or administratorhimself.

“Ican’tfinditinhere,”hesaid.“Thankyou,Mr.Spears,”McAfeereplied.“That’llbeall.”

ItwouldhavebeensimpleforJordanMcAfeetonoticeuphisintenttocallDerekMarkowitztotestify,ashewasoneoftheonlycharacterwitnessesPeterHoughton had, in terms of friends. But Diana knew he had value for theprosecutionbecauseofwhathehadseenandheard-notbecauseofhisloyalties.She’dseenplentyoffriendsrateachotheroutovertheyearsshe’dbeeninthisbusiness.

“So,Derek,”Dianasaid,tryingtomakehimcomfortable,“youwerePeter’sfriend.”

ShewatchedhimlockeyeswithPeterandtrytosmile.“Yes.”“Didyoutwohangoutafterschoolsometimes?”“Yes.”“Whatsortofthingsdidyouliketodo?”“Wewere both really into computers. Sometimeswe’d play video games,

andthenwestartedtolearnprogrammingsowecouldcreateafewofourown.”“DidPetereverwriteanyvideogameswithoutyou?”Dianaasked.“Sure.”“Whathappenedwhenhefinished?”“We’d play them.But there are alsowebsiteswhere you can upload your

gameandhaveotherpeopleratethemforyou.”Dereklookedupjustthenandnoticedthetelevisioncamerasinthebackof

theroom.Hisjawdropped,andhefroze.“Derek,”Dianasaid.“Derek?”Shewaitedforhimtofocusonher.“Letme

handyouaCD-ROM.It’smarkedState’sExhibit302….Canyoutellmewhatitis?”

“That’sPeter’smostrecentgame.”“What’sitcalled?”“Hide-n-Shriek.”“What’sitabout?”“It’soneofthosegameswhereyougoaroundshootingthebadguys.”“Whoarethebadguysinthisgame?”Dianaasked.DerekdartedaglanceatPeteragain.“They’rejocks.”“Wheredoesthegametakeplace?”“Inaschool,”Dereksaid.From the corner of her eye, Diana could see Jordan shifting in his chair.

“Derek,wereyouinschoolthemorningofMarch6,2007?”“Yeah.”“Whatwasyourfirst-periodclassthatmorning?”“HonorsTrig.”“Howaboutsecondperiod?”Dianaasked.

“English.”“Thenwheredidyougo?”“Ihadgymthirdperiod,butmyasthmawasprettybad,soIhadadoctor’s

notetoexcusemefromclass.SinceIfinishedmyworkearlyinEnglish,IaskedMrs.EcclesifIcouldgotomycartogetit.”

Diananodded.“Wherewasyourcarparked?”“Inthestudentparkinglot,behindtheschool.”“Canyoushowmeonthisdiagramwhichdooryouusedtoleavetheschool

attheendofsecondperiod?”Derekreachedtowardtheeaselandpointedtooneofthereardoorsoftheschool.“Whatdidyouseewhenyouwentoutside?”

“Uh,alotofcars.”“Anypeople?”“Yes,”Dereksaid.“Peter.Itlookedlikehewasgettingsomethingoutofthe

backseatofhiscar.”“Whatdidyoudo?”“Iwentovertosayhi.Iaskedhimwhyhewaslatetoschool,andhestood

upandlookedatmeinaweirdway.”“Weird?Whatdoyoumean?”Derekshookhishead.“Idon’tknow.Likehedidn’tknowwhoIwasfora

second.”“Didhesayanythingtoyou?”“Hesaid,‘Gohome.Something’sabouttohappen.’”“Didyouthinkthatwasunusual?”“Well,itwasalittlebitTwilightZone…”“HadPetereversaidanythinglikethattoyoubefore?”“Yes,”Dereksaidquietly.“When?”Jordanobjected,asDianahadexpected,andJudgeWagneroverruled it,as

she’dhoped.“Afewweeksbefore,”Dereksaid,“thefirsttimewewereplayingHide-n-Shriek.”

“Whatdidhesay?”Dereklookeddownandmumbledaresponse.“Derek,”Dianasaid,comingcloser,“Ihavetoaskyoutospeakup.”

“Hesaid,‘Whenthisreallyhappens,it’sgoingtobeawesome.’”A hum rose in the gallery, like a swarm of bees. “Did you knowwhat he

meantbythat?”“Ithought…Ithoughthewaskidding,”Dereksaid.“Thedayof theshootingwhenyoufoundPeter in theparking lot,didyou

seewhathewasdoinginthecar?”“No…”Derekbrokeoff,clearinghisthroat.“Ijustsortoflaughedoffwhat

hesaidandtoldhimIhadtogotoclass.”“Whathappenednext?”“Iwentbackintotheschoolthroughthesamedoorandwalkedtotheoffice

to getmy gym note signed byMrs.Whyte, the secretary. Shewas talking toanothergirl,whowassigningoutofschoolforanorthodontistappointment.”

“Andthen?”Dianaasked.“Oncesheleft,Mrs.WhyteandIheardanexplosion.”“Didyouseewhereitwascomingfrom?”“No.”“Whathappenedafterthat?”“IlookedatthecomputerscreenonMrs.Whyte’sdesk,”Dereksaid.“Itwas

scrolling,like,amessage.”“Whatdiditsay?”“Readyornot…hereIcome.”Derekswallowed.“Weheardtheselittlepops,

likelotsofchampagnebottles,andMrs.Whytegrabbedmeanddraggedmeintotheprincipal’soffice.”

“Wasthereacomputerinthatoffice?”“Yes.”“Whatwasonthescreen?”“Readyornot…hereIcome.”“Howlongwereyouintheoffice?”“Idon’tknow.Ten,twentyminutes.Mrs.Whytetriedtocallthepolice,but

shecouldn’t.Therewassomethingwrongwiththephone.”Diana faced the bench. “Judge, at this time, the prosecutionwould like to

moveState’sExhibit303infull,andweaskthatitbepublishedtothejury.”Shewatchedthedeputywheeloutatelevisionmonitorwithacomputerattached,sothattheCD-ROMcouldbeinserted.

HIDE-N-SHRIEK, the screen proclaimed. CHOOSE YOUR FIRSTWEAPON!

A3-Danimatedboywearinghorn-rimmedglassesandagolf shirt crossedthe screen and looked down over an array of crossbows, Uzis, AK-47s, andbiologicalweapons.Hereachedforone,andthenwithhisotherhand,heloadeduponammunition.Therewasaclose-upofhis face: freckles;braces; fever inhiseyes.

Thenthescreenwentblueandstartedscrolling.Readyornot,itread.HereIcome.DereklikedMr.McAfee.Hewasn’tmuchtolookat,buthehadthehottest

babeofawife.Plus,hewasprobablytheonlyotherpersoninSterlingHighwhowasn’trelatedtoPeterandstillfeltsorryforhim.

“Derek,”thelawyersaid,“you’vebeenfriendswithPetersincesixthgrade,right?”

“Yes.”“Youspentalotoftimewithhimbothinandoutsideschool.”“Yeah.”“DidyoueverseePetergettingpickedonbyotherkids?”“Allthetime,”Dereksaid.“They’dcallusfagsandhomos.They’dgiveus

wedgies.Whenwewalkeddownthehall,they’dtripusorslamusintolockers.Thingslikethat.”

“Didyouevertalktoateacheraboutthis?”“Iusedto,butthatjustmadeitworse.Igotcreamedforbeingatattletale.”“DidyouandPeterevertalkaboutgettingpickedon?”Derekshookhishead.“No.Itwaskindofnicetohavesomeonearoundwho

justgotit,youknow?”“Howoftenwasthishappening…onceaweek?”Hesnorted.“Morelikeonceaday.”“JustyouandPeter?”“No,thereareothers.”“Whodidmostofthebullying?”“Thejocks,”Dereksaid.“MattRoyston,DrewGirard,JohnEberhard…”“Anygirlsparticipateinthebullying?”“Yeah,theoneswholookedatuslikewewerebugsonawindshield,”Derek

said.“CourtneyIgnatio,EmmaAlexis,JosieCormier,MaddieShaw.”“So what do you do when someone’s slamming you into a locker?” Mr.

McAfeeasked.“Youcan’tfightback,becauseyou’renotasstrongastheyare,andyoucan’t

stopit…soyoujustkindofwaititout.”“Would it be fair to say that this group you named-Matt and Drew and

CourtneyandEmmaandtherest-wentafteronepersonmorethananyothers?”“Yes,”Dereksaid.“Peter.”DerekwatchedPeter’sattorneysitbackdownnexttohim,andthenthelady

lawyerroseandstartedspeakingagain.“Derek,yousaidyouwerebullied,too.”“Yeah.”“YouneverhelpedPeterputtogetherapipebombtoblowupsomeone’scar,

didyou?”“No.”“YouneverhelpedPeterhackintothephonelinesandcomputersatSterling

High,sothatoncetheshootingstarted,noonecouldcallforhelp,didyou?”“No,”Dereksaid.

“Youneverstolegunsandhoardedtheminyourbedroom,didyou?”“No.”Theprosecutortookastepcloser.“Youneverputtogetheraplan,likePeter,

togothroughtheschool,systematicallykillingthepeoplewhohadhurtyouthemost,didyou,Derek?”

DerekturnedtoPeter,sothathecouldlookhimsquareintheeyewhenheanswered.“No,”hesaid.“ButsometimesIwishIhad.”

Fromtimetotime,overthecourseofhercareerasamidwife,Lacyhadrunintoaformerpatientatthegrocerystoreorthebankoronabiketrail.They’dpresenttheirbabies-nowthree,seven,fifteenyearsold.Lookatwhatagreatjobyou did, they’d sometimes say, as if bringing the child into the world hadanythingtodowithwhohebecame.

She did not know quitewhat to feelwhen confrontedwith JosieCormier.They’dspentthedayplayinghangman-theironyofwhich,givenherson’sfate,wasn’tlostonher.LacyhadknownJosieasanewborn,butalsoasalittlegirlandasaplaymateforPeter.Becauseof this, therehadbeenapointwhereshehadviscerallyhatedJosie inaway thatevenPeternever seemed to, forbeingcruel enough to leaveher sonbehind. Josiemaynothave initiated the teasingthat Peter suffered over his middle and high school years, but she didn’tinterveneeither,andinLacy’sbook,thathadmadeherequallyresponsible.

As it turned out, though, Josie Cormier had grown into a stunning youngwoman, one who was quiet and thoughtful and not at all like the vacuous,materialgirlswhotrolledtheMallofNewHampshireorencompassedthesocialelite of Sterling High-girls Lacy had always likened to black widow spiders,lookingforsomeonetheycoulddestroy.LacyhadbeensurprisedwhenJosiehadpepperedherwithpolitequestionsaboutPeter:Washenervousaboutthetrial?Was ithard,being in jail?Didhegetpickedon there?Youshouldsendhimaletter,Lacyhadsuggestedtoher.I’msurehe’dliketohearfromyou.

ButJosiehadletherglanceslideaway,andthatwaswhenLacyrealizedthatJosiehadnotreallybeeninterestedinPeter;shehadonlybeentryingtobekindtoLacy.

When court recessed for the day, the witnesses were told they could gohome,providedtheydidnotwatchthenewsorreadthepapersorspeakaboutthecase.LacyexcusedherselftogotothebathroomwhileshewaitedforLewis,who’dbefightingthecrushofreportersthatwouldsurelybepackingthelobbyoutsidethecourtroom.Shehadjustcomeoutof thestallandwaswashingherhandswhenAlexCormiersteppedinside.

Theracket in thehallwayrode inonherheels, thencutoffabruptlyas thedoorshut.Theireyesmetinthelongmirroroverthebankofsinks.“Lacy,”Alex

murmured.Lacystraightenedandreachedforapapertoweltodryherhands.Shedidn’t

knowwhat tosay toAlexCormier.Shecouldbarelyeven imagine thatatonepoint,she’dhadanythingtosaytoher.

TherewasaspiderplantinLacy’smidwiferyofficethathadbeendyingbydegrees, until the secretarymoved a stack of books that had been blocking awindow.Shehadforgottentomovetheplant,though,andhalftheshootsstartedstrainingtowardthelight,growinginanunlikelysidewaysdirectionthatseemedtodefygravity.Lacy andAlexwere like that plant:Alexhadmovedoff on adifferent course, and Lacy-well, she hadn’t. She’dwithered up,wilted, gottentangledinherownbestintentions.

“I’msorry,”Alexsaid.“I’msorryyouhavetogothroughthis.”“I’msorry,too,”Lacyreplied.Alexlookedlikeshewasgoingtospeakagain,butshedidn’t,andLacyhad

runoutofconversation.ShestartedoutofthebathroomtofindLewis,butAlexcalledherback.“Lacy,”shesaid.“Iremember.”

Lacyturnedaroundtofaceher.“He used to like the peanut butter on the top half of the bread and the

marshmallowfluffonthebottom.”Alexsmiledalittle.“Andhehadthelongesteyelashes I’d ever seenona littleboy.Hecould findanything I’ddropped-anearring,acontactlens,astraightpin-beforeitgotlostpermanently.”

She took a step toward Lacy. “Something still exists as long as there’ssomeonearoundtorememberit,right?”

LacystaredatAlexthroughhertears.“Thankyou,”shewhispered,andleftbefore she brokedown completely in front of awoman-a stranger, really-whocoulddowhatLacycouldn’t: holdon to thepast as if itwas something tobetreasured,insteadofcombingitforcluesoffailure.

“Josie,” hermother said as theywere driving home. “They read an emailtodayincourt.OnethatPeterhadwrittentoyou.”

Josiefacedher,stricken.Sheshouldhaverealizedthiswouldcomeoutatthetrial; how had she been so stupid? “I didn’t knowCourtney had sent it out. Ididn’tevenseeituntilaftereveryoneelsehad.”

“Itmusthavebeenembarrassing,”Alexsaid.“Well,yeah.Thewholeschoolknewhehadacrushonme.”Hermotherglancedather.“ImeantforPeter.”JosiethoughtaboutLacyHoughton.Tenyearshadpassed,butJosiehadstill

beensurprisedbyhowthinPeter’smomhadgotten;howherhairwasnearlyallgray.Shewonderedifgriefcouldmaketimerunfaster,likeaglitchinaclock.Itwas incrediblydepressing, since Josie rememberedPeter’smother as someone

whoneverwore awristwatch, someonewhodidn’t care about themess if theend resultwasworthy.When Josiewas little and they played over at Peter’s,Lacywouldmake cookies fromwhateverwas left in her cabinet-oatmeal andwheat germ and gummy bears and marshmallows; carob and cornstarch andpuffedrice.Sheoncedumpedaloadofsandinthebasementduringthewinterso that they could make castles. She let them draw on the bread of theirsandwicheswithfoodcoloringandmilk,sothatevenlunchwasamasterpiece.Josie had liked being at Peter’s house; it was what she’d always imagined afamilyfeltlike.

Nowshelookedoutthewindow.“Youthinkthisisallmyfault,don’tyou?”“No-”“Isthatwhatthelawyerssaidtoday?ThattheshootinghappenedbecauseI

didn’tlikePeter…thewayhelikedme?”“No.Thelawyersdidn’tsaythatatall.Mostlythedefensetalkedabouthow

Petergotteased.Howhedidn’thavemanyfriends.”Hermotherstoppedataredlightand turned,herwrist resting lightlyon thesteeringwheel.“WhydidyoustophangingaroundwithPeter,anyway?”

Beingunpopularwasacommunicabledisease. Josiecould rememberPeterin elementary school, fashioning the tinfoil from his lunch sandwich into abeaniewith antennae, andwearing it around the playground to try to pick upradiotransmissionsfromaliens.Hehadn’trealizedthatpeopleweremakingfunofhim.Heneverhad.

She had a sudden flash of him standing in the cafeteria, a statuewith hishands trying to cover his groin, his pants pooled around his ankles. SherememberedMatt’scommentafterward:Objectsinmirrorarewaysmallerthantheyappear.

MaybePeterhadfinallyunderstoodwhatpeoplethoughtofhim.“Ididn’twanttobetreatedlikehim,”Josiesaid,answeringhermother,when

whatshereallymeantwas,Iwasn’tbraveenough.Goingbacktojailwaslikedevolution.Youhadtorelinquishthetrappingsof

humanity-your shoes, your suit and tie-and bend over to be strip-searched,probedwitharubberglovebyoneoftheguards.Youweregivenanotherprisonjumpsuit,andflip-flopsthatweretoowideforyourfeet,sothatyoulookedjustlike everyone else again and couldn’t pretend to yourself that youwere betterthanthem.

Peter lay down on the bunkwith his arm flung over his eyes. The inmatebeside him, a guy awaiting trial for the rape of a sixty-six-year-old woman,asked him how it had gone in court, but he didn’t answer. Thatwas the onlyfreedomhehadleft,prettymuch,andhewantedtokeepthetruthtohimself:that

whenhe’dbeenput inhiscell,he’dactuallyfelt relievedtobeback(couldhesayit?)home.

Here,noonewasstaringathimasifhewereagrowthonapetridish.Noonereallylookedathimatall.

Here,noonetalkedabouthimasifhewereananimal.Here,nooneblamedhim,becausetheywereallinthesameboat.Jail wasn’t all that different from public school, really. The correctional

officerswere just like the teachers-their jobwas tokeepeveryone inplace, tofeedthem,andtomakesurenobodygotseriouslyhurt.Beyondthat,youwerelefttoyourowndevices.Andlikeschool,jailwasanartificialsociety,withitsown hierarchy and rules. If you did any work, it was pointless-cleaning thetoiletseverymorningorpushingalibrarycartaroundminimumsecuritywasn’treally that different from writing an essay on the definition of civitas ormemorizing prime numbers-youweren’t going to be using themdaily in yourreallife.Andaswithhighschool,theonlywaytogetthroughjailwastostickitoutanddoyourtime.

Nottomention:Peterwasn’tpopularinjail,either.HethoughtaboutthewitnessesthatDianaLevenhadmarchedordraggedor

wheeledtothestandtoday.Jordanhadexplainedthatitwasallaboutsympathy;thattheprosecutionwantedtopresentalltheseruinedlivesbeforetheyturnedtothehard-coreevidence;thathewouldsoonhaveachancetoshowhowPeter’slife hadbeen ruined, too.Peter hardly even cared about that.He’dbeenmoreamazed,afterseeingthosestudentsagain,athowlittlehadchanged.

Peterstaredupat thewovenspringsoftheupperbunk,blinkingfast.Thenherolledtowardthewallandstuffedthecornerofhispillowcaseintohismouth,sonoonewouldbeabletohearhimcry.

Even though John Eberhard couldn’t call him a fag anymore, much lessspeak…

EventhoughDrewGirardwouldneverbethejockthathehadbeen…EventhoughHaleyWeaverwasn’taknockout…TheywereallstillpartofagroupPetercouldnot,andwouldnever,fitinto.6:30A.M.,TheDayOfPeter.Peter?!”Herolledovertoseehisfatherstandingonthethresholdofhisbedroom.“Areyouup?”Diditlooklikehewasup?Petergruntedandrolledontohisback.Heclosed

his eyes again for a moment and ran through his day. Englishfrench-mathhistorychem. One big long run-on sentence, one class bleeding into thenext.

He sat up, spearing his hands through his hair so that it stood on end.Downstairs, he could hear his father putting away pots and pans from thedishwasher, like some techno-symphony. He’d get his travel mug, pour somecoffee,andleavePetertohisowndevices.

Peter’spajamabottomsdraggedunderneathhisheelsasheshuffledfromthebedtohisdeskandsatdownonthechair.HeloggedontotheInternet,becausehewanted tosee ifanyoneout therehadgivenhimmorefeedbackonHide-n-Shriek.Ifitwasasgoodashethoughtitwas,hewasgoingtoenteritinsomekindofamateurcompetition.Therewerekids likehimallover thecountry-allovertheworld-whowouldeasilypay$39.99toplayavideogamewherehistorywasrewrittenbythelosers.Peterimaginedhowrichhecouldgetofflicensingfees. Maybe he could ditch college, like Bill Gates. Maybe one day peoplewouldbecallinghim,pretendingthattheyusedtobehisfriend.

He squinted, and then reached for his glasses, which he kept next to thekeyboard.But because itwas freaking six-thirty in themorning,whenno oneshould be expected to have much coordination, he dropped his eyeglass caserightonthefunctionkeys.

The screen logging him onto theNetminimized, and instead, his RecycleBincontentsopenedonthescreen.

Iknowyoudon’tthinkofme.Andyoucertainlywouldneverpictureustogether.Peter felt his head start to swim. He punched a finger against the Delete

button,butnothinghappened.Anyway,bymyself,I’mnothingspecial.Butwithyou,IthinkIcouldbe.He tried to restart thecomputer,but itwas frozen.Hecouldn’tbreathe;he

couldn’tmove.Hecouldn’tdoanythingbutstareathisownstupidity,rightthereinblackandwhite.

Hischesthurt,andhethoughtmaybehewashavingaheartattack,ormaybethat was just what it felt like when the muscle turned to stone. With jerkymovements, Peter leaned down for the cord of his power strip and insteadsmackedhisheadonthesideofthedesk.Itbroughttearstohiseyes,orthat’swhathetoldhimself.

Hepulledtheplug,sothatthemonitorwentblack.Thenhe satbackdownand realized it hadn’tmadeadifference.Hecould

stillseethosewords,asclearasday,writtenacrossthescreen.Hecouldfeelthegiveofthekeysunderhisfingers:

Love,Peter.Hecouldhearthemalllaughing.Peter glanced at his computer again. His mother always said that if

somethingbadhappened,youcouldlookatitasafailure,oryoucouldlookatitasachancetoheadinanotherdirection.

Maybethishadbeenasign.Peter’s breathing was shallow as he emptied his school backpack of

textbooksand three-ringbinders,his calculator andpencils andcrumpled testshe’dgottenback.Reachingbeneathhismattress,hefeltforthetwopistolshe’dbeensaving,justincase.

WhenIwaslittleIusedtopoursaltonslugs.Ilikedwatchingthemdissolvebeforemyeyes.Crueltyisalwayssortoffununtilyourealizethatsomething’sgettinghurt.

Itwouldbeonethingtobealoserifitmeantnoonepaidattentiontoyou,butinschool, itmeansyou’reactivelysoughtout.You’retheslug,andthey’reholdingallthesalt.Andtheyhaven’tdevelopedaconscience.

There’s awordwe learned in social studies: schadenfreude. It’swhen youenjoywatchingsomeoneelsesuffer.Therealquestion, though,iswhy?I thinkpartofitisjustself-preservation.Andpartofitisbecauseagroupalwaysfeelsmorelikeagroupwhenit’sbandedtogetheragainstanenemy.Itdoesn’tmatter

ifthatenemyhasneverdoneanythingtohurtyou-youjusthavetopretendyouhatesomeoneevenmorethanyouhateyourself.

Youknowwhysaltworksonslugs?Becauseitdissolvesinthewaterthat’spart of a slug’s skin, so thewater inside its body starts to flow out. The slugdehydrates.Thisworkswithsnails,too.Andwithleeches.Andwithpeoplelikeme.

Withanycreature,really,toothin-skinnedtostandupforitself.FiveMonthsAfterForfourhoursonthewitnessstand,Patrickrelivedtheworstdayofhislife.

Thesignalthathadcomethroughontheradioashewasdriving;thestreamofstudents running out of the school, as if itwere hemorrhaging; the slip of hisshoes in an oily pool of blood as he ran through the corridors. The ceiling,fallingdownaroundhim.Thescreamsforhelp.Thememoriesthatimprintedonhismind but didn’t register until later: a boy dying in the arms of his friendbeneath the basketball hoop in the gym; the sixteen kids who were foundcrammedintoacustodialclosetthreehoursafterthearrest,becausetheyhadn’tknownthatthethreatwasover;thelicoricesmelloftheSharpiemarkersusedtowritenumbersontheforeheadsofthewounded,sothattheycouldbeidentifiedlater.

Thatfirstnight,whentheonlypeopleleftintheschoolwerethecrimetechs,Patrickhadwalkedthroughtheclassroomsandthehallways.Hefelt,sometimes,likethekeeperofmemories-theonewhohadtofacilitatethatinvisibletransitionbetween the way it used to be and the way it would be from now on. He’dstepped over bloodstains to enter rooms where students had huddled withteachers,waiting tobe rescued, their jackets still drapedover chairs as if theywere about to return at anymoment.Therewere bullet holes chewed into thelockers; yet in the library, some student had both the time and inclination toarrange themedia specialist’sGumby and Pokey figures into a compromisingposition.Thefiresprinklersmadeaseaoutofonecorridor,butthewallswerestillplasteredwithbrightpostersadvertisingaspringdance.

DianaLevenheldupavideocassette, the state’sexhibitnumber522. “Canyouidentifythis,Detective?”

“Yes,ItookitfromthemainofficeofSterlingHigh.ItshowedfootagefromacamerapostedinthecafeteriaonMarch6,2007.”

“Isthereanaccuraterepresentationonthattape?”“Yes.”“Whenwasthelasttimeyouwatchedit?”“Thedaybeforethistrialstarted.”“Hasitbeenalteredinanyway?”

“No.”Diana walked toward the judge. “I ask that this tape be published to the

jury,”shesaid,andthesametelevisionunitthathadbeenwheeledoutearlierinthetrialwasbroughtbackbyadeputy.

Therecordingwasgrainy,butstillintelligible.Intheupperright-handcornerwerethelunchladies,sloppingfoodontoplastictraysasstudentscamethroughthe lineonebyone, likedrops throughan intravenous tube.Therewere tablesfull of students-Patrick’s eye gravitated toward a central one,where Josiewassittingwithherboyfriend.

HewaseatingherFrenchfries.Fromtheleft-handdoor,aboyentered.Hewaswearingablueknapsack,and

althoughyoucouldnotseehisface,hehadthesameslightbuildandstooptohisshouldersthatsomeonewhoknewPeterHoughtonwouldrecognize.Hedippedbeneaththerangeofthecamera.Ashotrangoutasagirlslumpedbackwardoffoneofthecafeteriachairs,abloodstainfloweringonherwhiteshirt.

Someone screamed, and then everyone was yelling, and there were moreshots.Peterreappearedoncamera,holdingagun.Studentsstartedstampeding,hidingunderneaththetables.Thesodamachine,freckledwithbullets,fizzedandsprayedalloverthefloor.Somestudentscrumpledwheretheywereshot,otherswhowerewoundedtriedtocrawlaway.Onegirlwho’dfallenwastrampledbythe rest of the students and finally lay still.When the only people left in thecafeteriawereeitherdeadorwounded,Peterturnedinacircle.Hemoveddownanaisle,pausinghereandthere.HewalkeduptothetablebesideJosie’sandputhis gun down.He opened an untouched box of cereal still on a cafeteria tray,poured the cereal into a plastic bowl, and added milk from a carton. Heswallowed five spoonfulsbeforehe stoppedeating, tookanewclipoutofhisbackpack,loadeditintohisgun,andleftthecafeteria.

Diana reachedbeneath thedefense tableandpulledouta smallplasticbagandhandedittoPatrick.“Doyourecognizethis,DetectiveDucharme?”

TheRiceKrispiesbox.“Yes.”“Wheredidyoufindit?”“In the cafeteria,” he said. “Sitting on the same table you just saw in the

video.”PatricklethimselflookatAlex,sittinginthegallery.Untilnow,hecouldn’t-

hedidn’tthinkhe’dbeabletodohisjobwell,ifhewasworryingabouthowthisinformationandlevelofdetailwereaffectingher.Now,glancingather,hecouldseehowpaleshe’dgotten,howstiffshewasinherchair.Ittookallofhisself-controlnot towalkawayfromDiana,hop thebar,andkneeldownbesideher.It’sallright,hewantedtosay.It’salmostover.

“Detective,” Diana said, “when you cornered the defendant in the lockerroom,whatwasheholding?”

“Ahandgun.”“Didyouseeanyotherweaponsaroundhim?”“Yes,asecondhandgun,aroundtenfeetaway.”Dianaliftedupapicturethathadbeenenlarged.“Doyourecognizethis?”“It’s thelockerroomwherePeterHoughtonwasapprehended.”Hepointed

toagunon the floornear the lockers,and thenanothera shortdistanceaway.“Thisistheweaponhedropped,GunA,”Patricksaid,“andthisone,GunB,istheotheronethatwasonthefloor.”

About ten feet past that, on the same linear path, was the body of MattRoyston.Awidepoolofblood spreadbeneathhiship, and the tophalfofhisheadwasmissing.

Thereweregaspsfromthejury,butPatrickwasn’tpayingattention.HewasstaringrightatAlex,whowasnotlookingatMatt’sbodybutatthespotbesideit-astreakofbloodfromJosie’sforehead,whereshehadbeenfound.

Lifewas a series of ifs-a very different outcome if you’d only played thelottery last night; if youhadpicked a different college; if youhad invested instocksinsteadofbonds;ifyouhadnotbeentakingyourkindergartnertohisfirstdayofschoolthemorningof9/11.If justoneteacherhadstoppedakid,once,fromtormentingPeterinthehall.IfPeterhadputtheguninhismouth,insteadofpointing itatsomeoneelse. IfJosiehadbeenstanding in frontofMatt, shemight havebeen theoneburied in the cemetery. IfPatrickhadbeen a secondlater,shestillmighthavebeenshot.Ifhehadn’tbeenthedetectiveonthiscase,hewouldnothavemetAlex.

“Detective,didyoucollecttheseweapons?”“Yes.”“Weretheytestedforfingerprints?”“Yes,bythestatecrimelab.”“DidthelabfindanyfingerprintsofvalueonGunA?”“Yes,one,onthegrip.”“WheredidtheyobtainthefingerprintsofPeterHoughton?”“Fromthestation,whenwebookedhim.”He walked the jury through the mechanics of fingerprint testing-the

comparison of ten loci, the similarity in ridges and whorls, the computerprogramthatverifiedtheprintsasamatch.

“Did the lab compare the fingerprint on Gun A to any other person’sfingerprints?”Dianaasked.

“Yes,MattRoyston’s.Theywereobtainedfromhisbody.”

“Whenthelabcollectedtheprintoffthegun’sgripandcomparedittoMattRoyston’sfingerprints,were theyable todeterminewhetherornot therewasamatch?”

“Therewasnomatch.”“AndwhenthelabcomparedittoPeterHoughton’sfingerprints,werethey

abletodeterminewhetherornottherewasamatch?”“Yes,”Patricksaid.“Therewas.”Diananodded.“WhataboutonGunB?Anyprints?”“Justapartialone,onthetrigger.Nothingofvalue.”“Whatdoesthatmean,exactly?”Patrickturnedtothejury.“Aprintofvalueinfingerprinttypingisonethat

can be compared to another knownprint and either excluded or included as amatchtothatprint.Peopleleavefingerprintsonitemstheytouchallthetime,butnotnecessarilyoneswecanuse.Theymightbesmudgedortooincompletetobeconsideredforensicallyvaluable.”

“So,Detective,youdon’tknowforafactwholeftthefingerprintonGunB.”“No.”“ButitcouldhavebeenPeterHoughton?”“Yes.”“Do you have any evidence that anyone else at SterlingHigh Schoolwas

carryingaweaponthatday?”“No.”“Howmanyweaponswereeventuallyfoundinthelockerroom?”“Four,”Patricksaid.“Onehandgunwiththedefendant,oneonthefloor,and

twosawed-offshotgunsinaknapsack.”“In addition to processing the weapons found in the locker room for

fingerprints,didthelabdoanyotherforensictestingonthem?”“Yes,aballisticstest.”“Canyouexplainthat?”“Well,”Patrick said, “you shoot thegun intowater, basically.Everybullet

thatcomesoutofagunhasmarkingson it thatareput inplacewhenabullettwistsitswaythroughthebarrelofthegun.Thatmeansyoucantypeeachbullettoagunthathasbeenfiredbytest-firingaguntoseewhatabulletwouldlooklikeonce fired from it, and thenmatchingupbullets that havebeen retrieved.Youcanalsotellwhetheragunhaseverbeenfiredatallbyexaminingresiduewithinthebarrel.”

“Didyoutestallfourweapons?”“Yes.”“Andwhatweretheresultsofyourtests?”

“Only two of the four guns were actually fired,” Patrick said. “Thehandguns,AandB.Of thebullets thatwe found, allweredetermined tohavecomefromGunA.GunB,whenweretrievedit,hadbeenjammedwithadoublefeed.Thatmeanstwobulletshadenteredthechamberat thesametime,whichkeepsthegunfromproperlyfunctioning.Whenthetriggerwaspulled,itlockedup.”

“ButyousaidGunBwasfired.”“At least once.” Patrick looked up at Diana. “The bullet has not been

recoveredtodate.”Diana Leven led Patrick meticulously through the discovery of ten dead

studentsandnineteenwoundedones.Hestartedwiththemomentthathewalkedout of Sterling High with Josie Cormier in his arms and placed her in anambulance,andendedwiththelastbodybeingmovedtothemedicalexaminer’smorgue;thenthejudgeadjournedcourtfortheday.

After he got off the stand, Patrick talkedwith Diana for amoment aboutwhatwould happen tomorrow.Thedouble doors of the courtroomwere open,and through them, Patrick could see reporters sucking the stories out of anyangryparentwhowaswillingtogiveaninterview.Herecognizedthemotherofagirl-JadaKnight-who’dbeenshotinthebackwhileshewasrunningfromthecafeteria. “My daughter won’t go to school this year until eleven o’clock,becauseshecan’thandlebeingtherewhenthirdperiodstarts,”thewomansaid.“Everything scares her. This has ruined her whole life; why should PeterHoughton’spunishmentbeanyless?”

Hehadnodesire torunthemediagauntlet,andas theonlywitnessfor theday,hewasbound tobemobbed.So instead,Patricksatdownon thewoodenrailingthatseparatedthecourtprofessionalsfromthegallery.

“Hey.”HeturnedatthesoundofAlex’svoice.“Whatareyoustilldoinghere?”He

would have assumed she was upstairs, springing Josie out of the sequesteredwitnessroom,asshehaddoneyesterday.

“Icouldaskyouthesamething.”Patricknoddedtowardthedoorway.“Iwasn’tinthemoodtodobattle.”Alexcamecloser,untilshewasstandingbetweenhislegs,andwrappedher

arms around him. She buried her face against his neck, andwhen she took adeep, rattling breath, Patrick felt it in his own chest. “You could have fooledme,”shesaid.

JordanMcAfeewasnothavingagoodday.Thebabyhadspituponhimonhis way out the door. He had been ten minutes late for court because thegoddamn media were multiplying like jackrabbits and there were no parking

spots,andJudgeWagnerhadreprimandedhimforhistardiness.Addtothisthefact that for whatever reason, Peter had stopped communicating with Jordanexcept for the odd grunt, and that his first order of themorningwould be tocross-examine the knight in shining armor who’d rushed into the school toconfront the evil shooter-well, being a defense attorney didn’t getmuchmorefabulousthanthis.

“Detective,” he said, approaching Patrick Ducharme on the witness stand,“after you finished with the medical examiner, you went back to the policedepartment?”

“Yes.”“YouwereholdingPeterthere,weren’tyou?”“Yes.”“Inajailcell…withbarsandalockonit?”“It’saholdingcell,”Ducharmecorrected.“HadPeterbeenchargedwithanycrimeyet?”“No.”“Hewasn’t actually chargedwith anything until the followingmorning, is

thatright?”“That’scorrect.”“Wheredidhestaythatnight?”“AttheGraftonCountyJail.”“Detective,didyouspeaktomyclientatall?”Jordanasked.“Yes,Idid.”“Whatdidyouaskhim?”Thedetectivefoldedhisarms.“Ifhewantedsomecoffee.”“Didhetakeyouupontheoffer?”“Yes.”“Didyouaskhimatallabouttheincidentattheschool?”“Iaskedhimwhathadhappened,”Ducharmesaid.“HowdidPeterrespond?”Thedetectivefrowned.“Hesaidhewantedhismother.”“Didhestartcrying?”“Yes.”“Infact,hedidn’tstopcrying,notthewholetimeyoutriedtoquestionhim,

isn’tthattrue?”“Yes,itis.”“Didyouaskhimanyotherquestions,Detective?”“No.”Jordansteppedforward.“Youdidn’tbotherto,becausemyclientwasinno

shapetobegoingthroughaninterview.”“I didn’t ask him anymore questions,”Ducharme said evenly. “I have no

ideawhatkindofshapehewasin.”“Soyoutookakid-aseventeen-year-oldkid,whowascryingforhismother-

backtoyourholdingcell?”“Yes.ButItoldhimIwantedtohelphim.”Jordanglancedatthejuryandletthatstatementsinkinforamoment.“What

wasPeter’sresponse?”“Helookedatme,”thedetectiveanswered,“andhesaid,‘Theystartedit.’”CurtisUppergatehadbeena forensicpsychiatrist for twenty-fiveyears.He

helddegreesfromthreeIvyLeaguemedicalschoolsandhadaCVthickenoughtoserveasadoorstop.Hewaslily-white,butworehisshoulder-lengthgrayhaircornrowed,andhadcometocourtinadashiki.DiananearlyexpectedhimtocallherSistawhenshequestionedhim.

“What’syourfieldofexpertise,Doctor?”“I work with violent teenagers. I assess them on behalf of the court to

determine the nature of their mental illnesses, if any, and figure out anappropriatetreatmentplan.Ialsoadvisethecourtastowhattheirstateofmindmayhavebeenatthetimeacrimehasbeencommitted.IworkedwiththeFBItocreatetheirprofilesofschoolshooters,andtoexamineparallelsbetweencasesatThurstonHigh,Paducah,Rocori,andColumbine.”

“Whendidyoufirstbecomeinvolvedinthiscase?”“LastApril.”“DidyoureviewPeterHoughton’srecords?”“Yes,”Uppergatesaid.“IreviewedalltherecordsIreceivedfromyou,Ms.

Leven-extensiveschoolandmedicalrecords,policereports,interviewsdonebyDetectiveDucharme.”

“What,inparticular,wereyoulookingfor?”“Evidence of mental illness,” he said. “Physical explanations for the

behavior. A psychosocial construct that might resemble those of otherperpetratorsofschoolviolence.”

Dianaglancedatthejury;theireyeswereglazingover.“Asaresultofyourwork, did you reach any conclusion with a reasonable degree of medicalcertaintyastoPeterHoughton’smentalstateonMarch6,2007?”

“Yes,”Uppergate said, and he faced the jury, speaking slowly and clearly.“PeterHoughtonwasnotsufferingfromanymentalillnessatthetimehestartedshootingatSterlingHighSchool.”

“Canyoutellushowyoureachedthatconclusion?”“Thedefinitionofsanityimpliesbeingintouchwiththerealityofwhatyou

aredoingat the timeyoudo it.There’sevidence thatPeterhadbeenplanningthisattackforawhile-fromstockpilingammunitionandguns,tomakinglistsoftargeted victims, to rehearsing his Armageddon through a self-designed videogame.TheshootingwasnotadepartureforPeter-itwassomethinghehadbeenconsideringallalong,withgreatpremeditation.”

“ArethereotherexamplesofPeter’spremeditation?”“When he first reached the school and saw a friend in the parking lot, he

triedtowarnhimoff,forsafety.Helitapipebombinacarbeforegoingintotheschool,toserveasadiversionsothathecouldenterunimpededwithhisguns.He concealed weapons that were preloaded. He targeted areas in the schoolwherehehimselfhadbeenvictimized.Thesearenot theactsofsomeonewhodoesn’tknowwhathe’sdoing-they’rethehallmarksofarational,angry-perhapssuffering,butcertainlynotdelusional-youngman.”

Dianapacedinfrontofthewitnessstand.“Doctor,wereyouabletocompareinformation from past school shootings to this one, in order to support yourconclusionthatthedefendantwassaneandresponsibleforhisactions?”

Uppergate flippedhisbraidsoverhisshoulder.“Noneof theshooters fromColumbine,Paducah,Thurston,orRocorihadstatus.It’snotthatthey’reloners,butintheirminds,theyperceivethattheyarenotmembersofthegrouptothesame degree as anyone else in that group. Peter was on the soccer team, forexample,butwasoneoftwostudentsneverputintoplay.Hewasbright,buthisgrades didn’t reflect that. He had a romantic interest, but that interest wentunreturned.Theonlyvenuewherehedidfeelcomfortablewasinaworldofhisown creation-computer gameswherePeterwas not only comfortable…hewasGod.”

“DoesthatmeanhewaslivinginafantasyworldonMarchsixth?”“Absolutelynot.Ifhehadbeen,hewouldn’thavebeenplanninghisattackas

rationallyandmethodically.”Diana turned. “There’s been some evidence, Doctor, that Peter was the

subjectofbullyinginschool.Haveyoureviewedthatinformation?”“Yes,Ihave.”“Hasyourresearchtoldyouanythingabouttheeffectofbullyingonkidslike

Peter?”“In every single school shooting case,”Uppergate said, “the bullying card

getsplayed.It’sthebullying,allegedly,thatmakestheschoolshootersnaponedayandfightbackwithviolence.However,ineveryothercase-andthisone,inmy opinion-the bullying seems exaggerated by the shooter. The teasing isn’tsignificantlyworsefortheshooterthanitisforanyoneelseattheschool.”

“Thenwhyshoot?”

“Itbecomesapublicwaytotakecontrolofasituationinwhichtheyusuallyfeel powerless,” Curtis Uppergate said. “Which, again, means it’s somethingthey’vebeenplanningforawhile.”

“Yourwitness,”Dianasaid.Jordan stood up and approachedDr.Uppergate. “When did you firstmeet

Peter?”“Well.Wehaven’tofficiallybeenintroduced.”“Butyou’reapsychiatrist?”“LasttimeIchecked,”Uppergatesaid.“Ithoughtthefieldofpsychiatrywasbasedongainingarapportwithyour

clientandgettingtoknowwhathethinksabouttheworldandhowheprocessesit.”

“That’spartofit.”“That’sanincrediblyimportantpartofit,isn’tit?”Jordanasked.“Yes.”“WouldyouwriteaprescriptionforPetertoday?”“No.”“Because you’d have to physically meet with him before you decided

whetherhewasanappropriatecandidateforthatmedicine,correct?”“Yes.”“Doctor,didyougetachance to talk to theschoolshooters fromThurston

High?”“Yes,Idid,”Uppergatesaid.“WhatabouttheboyfromPaducah?”“Yes.”“Rocori?”“Yes.”“NotColumbine…”“I’mapsychiatrist,Mr.McAfee,”Uppergatesaid.“Notamedium.However,

I did speak at length to the families of the two boys. I read their diaries andexaminedtheirvideos.”

“Doctor,” Jordan asked, “did you ever once speak directly to PeterHoughton?”

CurtisUppergatehesitated.“No,”hesaid.“Ididnot.”Jordansatdown,andDiana faced the judge.“YourHonor,”shesaid.“The

prosecutionrests.”“Here,”Jordansaid,tossingPeterhalfasandwichasheenteredtheholding

cell.“Orareyouonahungerstrike,too?”Peter glared at him, but unwrapped the sandwich and took a bite. “I don’t

liketurkey.”“Idon’treallycare.”Heleanedagainstthecementwalloftheholdingcell.

“YouwanttotellmewhopeedinyourCheeriostoday?”“Doyouhaveanyideawhatit’sliketositinthatroomandlistentoallthese

people talk aboutme like I’m not there? Like I can’t even hear what they’resayingaboutme?”

“That’sthewaythegame’splayed,”Jordansaid.“Now,it’sourturn.”Peterstoodupandwalkedtothefrontofthecell.“Isthatwhatthisistoyou?

Somegame?”Jordanclosedhiseyes,countingtotenforpatience.“Ofcoursenot.”“Howmuchmoneydoyougetpaid?”Peterasked.“That’snotyour-”“Howmuch?”“Askyourparents,”Jordansaidflatly.“YougetpaidwhetherIwinorlose,right?”Jordanhesitated,andthennodded.“Soyoudon’treallygiveashitwhattheoutcomeis,doyou?”It struck Jordan, with some wonder, that Peter had the chops to be an

excellentdefenseattorney.Thatsortofcircular reasoning-thekind that left theperson being grilled hung out to dry-was exactly what you aimed for in acourtroom.

“What?”Peteraccused.“Nowyou’relaughingatme,too?”“No.Iwasjustthinkingyou’dbeagoodlawyer.”Peter sank down again. “Great. Maybe the state prison offers that degree

alongwithaGED.”JordanreachedforthesandwichinPeter’shandandtookabite.“Let’sjust

waitandseehowitgoes,”hesaid.A jury was always impressed by KingWah’s record, and Jordan knew it.

He’dinterviewedoverfivehundredsubjects.He’dbeenanexpertwitnessat248trials,notincludingthisone.Hehadwrittenmorepapersthananyotherforensicpsychiatristwithaspecialtyinpost-traumaticstressdisorder.And-herewasthebeautiful part-he’d taught three seminars that had been attended by theprosecution’switness,Dr.CurtisUppergate.

“Dr.Wah,”Jordanbegan,“whendidyoufirstbegintoworkonthiscase?”“Iwascontactedbyyou,Mr.McAfee,inJune.IagreedtomeetwithPeterat

thattime.”“Didyou?”“Yes, forover tenhoursof interviews. I also satdownand read thepolice

reports,themedicalandschoolrecordsofbothPeterandhisolderbrother.Imet

withhisparents.Ithensenthimtobeexaminedbymycolleague,Dr.LawrenceGhertz,whoisapediatricneuropsychiatrist.”

“Whatdoesapediatricneuropsychiatristdo?”“Studiesorganiccausesformentalsymptomologyanddisorderinchildren.”“WhatdidDr.Ghertzdo?”“He tookseveralMRIscansofPeter’sbrain,”Kingsaid. “Dr.Ghertzuses

brainscanstoshowthattherearestructuralchangesintheadolescentbrainthatnot only explain the timing of somemajormental illnesses like schizophreniaand bipolar disorder, but also give biological reasons for some of the wildconductthatparentsusuallyattributetoraginghormones.That’snottosaythatthere aren’t raging hormones in adolescents, but there’s also a paucity of thecognitivecontrolsthatarenecessaryformaturebehavior.”

Jordanturnedtothejury.“Didyougetthat?BecauseI’mlost…”Kinggrinned.“Layman’sterms?Youcantellalotaboutakidbylookingat

his brain. Theremight actually be a physiological reasonwhy, when you tellyour seventeen-year-old to put the milk back in the fridge, he nods and thencompletelyignoresyou.”

“Did you sendPeter toDr.Ghertz because you thought hewas bipolar orschizophrenic?”

“No.ButpartofmyresponsibilityinvolvesrulingthosecausesoutbeforeIbegintolookatotherreasonsforhisbehavior.”

“DidDr.Ghertzsendyouareportdetailinghisfindings?”“Yes.”“Canyoushowus?”Jordanliftedupadiagramofabrainthathe’dalready

enteredasevidence,andhandedittoKing.“Dr.GhertzsaidthatPeter’sbrainlookedverysimilartoatypicaladolescent

braininthattheprefrontalcortexwasnotasdevelopedasyou’dfindinamatureadultbrain.”

“Whoa,”Jordansaid.“You’relosingmeagain.”“Theprefrontalcortexisrighthere,behindtheforehead.It’ssortoflikethe

presidentofthebrain,inchargeofcalculated,rationalthought.It’salsothelastpart of the brain to mature, which is why teenagers often get into so muchtrouble.”Thenhepointedtoatinyspotonthediagram,centrallylocated.“Thisis called the amygdala. Since a teenager’s decision-making center isn’tcompletelyturnedonyet,theyrelyonthislittlepieceofthebraininstead.Thisistheimpulsiveepicenterofthebrain-theonethathousesfeelingslikefearandangerandgutinstinct.Orinotherwords-thepartofthebrainthatcorrespondsto‘Becausemyfriendsthoughtitwasagoodidea,too.’”

Mostofthejurychuckled,andJordancaughtPeter’seye.Hewasn’tslumped

in the chair anymore; he was sitting up, listening carefully. “It’s fascinating,really,”Kingsaid,“becauseatwenty-year-oldmightbephysiologicallycapableofmakinganinformeddecision…butaseventeen-year-oldwon’tbe.”

“DidDr.Ghertzperformanyotherpsychologicaltests?”“Yes. He did a second MRI, one that was performed while Peter was

working on a simple task. Peterwas given photographs of faces and asked toidentify theemotions reflectedon them.Unlikea testgroupofadultswhogotmostofthoseassessmentscorrect,Petertendedtomakeerrors.Inparticular,heidentifiedfearfulexpressionsasangry,confused,orsad.TheMRIscanshowedthatwhilehewasfocusedonthis task, itwastheamygdalathatwasdoingthework…nottheprefrontalcortex.”

“Whatcanyouinferfromthat,Dr.Wah?”“Well,Peter’scapacityforrational,planned,premeditatedthoughtisstillin

itsdevelopmentalstages.Physiologically,hejustcan’tdoityet.”Jordanwatchedthejurors’responsetothisstatement.“Dr.Wah,yousaidyou

metwithPeteraswell?”“Yes,atthecorrectionalfacility,fortenone-hoursessions.”“Wheredidyoumeetwithhim?”“Inaconferenceroom.IexplainedwhoIwas,andthatIwasworkingwith

hisattorney,”Kingsaid.“WasPeterreluctanttospeaktoyou?”“No.”Thepsychiatristpaused.“Heseemedtoenjoythecompany.”“Didanythingstrikeyouabouthim,atfirst?”“He seemed unemotional.Not crying, or smiling, or laughing, or showing

hostility.Inthebusiness,wecallitflataffect.”“Whatdidyoutwotalkabout?”KinglookedatPeterandsmiled.“TheRedSox,”hesaid.“Andhisfamily.”“Whatdidhetellyou?”“ThatBostondeservedanotherpennant.Which-asaYankeesfanmyself-was

enoughtocallintoquestionhiscapacityforrationalthought.”Jordangrinned.“Whatdidhesayabouthisfamily?”“He explained that he livedwith hismother and father, and that his older

brother Joey had been killed by a drunk driver about a year earlier. Joey hadbeenayearolderthanPeter.Wealsotalkedaboutthingshelikedtodo-mostlycenteredonprogrammingandcomputers-andabouthischildhood.”

“Whatdidhetellyouaboutthat?”Jordanasked.“Most of Peter’s childhood memories involved situations where he was

victimizedeitherbyotherchildrenorbyadultswhomhe’dperceivedasbeingabletohelphim,yetdidn’t.Hedescribedeverythingfromphysical threats-Get

outofmywayorI’mgoingtopunchyourlightsout;tophysicalactions-doingnothingmore thanwalkingdownahallwayandbeingslammedupagainst thewall because he happened to get too close to someone walking past him; toemotionaltaunts-likebeingcalledhomoorqueer.”

“Didhetellyouwhenthisbullyingstarted?”“Thefirstdayofkindergarten.Hegotonthebus,wastrippedashewalked

down the aisle, and had his Superman lunch box thrown onto the highway. Itcontinueduptoshortlybeforetheshooting,whenhesufferedpublichumiliationafterhisromanticinterestinaclassmatewasrevealed.”

“Doctor,”Jordansaid,“didn’tPeteraskforhelp?”“Yes,butevenwhen itwasgiven, the resultbackfired.Once, forexample,

afterbeing shovedbyaboyat school,Peter chargedhim.Thiswas seenbyateacher,whobroughtbothboystotheprincipal’sofficefordetention.InPeter’smind, he’d defended himself, and yet he was being punished as well.” Kingrelaxedonthestand.“MorerecentmemorieswerecoloredbyPeter’sbrother’sdeathandhisinabilitytoliveuptothesamestandardshisbrotherhadsetasastudentandason.”

“DidPetertalkabouthisparents?”“Yes. Peter loved his parents, but didn’t feel he could rely on them for

protection.”“Protectionfromwhat?”“Troublesinschool,feelingshewashaving,suicideideation.”Jordan turned toward the jury. “Based on your discussionswithPeter, and

Dr.Ghertz’sfindings,wereyouabletodiagnosePeter’sstateofmindonMarch6,2007,withareasonabledegreeofmedicalcertainty?”

“Yes.Peterwassufferingfrompost-traumaticstressdisorder.”“Canyouexplainwhatthatis?”King nodded. “It’s a psychiatric disorder that can occur following an

experienceinwhichapersonisoppressedorvictimized.Forexample,we’veallheard of soldiers who come home from war and can’t adjust to the worldbecause of PTSD. People who suffer from PTSD often relive the experiencethrough nightmares, have difficulty sleeping, feel detached. In extreme cases,after exposure to serious trauma, they might exhibit hallucinations ordissociation.”

“Are you saying that Peter was hallucinating on the morning of Marchsixth?”

“No.Ibelievethathewasinadissociativestate.”“What’sthat?”“It’s when you’re physically present, but mentally removed,” King

explained. “When you can separate your feelings about an event from theknowledgeofit.”

Jordanknithisbrowstogether.“Hangon,Doctor.Doyoumeanthatapersoninadissociativestatecoulddriveacar?”

“Absolutely.”“Andsetupapipebomb?”“Yes.”“Andloadweapons?”“Yes.”“Andfirethoseweapons?”“Sure.”“Andallthattime,thatpersonwouldn’tknowwhathewasdoing?”“Yes,Mr.McAfee,”Kingsaid.“That’sexactlyright.”“Inyouropinion,whendidPeterslipintothisdissociativestate?”“Duringourinterviews,PeterexplainedthatthemorningofMarchsixth,he

gotupearlyandwent tocheckawebsite for feedbackonhisvideogame.Byaccident,hepulledupanoldfileonhiscomputer-theemailhehadsenttoJosieCormier,detailinghisfeelingsforher.Itwasthesameemailthat,weeksbefore,had been sent to the entire school, and that had preceded an even greaterhumiliation,whenhispantswerepulleddowninthecafeteria.Afterhesawthatemail,hesaid,hecan’treallyremembertherestofwhathappened.”

“Ipullupold filesbyaccidentonmycomputerall the time,” Jordansaid,“butIdon’tgointoadissociativestate.”

“ThecomputerhadalwaysbeenasafehavenforPeter.Itwasthevehicleheusedtocreateaworldthatwascomfortableforhim,peopledbycharacterswhoappreciatedhimandwhomhehadcontrolover,ashedidn’tinreallife.Havingthis one secure zone suddenly become yet another place where humiliationoccurrediswhattriggeredthebreak.”

Jordan crossed his arms, playing devil’s advocate. “I don’t know…we’retalkingabout anemailhere. Is it really fair tocomparebullying to the traumaseenbywarveteransinIraq,orsurvivorsfrom9/11?”

“The thing that’s important to remember about PTSD is that a traumaticeventaffectsdifferentpeopledifferently.Forexample,forsome,aviolentrapemighttriggerPTSD.Forothers,abriefgropingmighttriggerit.Itdoesn’tmatterifthetraumaticeventiswar,oraterroristattack,orsexualassault,orbullying-whatcountsiswherethesubjectisstartingfrom,emotionally.”

King turned to the jury. “Youmight have heard, for example, of batteredwoman syndrome. It doesn’tmake sense, on theoutside,when awoman-evenonewho’sbeenvictimizedforyears-killsherhusbandwhenhe’sfastasleep.”

“Objection,”Dianasaid.“Doesanyoneseeabatteredwomanontrial?”“I’llallowit,”JudgeWagnerreplied.“Evenwhenabatteredwomanisnotimmediatelyunderphysicalthreat,she

psychologically believes she is, thanks to a chronic, escalating pattern ofviolencethat’scausedhertosufferfromPTSD.It’slivinginthisconstantstateof fear that something’s going to happen, that it’s going to keep happening,whichleadshertopickupthegunatthatmoment,eventhoughherhusbandissnoring. To her, he is still an immediate threat,” King said. “A child who issuffering fromPTSD, likePeter, is terrified that thebully is going tokill himeventually.Evenifthebullyisnotatthatmomentshovinghimintoalockerorpunchinghim,itcouldhappenatanysecond.Andso,likethebatteredwife,hetakesactionevenwhen-toyouandme-nothingseemstowarranttheattack.”

“Wouldn’tsomeonenoticethissortofirrationalfear?”Jordanasked.“Probably not. A child who suffers from PTSD has made unsuccessful

attemptstogethelp,andasthevictimizationcontinues,hestopsaskingforit.Hewithdraws socially, because he’s never quite surewhen interaction is going tolead to another incidentofbullying.Heprobably thinksofkillinghimself.Heescapes into a fantasyworld, where he can call the shots. However, he startsretreating there so often that it gets harder and harder to separate that fromreality.Duringtheactualincidentsofbullying,achildwithPTSDmightretreatinto an altered state of consciousness-a dissociation from reality to keep himfromfeelingpainorhumiliationwhiletheincidentoccurs.That’sexactlywhatIthinkhappenedtoPeteronMarchsixth.”

“Even though none of the kids who’d bullied him were present in hisbedroomwhenthatemailappeared?”

“Correct. Peter had spent his entire life being beaten and taunted andthreatened,tothepointwherehebelievedhewouldbekilledbythosesamekidsifhedidn’tdosomething.Theemailtriggeredadissociativestate,andwhenhewent toSterlingHigh and fired shots, hewas completely unaware ofwhat hewasdoing.”

“Howlongcanadissociativestatelast?”“Itdepends.Petercouldhavebeendissociatingforseveralhours.”“Hours?”Jordanrepeated.“Absolutely. There’s no point during the shootings that illustrates to me

consciousawarenessofhisactions.”Jordanglancedattheprosecutor.“WeallsawavideowherePetersatdown

afterfiringshotsinthecafeteriaandateabowlofcereal.Isthatmeaningfultoyourdiagnosis?”

“Yes.Infact,Ican’tthinkofclearerproofthatPeterwasstilldissociatingat

thatmoment.You’vegotaboywhoiscompletelyunawareofthefactthathe’ssurrounded by classmates he’d either killed,wounded, or sent fleeing.He sitsdownandtakesthetimetocalmlypourabowlofRiceKrispies,unaffectedbythecarnagearoundhim.”

“WhataboutthefactthatmanyofthechildrenPeterfiredatwerenotpartofwhatcouldcommonlybecalled the ‘popularcrowd’?That therewere special-needschildrenandscholarsandevenateacherwhobecamehisvictims?”

“Again,” the psychiatrist said, “we’re not talking about rational behavior.Peter wasn’t calculating his actions; at the moment he was shooting, he hadseparated himself from the reality of the situation. Anyone Peter encounteredduringthosenineteenminuteswasapotentialthreat.”

“Inyouropinion,whendidPeter’sdissociativestateend?”Jordanasked.“WhenPeterwasincustody,speakingtoDetectiveDucharme.That’swhen

hestartedreactingnormally,given thehorrorof thesituation.Hebegan tocryand ask for hismother-which indicates both a recognition of his surroundingsandanappropriate,childlikeresponse.”

Jordanleanedagainsttherailofthejurybox.“There’sbeensomeevidencein this case, Doctor, that Peter wasn’t the only child in the school who wasbullied.Sowhydidhereactthiswaytoit?”

“Well,asIsaid,differentpeoplehavedifferentresponsestostress.InPeter’scase,Isawanextremeemotionalvulnerability,which,infact,wasthereasonhewasteased.Peterdidn’tplaybythecodesofboys.Hewasn’tabigathlete.Hewasn’t tough. He was sensitive. And difference is not always respected-particularlywhenyou’reateenager.Adolescenceisaboutfittingin,notstandingout.”

“Howdoesachildwhoisemotionallyvulnerablewinduponedaycarryingfourgunsintoaschoolandshootingtwenty-ninepeople?”

“Partof it is thePTSD-Peter’sresponse tochronicvictimization.Butabigpart of it, too, is the society that created both Peter and those bullies. Peter’sresponseisoneenforcedbytheworldhelivesin.Heseesviolentvideogamesselling off the shelves at stores; he listens tomusic that glorifiesmurder andrape.Hewatcheshistormentorsshovehim,strikehim,pushhim,demeanhim.Helivesinastate,Mr.McAfee,whoselicenseplatereads‘LiveFreeorDie.’”Kingshookhishead.“AllPeterdid,onemorning,wasturnintothepersonhe’dbeenexpectedtobeallalong.”

Nobodyknewthis,butonce,JosiehadbrokenupwithMattRoyston.They had been going out for nearly a year whenMatt picked her up one

Saturdaynight.Anupperclassmanon the football team-someoneBradyknew-washavingapartyathishouse.Youupforit?Matthadasked,eventhoughhe’d

alreadybeendrivingtherewhenheaskedher.The house had been pulsing like a carnival by the time they arrived, cars

parked on the curb and the sidewalk and the lawn. Through the upstairswindows,Josiecouldseepeopledancing;astheywalkedupthedriveway,agirlwasthrowingupinthebushes.

Matt didn’t let go of her hand. They twined through wall-to-wall bodies,embroideringtheirpathtothekitchen,wherethekegwassetup,andthenbacktothediningroom,wherethetablehadbeentippedonitssidetocreateabiggerdance floor.Thekids theypassedwerenotonly fromSterlingHigh,butothertowns, too. Some had the red-rimmed, loose-jawed stare that came fromsmokingpot.Guysandgirlssniffedateachother,circlingforsex.

She didn’t know anyone, but thatwasn’t important, because shewaswithMatt.Theypressedcloser,intheheatofahundredotherbodies.Mattslidhislegbetweenherswhile themusicbeat likeblood,andshe liftedupherarms tofitherselfagainsthim.

Everythinghadgonewrongwhenshewenttousethebathroom.First,Matthadwantedtofollowher-hesaiditwasn’tsafeforher tobealone.Shefinallyconvincedhim itwould takeallof thirty seconds,but as she startedoff, a tallboywearingaGreenDayshirtandahoopearringturnedtooquicklyandspilledhisbeeronher.Oh,shit,he’dsaid.

It’sokay.Josiehadatissueinherpocket;shetookitoutandstartedtoblotherblousedry.

Letme,theboysaid,andhetookthenapkinfromher.AtthesametimetheybothrealizedhowridiculousitwastryingtosoakupthatmuchliquidwithatinysquareofKleenex.Hestartedlaughing,andthenshedid,andhishandwasstilllightlyrestingonhershoulderwhenMattcameupandpunchedhimintheface.

Whatareyoudoing!Josiehadscreamed.Theboywasoutcoldonthefloor,andotherpeopleweretryingtogetoutofthewaybutstaycloseenoughtoseethefight.Mattgrabbedherwristsohardthatshethoughtitwasgoingtosnap.Hedraggedheroutofthehouseandintothecar,whereshesatinstonysilence.

Hewasjusttryingtohelp,Josiesaid.Mattputthecarintoreverseandlurchedbackward.Youwanttostay?You

wanttobeaslut?He’dstartedtodrivelikealunatic-runningredlights,takingcornersontwo

wheels, doubling the speed limit. She told him to slowdown three times, andthenshejustclosedhereyesandhopeditwouldbeoversoon.

WhenMatthadscreechedtoastopinfrontofherhouse,sheturnedtohim,unusuallycalm.Idon’twanttogooutwithyouanymore,shehadsaid,andshegotoutof thecar.Hisvoice trailedher to the frontdoor:Good.Whywould I

wanttogooutwithafuckingwhore,anyway?She had managed to slip by her mother, feigning a headache. In the

bathroom,she’dstaredatherselfinthemirror,tryingtofigureoutwhothisgirlwaswhohadsuddenlygrownsuchabackbone,andwhyshestillfeltlikecrying.She’d lain in her bed for an hour, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes,wonderingwhy-ifshe’dbeentheonetoendit-shefeltsomiserable.

Whenthephonerangafterthreeinthemorning,Josiegrabbeditandhungitupagain, so thatwhenhermotherpickedup, shewouldassume ithadbeenawrong number. She held her breath for a few seconds, and then lifted thereceiverandpunchedin*69.Sheknew,evenbeforeshesawthefamiliarstringofnumbers,thatitwasMatt.

Josie,hehadsaid,whenshecalledback.Wereyoulying?Aboutwhat?Lovingme?Shehadpressedherfaceintothepillow.No,shewhispered.I can’t livewithoutyou,Matthad said, and then sheheard something that

soundedlikeabottleofpillsbeingshaken.Josiehadfrozen.Whatareyoudoing?Whatdoyoucare?Hermindhadstartedracing.Shehadherdriver’spermit,butcouldn’t take

thecaroutherself,andnotafterdark.ShelivedtoofarawayfromMatttorunthere.Don’tmove,shesaid.Just…don’tdoanything.

Downstairsinthegarage,she’dfoundabicycleshehadn’triddensinceshewas inmiddle school, and shepedaled the fourmiles toMatt’s house.By thetimeshegotthere,ithadbeenraining;herhairandherclothesweregluedtoherskin.ThelightwasstilloninMatt’sbedroom,whichwasonthefirstfloor.Josieknockedonthewindow,andheopeneditsothatshecouldcrawlinside.

On his deskwas a bottle ofTylenol and another one, open, of JimBeam.Josiefacedhim.Didyou-

ButMattwrappedhisarmsaroundher.Hesmelledofliquor.Youtoldmenotto. I’ddoanything foryou.Thenhehadpulledback fromher.Wouldyoudoanythingforme?

Anything,shevowed.Matthadgatheredherintohisarms.Tellmeyoudidn’tmeanit.Shefeltacagecomingdownaroundher;toolatesherealizedthatMatthad

hertrappedbytheheart.Andlikeanyunwittinganimalthatwaswellandtrulycaught,Josiecouldescapeonlybyleavingapieceofherselfbehind.

I’mso sorry, Josiehadsaidat least a thousand times thatnight,because itwasallherfault.

“Dr.Wah,” Diana said, “howmuch were you paid for your work on thiscase?”

“Myfeeistwothousanddollarsperday.”“Would it be fair to say that one of the most important components of

diagnosingthedefendantwasthetimeyouspentinterviewinghim?”“Absolutely.”“Duringthecourseofthosetenhours,youwererelyingonhimtobetruthful

withyouinhisrecollectionofevents,right?”“Yes.”“You’dhavenowayofknowingifhewasn’tbeingtruthful,wouldyou?”“I’vebeendoingthisforsometime,Ms.Leven,”thepsychiatristsaid.“I’ve

interviewedenoughpeople toknowwhensomeone’s tryingtoputoneoveronme.”

“Part ofwhat you use in determiningwhether or not a teen is putting oneoveronyouistakingalookatthecircumstancesthey’rein,correct?”

“Sure.”“AndthecircumstancesinwhichyoufoundPeterincludedbeinglockedup

injailformultiplefirst-degreemurders?”“That’sright.”“So,basically,”Dianasaid,“Peterhadahugeincentivetofindawayout.”“Or,Ms.Leven,”Dr.Wahcountered,“youcouldalsosayhehadnothingleft

tolosebytellingthetruth.”Diana pressed her lips together; a yes or no answerwould have done just

fine.“YousaidthatpartofyourdiagnosisofPTSDcamefromthefactthatthedefendant was attempting to get help, and couldn’t. Was this based oninformationhegaveyouduringyourinterviews?”

“Yes,corroboratedbyhisparents,andsomeoftheteacherswhotestifiedforyou,Ms.Leven.”

“YoualsosaidthatpartofyourdiagnosisofPTSDwasillustratedbyPeter’sretreatintoafantasyworld,correct?”

“Yes.”“AndyoubasedthatonthecomputergamesthatPetertoldyouaboutduring

yourinterviews?”“Correct.”“Isn’t it true thatwhen you sent Peter toDr.Ghertz, you told himhewas

goingtohavesomebrainscansdone?”“Yes.”“Couldn’tPeterhavetoldDr.Ghertzthatasmilingfacelookedangry,ifhe

thoughtitwouldhelpyououtwithadiagnosis?”

“Isupposeitwouldbepossible…”“Youalsosaid,Doctor,thatreadinganemailthemorningofMarchsixthis

whatputPeterintoadissociativestate,onestrongenoughtolastthroughPeter’sentirekillingspreeatSterlingHigh-”

“Objection-”“Sustained,”thejudgesaid.“DidyoubasethatconclusiononanythingotherthanwhatPeterHoughton

told you-Peter, who was sitting in a jail cell, charged with ten murders andnineteenattemptedmurders?”

KingWahshookhishead.“No,butanyotherpsychiatristwouldhavedonethesame.”

Dianajustraisedabrow.“Anypsychiatristwhostoodtomaketwothousandbucks a day,” she said, and even before Jordan objected she withdrew herremark.“YousaidthatPeterwassufferingfromsuicideideation.”

“Yes.”“Sohewantedtokillhimself?”“Yes.That’sverycommonforpatientswithPTSD.”“DetectiveDucharmehastestifiedthattherewereonehundredsixteenbullet

casings found in the high school thatmorning.Another thirty unspent roundswerefoundonPeter’sperson,andanotherfifty-twounspentroundswerefoundinthebackpackhewascarrying,alongwithtwogunshedidn’tuse.So,dothemathforme,Doctor.Howmanybulletsarewetalkingabout?”

“Onehundredandninety-eight.”Diana faced him. “In a span of nineteen minutes, Peter had two hundred

chancestokillhimself,insteadofeveryotherstudentheencounteredatSterlingHigh.Isthatright,Doctor?”

“Yes.Butthereisanextremelyfinelinebetweenasuicideandahomicide.Manydepressedpeoplewhohavemadethedecisiontoshootthemselveschoose,atthelastmoment,toshootsomeoneelseinstead.”

Diana frowned. “I thought Peter was in a dissociated state,” she said. “Ithoughthewasincapableofmakingchoices.”

“Hewas.Hewaspullingthetriggerwithoutanythoughtofconsequenceorknowledgeofwhathewasdoing.”

“Eitherthat,oritwasatissue-paperlinehefeltlikecrossing,right?”Jordanstoodup.“Objection.She’sbullyingmywitness.”“Oh,forGod’ssake,Jordan,”Dianasnapped,“youcan’tuseyourdefenseon

me.”“Counselors,”thejudgewarned.“Youalsotestified,Doctor,thatthisdissociativestateofPeter’sendedwhen

DetectiveDucharmebegantoaskhimquestionsatthepolicestation,correct?”“Yes.”“Woulditbefairtosaythatyoubasedthisassumptiononthefactthatatthat

moment,Peterstartedtorespondinanappropriatemanner,giventhesituationhewasin?”

“Yes.”“Thenhowdoyouexplainhow,hoursearlier,whenthreeofficerspointeda

gun at Peter and told him to drop his weapon, he was able to do what theyasked?”

Dr.Wahhesitated.“Well.”“Isn’t that an appropriate response, when three policemen have their

weaponsdrawnandpointedatyou?”“Heputthegundown,”thepsychiatristsaid,“becauseevenonasubliminal

level,heunderstoodthatotherwise,hewasgoingtobeshot.”“ButDoctor,”Dianasaid.“IthoughtyoutoldusthatPeterwantedtodie.”She sat back down, satisfied that Jordan could do nothing on redirect that

woulddamagetheheadwayshe’dmade.“Dr.Wah,”hesaid,“youspentalotoftimewithPeter,didn’tyou?”

“Unlikesomedoctorsinmyfield,”hesaidpointedly,“Iactuallybelieveinmeetingtheclientyou’regoingtobetalkingaboutincourt.”

“Whyisthisimportant?”“Tobuildarapport,”thepsychiatristsaid.“Tofosterarelationshipbetween

doctorandpatient.”“Wouldyoutakeeverythingapatienttoldyouatfacevalue?”“Certainlynot,especiallyunderthesecircumstances.”“Infact,therearemanywaystocorroborateaclient’sstory,aren’tthere?”“Ofcourse.InPeter’scase,Ispokewithhisparents.Therewereinstancesin

the school records where bullying was mentioned-although there was noresponse from the administration. The police package I received supportedPeter’sstatementabouthisemailbeingsentouttoseveralhundredmembersoftheschoolcommunity.”

“Did you find any corroborative points that helped you diagnose thedissociativestatePeterwentintoonMarchsixth?”Jordanasked.

“Yes.AlthoughthepoliceinvestigationstatedthatPeterhadcreatedalistoftargetvictims, therewerefarmorepeopleshotwhowerenoton the list…whowere,infact,studentshedidn’tevenknowbyname.”

“Whyisthatimportant?”“Because it tellsme that at the time hewas shooting, hewasn’t targeting

individualstudents.Hewasmerelygoingthroughthemotions.”

“Thankyou,Doctor,”Jordansaid,andhenoddedtoDiana.Shelookedatthepsychiatrist.“Petertoldyouhehadbeenhumiliatedinthe

cafeteria,”shesaid.“Didhementionanyotherspecificplaces?”“Theplayground.Theschoolbus.Theboys’bathroomandthelockerroom.”“WhenPeterstartedshootingatSterlingHigh,didhegointotheprincipal’s

office?”“NotthatI’mawareof.”“Howaboutthelibrary?”“No.”“Thestafflounge?”Dr.Wahshookhishead.“No.”“Theartstudio?”“Idon’tbelieveso.”“Infact,Peterwentfromthecafeteria,tothebathrooms,tothegym,tothe

lockerroom.Hewentmethodicallyfromonevenuewherehe’dbeenbulliedtothenext,right?”

“Itseemsso.”“You said he was going through the motions, Doctor,” Diana said. “But

wouldn’tyoucallthataplan?”WhenPetergotbacktothejailthatnight,thedetentionofficerwhotookhim

to his cell handed him a letter. “You missed mail call,” he said, and Petercouldn’tspeak,sounaccustomedwashetothatconcentratedadoseofkindness.

Hesatdownwithhisbackto thewallonthe lowerbunkandsurveyedtheenvelope. He was a little nervous, now, about mail-he had been since Jordanreamedhimfortalkingtothatreporter.Butthisenvelopewasn’ttyped,likethatonehadbeen.Thisletterwashandwritten,withlittlepuffycirclesfloatingoverthei’slikeclouds.

Herippeditopenandunfoldedtheletterinside.Itsmelledlikeoranges.DearPeter,You don’t knowme by name, but I was number 9. That’s how I left the

school,withabigmagicmarkerlabelonmyforehead.Youtriedtokillme.Iamnotatyourtrial,sodon’ttrytofindmeinthecrowd.Icouldn’tstand

beinginthattownanymore,somyparentsmovedamonthago.IstartschoolinaweekhereinMinnesota,andalreadypeoplehaveheardaboutme.TheyonlyknowmeasavictimfromSterlingHigh. Idon’thave interests, Idon’thaveapersonality,Idon’tevenhaveahistory,excepttheoneyougaveme.

Ihada4.0averagebutIdon’tcareverymuchaboutgradesanymore.What’sthe point. I used to have all these dreams, but now I don’t know if I’ll go tocollege,sinceIstillcan’tsleepthroughthenight.Ican’tdealwithpeoplewho

sneakupbehindmeeither,ordoorsthatslamreallyloud,orfireworks.I’vebeenin therapy long enough to tell you one thing: I’m never going to set foot inSterlingagain.

Youshotmeintheback.ThedoctorssaidIwaslucky-thatifI’dsneezedorturnedtolookatyouIwouldbeinawheelchairnow.Instead,IjusthavetodealwiththepeoplewhostarewhenIforgetandputonatanktop-anyonecanseethescarsfromthebulletandthechesttubesandthestitches.Idon’tcare-theyusedtostareat thezitsonmyface;nowthey justhaveanotherplace to focus theirattention.

I’vethoughtaboutyoualot.Ithinkyoushouldgotojail.It’sfair,andthiswasn’t,andthere’sakindofbalanceinthat.

I was in your French class, did you know that? I sat in the row by thewindow, second from the back.You always seemed sort ofmysterious, and Ilikedyoursmile.

Iwouldhavelikedtobeyourfriend.Sincerely,AngelaPhlugPeterfoldedtheletterandslippeditinsidehispillowcase.Tenminuteslater,

hetookitoutagain.Hereaditallnightlong,overandover,untilthesunrose;untilhedidnotneedtoseethewordstoreciteitbyheart.

Lacy had dressed for her son. Although it was nearly eighty-five degreesoutside,shewaswearingasweatershehaddugoutofaboxintheattic,apinkangoraonethatPeterhadlikedtostrokelikeakittenwhenhewastiny.AroundherwristwasabraceletPeterhadmadeherinfourthgradebyrollinguptinybitsofmagazinesintosplashycoloredbeads.ShehadonagraypatternedskirtthatPeterhadlaughedatonce,sayingitlookedlikeacomputer’smotherboard,andwasn’t that sort of fitting. And her hair was braided neatly, because sherememberedhowthetailhadbrushedPeter’sfacethelasttimeshe’dkissedhimgoodnight.

She’dmadeapromisetoherself.Nomatterhowhardthisgot,nomatterhowmuchshehadtosobherwaythroughthequestions,shewouldnottakehereyesoff Peter. He would be, she decided, like the pictures of white beaches thatbirthingmotherssometimesbroughtinasafocalpoint.Hisfacewouldforcehertoconcentrate,eventhoughherpulsewasskittishandherheartwasoffabeat;she would show Peter that there was still someone steadfastly watching overhim.

AsJordanMcAfeecalledhertothestand,thestrangestthinghappened.Shewalked in with the bailiff, but instead of marching toward the tiny woodenbalconywherethewitnesswastosit,herbodymovedofitsownaccordinthe

other direction. Diana Leven knew where she was heading before Lacy didherself-shestooduptoobject,butthendecidedagainstit.Lacy’sstepwasquick,herarmsflatathersides,untilshewaspositionedinfrontofthedefensetable.ShekneltdownbesidePeter,sothathisfacewastheonlythingshecouldseeinherrangeofvision.Thenshereachedoutwithherlefthandandshetouchedhisface.

His skin was still as smooth as a child’s, warm to the touch. When shecupped his cheek, his lashes fanned over her thumb. She had visited her sonweekly in the jail, but there had always been a line between them. This-thefeelingofhimunderneathherownhands,vitalandreal-wasthekindofgiftyouhadtotakeoutofitsboxeverynowandthen,holdaloft,marvelat,soyoudidn’tforget that itwasstill inyourpossession.Lacy remembered themomentPeterhadfirstbeenplacedinherarms,stillslickwithvernixandblood,hisraw,redmouth roundwithanewborn’scry,hisarmsand legs splayed in this suddenlyinfinitespace.Leaningforward,shedidnowthesamethingshe’ddonethefirsttime she’d met her son: closed her eyes, winged a prayer, and kissed hisforehead.

Abailifftouchedhershoulder.“Ma’am,”hebegan.Lacyshruggedhimoffandgottoherfeet.Shewalkedtothewitnessboxand

unhookedthelatchofthegate,letherselfinside.JordanMcAfee approached her, holding a box of Kleenex. He turned his

back so that the jury could not see him speaking. “You okay?” hewhispered.Lacynodded,facedPeter,andofferedupasmilelikeasacrifice.

“Canyoustateyournamefortherecord?”Jordanasked.“LacyHoughton.”“Wheredoyoulive?”“1616GoldenrodLane,Sterling,NewHampshire.”“Wholiveswithyou?”“Myhusband,Lewis,”Lacysaid.“Andmyson,Peter.”“Doyouhaveanyotherchildren,Ms.Houghton?”“Ihadason,Joseph,buthewaskilledbyadrunkdriverlastyear.”“Canyoutellus,”JordanMcAfeesaid,“whenyoufirstbecameawarethat

somethinghadhappenedatSterlingHighSchoolonMarchsixth?”“Iwasoncallovernightatthehospital.I’mamidwife.AfterIhadfinished

deliveringababythatmorning.Iwentouttothenurses’station,andtheywereallgatheredaroundtheradio.Therehadbeenanexplosionatthehighschool.”

“Whatdidyoudowhenyouheard?”“Itoldsomeonetocoverforme,andIdrovetotheschool.Ineededtomake

surethatPeterwasallright.”

“HowdidPeterusuallygettoschool?”“Hedrove,”Lacysaid.“Hehasacar.”“Ms.Houghton,tellmeaboutyourrelationshipwithPeter.”Lacysmiled.“He’smybaby.Ihadtwosons,butPeterwastheonewhowas

alwaysquieter,moresensitive.Healwaysneededalittlemoreencouragement.”“Wereyoutwoclosewhenhewasgrowingup?”“Absolutely.”“HowwasPeter’srelationshipwithhisbrother?”“Itwasfine…”“Andhisfather?”Lacy hesitated. She could feel Lewis in the room as surely as if he were

besideher,andshethoughtabouthimwalkingintherainthroughthecemetery.“IthinkthatLewishadatighterbondwithJoey,whilePeterandIhavemoreincommon.”

“DidPeterevertellyouabouttheproblemshehadwithotherkids?”“Yes.”“Objection,”theprosecutorsaid.“Hearsay.”“I’m going to overrule it for now,” the judge answered. “But be careful

whereyou’regoing,Mr.McAfee.”Jordanturnedtoheragain.“WhydoyouthinkPeterhadproblemswiththose

kids?”“He’dgetpickedonbecausehewasn’t like them.Hewasn’tveryathletic.

He didn’t like to play cops and robbers. He was artistic and creative andthoughtful,andkidsmadefunofhimforthat.”

“Whatdidyoudo?”“Itried,”Lacyadmitted,“totoughenhimup.”Asshespokeshedirectedher

wordsatPeter,andhopedhecouldreaditasanapology.“Whatdoesanymotherdowhensheseesherchildbeing teasedbysomeoneelse?I toldPeter I lovedhim;thatkidslikethatdidn’tknowanything.Itoldhimthathewasamazingandcompassionateandkindandsmart,all the thingswewantadults tobe. Iknewthatall theattributeshewas teased for, atage five,weregoing towork inhisfavorbythetimehewasthirty-five…butIcouldn’tgethimthereovernight.Youcan’tfast-forwardyourchild’slife,nomatterhowmuchyouwantto.”

“WhendidPeterstarthighschool,Ms.Houghton?”“Inthefallof2004.”“WasPeterstillbeingpickedonthere?”“Worsethanever,”Lacysaid.“Ievenaskedhisbrother tokeepaneyeout

forhim.”Jordanwalkedtowardher.“TellmeaboutJoey.”

“Everybody likedJoey.Hewassmart,anexcellentathlete.Hecouldrelatejustaseasilytoadultsashecouldtokidshisownage.He…well,hecutaswaththroughthatschool.”

“Youmusthavebeenveryproudofhim.”“Iwas.ButIthinkthatbecauseofJoey,teachersandstudentshadacertain

sortofideainmindforaHoughtonboy,beforePeterevenarrived.Andwhenhedidgetthere,andpeoplerealizedhewasn’tlikeJoey,itonlymadethingsworseforhim.”ShewatchedPeter’sfacetransformasshespoke,likethechangeofaseason.Whyhadn’tshetakenthetimebefore,whenshehadit,totellPeterthatsheunderstood?ThatsheknewJoeyhadcastsuchawideshadow,itwashardtofindthesunlight?

“HowoldwasPeterwhenJoeydied?”“Itwasattheendofhissophomoreyear.”“Thatmusthavebeendevastatingforthefamily,”Jordansaid.“Itwas.”“WhatdidyoudotohelpPeterdealwithhisgrief?”Lacyglanceddownatherlap.“Iwasn’tinanyshapetohelpPeter.Ihada

veryhardtimehelpingmyself.”“Whataboutyourhusband?WashearesourceforPeterthen?”“Ithinkwewerebothjusttryingtomakeitthroughonedayatatime….If

anything,Peterwastheonewhowasholdingthefamilytogether.”“Mrs.Houghton,didPetereversaythathewantedtohurtpeopleatschool?”Lacy’sthroattightened.“No.”“WasthereeveranythinginPeter’spersonalitythatledyoutobelievehewas

capableofanactlikethis?”“When you look into your baby’s eyes,” Lacy said softly, “you see

everythingyouhopetheycanbe…noteverythingyouwishtheywon’tbecome.”“DidyoueverfindanyplansornotestoindicatethatPeterwasplottingthis

event?”Atearcourseddownhercheek.“No.”Jordansoftenedhisvoice.“Didyoulook,Mrs.Houghton?”She thoughtback to themoment she’d clearedout Joey’sdesk;how she’d

stood over the toilet and flushed the drugs she’d found hidden in his drawer.“No,”Lacyconfessed.“Ididn’t.IthoughtIwashelpinghim.AfterJoeydied,allIwantedtodowaskeepPeterclose.Ididn’twanttoinvadehisprivacy;Ididn’twanttofightwithhim;Ididn’twantanyoneelsetoeverhurthim.Ijustwantedhimtobeachildforever.”Sheglancedup,cryinghardernow.“Butyoucan’tdothat,ifyou’reaparent.Becausepartofyourjobislettingthemgrowup.”

There was a clatter in the gallery as a man in the back stood up, nearly

upendingatelevisioncamera.Lacyhadneverseenhimbefore.Hehadthinningblackhairandamustache;hiseyeswereonfire.“Guesswhat,”hespatout.“MydaughterMaddieisnevergoingtogrowup.”Hepointedatawomanbesidehim,andthenfurtherforwardonabench.“Neither isherdaughter.Orhisson.Yougoddamnedbitch.Ifyou’ddoneyourjobbetter,Icouldstillbedoingmyjob.”

The judgebegan tosmackhisgavel.“Sir,”hesaid.“Sir, Ihave toaskyouto-”

“Your son’s a monster. He’s a fucking monster,” the man yelled, as twobailiffsreachedhisseatandgrabbedhimbytheupperarms,dragginghimoutofthecourtroom.

Once,Lacyhadbeenpresentatthebirthofaninfantthatwasmissinghalfitsheart.Thefamilyhadknownthattheirchildwouldnotlive;theychosetocarrythrough with the pregnancy, in the hope that they could have a few briefmomentsonthisearthwithherbeforeshewasgoneforgood.Lacyhadstoodina corner of the roomas theparents held their daughter.Shedidn’t study theirfaces; she just couldn’t. Instead, she focused on the medical needs of thatnewborn.Shewatchedit,stillandfrost-blue,moveonetinyfistinslowmotion,likeanastronautnavigating space.Then,onebyone,her fingersunfurledandsheletgo.

Lacy thought of those miniature fingers, of slipping away. She turned toPeter. I’m so sorry, shemouthed silently. Then she covered her facewith herhandsandsobbed.

Once the judge had called for a recess and the jury had filed out, Jordanmovedtowardthebench.“Judge,thedefenseaskstobeheard,”hesaid.“We’dliketomoveforamistrial.”

Even with his back to her, he could feel Diana rolling her eyes. “Howconvenient.”

“Well,Mr.McAfee,”thejudgesaid,“onwhatgrounds?”The grounds that I’ve got absolutely nothing better to salvage my case,

Jordanthought.“YourHonor,there’sbeenanincrediblyemotionaloutburstfromthefatherofavictiminfrontofthejury.There’snowaythatkindofspeechcanbe ignored, and there’s no instruction you can give them thatwill unring thatbell.”

“Isthatall,Counselor?”“No,”Jordansaid.“Prior to this, the jurymaynothaveknown that family

membersof thevictimsweresitting in thegallery.Now theydo-and theyalsoknowthateverymovetheymakeisbeingwatchedbythosesamepeople.That’sa tremendous amount of pressure to put on a jury in a case that’s alreadyextremelyemotionalandhighlypublicized.Howaretheysupposedtoputaside

the expectations of these family members and do their jobs fairly andimpartially?”

“Areyoukidding?”Dianasaid.“Whodidthejurythinkwasinthegallery?Vagrants? Of course it’s full of people who were affected by the shootings.That’swhythey’rehere.”

Judge Wagner glanced up. “Mr. McAfee, I’m not declaring a mistrial. Iunderstandyourconcern,but I thinkIcanaddress itwithan instruction to thejurors to disregard any sort of emotional outburst from the gallery. Everyoneinvolvedinthiscaseunderstandsthatemotionsarerunninghigh,andthatpeoplemay not always be able to control themselves. However, I’ll also issue acautionary instruction to the gallery to restrain themselves, or Iwill close thecourtroomtoobservers.”

Jordansuckedinhisbreath.“Pleasedonotemyexception,YourHonor.”“Ofcourse,Mr.McAfee,”hesaid.“Seeyouinfifteenminutes.”Asthejudgeexitedforchambers,Jordanheadedbackto thedefensetable,

trying to divine some sort ofmagic thatwould save Peter. The truthwas, nomatterwhatKingWahhadsaid,nomatterhowcleartheexplanationofPTSD,nomatterifthejurycompletelyempathizedwithPeter-Jordanhadforgottenonesalientpoint:theywouldalwaysfeelsorrierforthevictims.

Dianasmiledathimonherwayoutofthecourtroom.“Nicetry,”shesaid.Selena’sfavoriteroominthecourthousewastuckednearthejanitor’scloset

andfilledwitholdmaps.Shehadnoideawhattheyweredoinginacourthouseinsteadofalibrary,butshelikedtohideuptheresometimeswhenshegottiredofwatching Jordan strut around in frontof thebench.She’d comehere a fewtimesduringthetrialtonurseSamonthedaystheydidn’thaveasittertowatchhim.

NowsheledLacyintoherhavenandsatherdowninfrontofaworldmapthat had the southern hemisphere as its center. Australia was purple, NewZealandgreen. ItwasSelena’s favorite.She liked the reddragonspainted intotheseas,and the fiercestormclouds in thecorners.She liked thecalligraphedcompass, drawn for direction. She liked thinking that the world might lookcompletelydifferentfromanotherangle.

LacyHoughtonhadnotstoppedcrying,andSelenaknewshehad to-or thecross-examinationwasgoingtobeadisaster.ShesatdownbesideLacy.“CanIgetyousomething?Soup?Coffee?”

Lacyshookherheadandwipedhernosewithatissue.“Ican’tdoanythingtosavehim.”

“That’sJordan’sjob,”Selenasaid,althoughtobefrank,shecouldn’timagineascenarioforPeterthatdidnotinvolveseriousjailtime.Sherackedherbrain,

tryingtothinkofwhatelseshecouldsayordotocalmLacydown,justasSamreachedupandyankedononeofherbraids.

Bingo.“Lacy,”Selenasaid.“DoyoumindholdinghimwhileIlookforsomething

inmybag?”Lacyliftedhergaze.“You…youdon’tmind?”Selenashookherheadandtransferredthebabytoherlap.Samstaredupat

Lacy,diligentlytryingtofithisfistinhismouth.“Gah,”hesaid.A smile ghosted across Lacy’s face. “Littleman,” shewhispered, and she

shiftedthebabysothatshecouldholdhimmorefirmly.“Excuseme?”Selena turned to see the door crack open and Alex Cormier’s face peek

inside.Sheimmediatelystoodup.“YourHonor,youcan’tcomein-”“Lether,”Lacysaid.Selenasteppedbackasthejudgewalkedintotheroomandsatdownbeside

Lacy.SheputaStyrofoamcuponthetableandreachedout,smilingalittleasSamgrabbedontoherpinkyfingerandtuggedonit.“Thecoffeehereisawful,butIbroughtyousomeanyway.”

“Thanks.”Selena moved gingerly behind the stacks of maps until she was standing

behind the twowomen,watching themwith the same stunned curiosity she’dhaveshownifalionesscozieduptoanimpalainsteadofeatingit.

“Youdidwellinthere,”thejudgesaid.Lacyshookherhead.“Ididn’tdowellenough.”“Shewon’taskyoumuchoncross,ifanything.”Lacyliftedthebabytoherchestandstrokedhisback.“Idon’tthinkIcango

backinthere,”shesaid,hervoicehitching.“Youcan,andyouwill,”thejudgesaid.“BecausePeterneedsyouto.”“Theyhatehim.Theyhateme.”JudgeCormierputherhandonLacy’s shoulder. “Noteveryone,” she said.

“Whenwegoback,I’mgoingtobesittinginthefrontrow.Youdon’thavetolookattheprosecutor.Youjustlookatme.”

Selena’sjawdropped.Often,withfragilewitnessesoryoungchildren,they’dplantapersonasafocalpointtomaketestifyinglessscary.Tomakethemfeelthatoutofthatwholecrowdofpeople,theyhadatleastonefriend.

Samfoundhisthumbandstartedtosuckonit,fallingasleepagainstLacy’schest.SelenawatchedAlexreachout,strokethedarkmaraboutuftsofherson’shair.“Everyonethinksyoumakemistakeswhenyou’reyoung,”thejudgesaidtoLacy.“ButIdon’tthinkwemakeanyfewerwhenwe’regrownup.”

AsJordanwalkedintotheholdingcellwherePeterwasbeingkept,hewasalreadydoingdamagecontrol.“It’snotgoing tohurtus,”heannounced.“Thejudgeisgoingtogivethejuryinstructionstodisregardthatwholeoutburst.”

Petersatonthemetalbench,hisheadinhishands.“Peter,”Jordansaid.“Didyouhearme?Iknowitlookedbad,andIknowit

wasupsetting,butlegally,itisn’tgoingtoaffectyour-”“IneedtotellherwhyIdidit,”Peterinterrupted.“Your mother?” Jordan said. “You can’t. She’s still sequestered.” He

hesitated.“Look,assoonasIcangetyoutotalktoher,I-”“No.Imean,Ihavetotelleveryone.”Jordanlookedathisclient.Peterwasdry-eyed;hisfistsrestedonthebench.

Whenheliftedhisgaze,itwasn’ttheterrifiedfaceofthechildhe’dsatbesideincourtonthefirstdayofthetrial.Itwassomeonewhohadgrownup,overnight.

“We’regettingoutyoursideofthestory,”Jordansaid.“Youjusthavetobepatient. I know this is hard to believe, but it’s going to come together.We’redoingthebestwecan.”

“We’renot,”Peter said. “Youare.”Hestoodup,walkingcloser to Jordan.“You promised.You said itwas our turn.Butwhen you said that, youmeantyour turn, didn’t you? You never intended for me to get up there and telleveryonewhatreallyhappened.”

“Didyouseewhattheydidtoyourmother?”Jordanargued.“Doyouhaveanyideawhat’sgoingtohappentoyouifyougetupthereandsitinthatwitnessbox?”

In that instant, something inPeterbroke:nothisanger, andnothishiddenfear,butthatlastspider-threadofhope.JordanthoughtofthetestimonyMichaelBeachhadgiven,abouthowitlookedwhenthelifeleftaperson’sface.Youdidnothavetowitnesssomeonedyingtoseethat.

“Jordan,”Petersaid.“IfI’mgoingtospendtherestofmylifeinjail,Iwantthemtohearmysideofthestory.”

Jordanopenedhismouth,intendingtotellhisclientabsolutelyfuckingnot,he would not be taking the stand and ruining the tower of cards Jordan hadcreatedinthehopeofanacquittal.Butwhowashekidding?CertainlynotPeter.

He tookadeepbreath. “All right,”he said. “Tellmewhatyou’regoing tosay.”

Diana Leven didn’t have any questions for Lacy Houghton, which-Jordanknew-was most likely a blessing. In addition to the fact that there wasn’tanythingtheprosecutorcouldaskherthathadn’tbeencoveredbetterbyMaddieShaw’sfather,hehadn’tknownhowmuchmorestressLacycouldtakewithoutbeing rendered incomprehensible on the stand. As she was escorted from the

courtroom,thejudgelookedupfromhisfile.“Yournextwitness,Mr.McAfee?”Jordaninhaleddeeply.“ThedefensecallsPeterHoughton.”Behindhim, therewas a flurryof activity.Rustling, as reporters dug fresh

pensoutoftheirpocketsandturnedtoafreshpageontheirpads.Murmurs,asthefamiliesofthevictimstracedPeter’sstepstothewitnessstand.HecouldseeSelenaofftooneside,hereyeswideatthisunplanneddevelopment.

PetersatdownandstaredonlyatJordan,justashe’dtoldhimto.Goodboy,hethought.“AreyouPeterHoughton?”

“Yes,” Peter said, but he wasn’t close enough to themicrophone for it tocarry.Heleanedforwardandrepeatedtheword.“Yes,”hesaid,andthistime,anunholyscreechfromthePAsystemrangthroughthecourtroomspeakers.

“Whatgradeareyouin,Peter?”“IwasajuniorwhenIgotarrested.”“Howoldareyounow?”“Eighteen.”Jordanwalkedtowardthejurybox.“Peter,areyouthepersonwhowentto

Sterling High School the morning ofMarch 6, 2007, and shot and killed tenpeople?”

“Yes.”“Andwoundednineteenothers?”“Yes.”“And caused damage to countless other people, and to a great deal of

property?”“Iknow,”Petersaid.“You’renotdenyingthattoday,areyou?”“No.”“Canyoutellthejury,”Jordanasked,“whyyoudidit?”Peterlookedintohiseyes.“Theystartedit.”“Who?”“Thebullies.Thejocks.Theoneswhocalledmeafreakmywholelife.”“Doyouremembertheirnames?”“Therearesomanyofthem,”Petersaid.“Canyoutelluswhyyoufeltyouhadtoresorttoviolence?”JordanhadtoldPeter thatwhateverhedid,hecouldnotgetangry.Thathe

hadtostaycalmandcollectedwhilehespoke,orhistestimonywouldbackfireonhim-evenmore than Jordan already expected. “I tried todowhatmymomwantedmetodo,”Peterexplained.“Itriedtobelikethem,butthatdidn’tworkout.”

“Whatdoyoumeanbythat?”

“I triedout for soccer,butnevergot any timeon the field.Once, Ihelpedsomekidsplayapracticaljokeonateacherbymovinghiscarfromtheparkinglotintothegym….Igotdetention,buttheotherkidsdidn’t,becausetheywereonthebasketballteamandhadagameonSaturday.”

“But,Peter,”Jordansaid,“whythis?”Peterwethislips.“Itwasn’tsupposedtoendthisway.”“Didyouplantokillallthosepeople?”Theyhad rehearsed this in theholdingcell.AllPeterhad to saywaswhat

he’dsaidbefore,whenJordanhadcoachedhim.No.NoIdidn’t.Peterlookeddownathishands.“WhenIdiditinthegame,”hesaidquietly,

“Iwon.”Jordanfroze.Peterhadbrokenfromthescript,andnowJordancouldn’tfind

his line.He only knew that the curtainwas going to close before he finished.Scrambling,hereplayedPeter’sresponseinhismind:itwasn’tallbad.Itmadehimsounddepressed,likealoner.

Youcansalvagethis,Jordanthoughttohimself.Hewalked up to Peter, trying desperately to communicate that he needed

focushere;heneededPetertoplayalongwithhim.Heneededtoshowthejurythatthisboyhadchosentostandbeforetheminordertoshowremorse.“Doyouunderstandnowthatthereweren’tanywinnersthatday,Peter?”

JordansawsomethingshineinPeter’seyes.Atinyflame,onethathadbeenrekindled-optimism. Jordan had done his job too well: after five months oftellingPeterthathecouldgethimacquitted,thathehadastrategy,thatheknewwhat he was doing…Peter, goddammit, had picked this moment to finallybelievehim.

“The game’s not over yet, right?” Peter said, and he smiled hopefully atJordan.

Astwoofthejurorsturnedaway,Jordanfoughtforcomposure.Hewalkedbacktothedefensetable,cursingunderhisbreath.ThishadalwaysbeenPeter’sdownfall,hadn’t it?Hehadnoideawhathelookedlikeorsoundedliketotheordinaryobserver,thepersonwhodidn’tknowthatPeterwasn’tactivelytryingtosound likeahomicidalkiller,but instead trying toshareaprivate jokewithoneofhisonlyfriends.

“Mr.McAfee,”thejudgesaid.“Doyouhaveanyfurtherquestions?”Hehadathousand:Howcouldyoudothistome?Howcouldyoudothisto

yourself?HowcanImakethisjuryunderstandthatyoudidn’tmeanthatthewayit sounded?He shookhishead,puzzling throughhis courseof action, and thejudgetookthatforananswer.

“Ms.Leven?”hesaid.

Jordan’sheadsnappedup.Wait,hewantedtosay.Wait,Iwasstillthinking.Heheldhis breath. IfDiana askedPeter anything-evenwhat hismiddle namewas-thenhe’dhaveachancetoredirect.Andsurely,then,hecouldleavethejurywithadifferentimpressionofPeter.

Dianariffledthroughthenotesshe’dbeentaking,andthensheturnedthemfacedownonthetable.“Thestatehasnoquestions,YourHonor,”shesaid.

JudgeWagner summoned a bailiff. “TakeMr. Houghton back to his seat.We’lladjourncourtfortheweekend.”

As soon as the jury was dismissed, the courtroom erupted in a roar ofquestions.Reportersswamupthestreamofonlookerstowardthebar,hopingtocorralJordanforaquote.Hegrabbedhisbriefcaseandhurriedoutthebackdoor,theonethroughwhichthebailiffsweretakingPeter.

“Holdit,”hecalledout.Hejoggedclosertothemen,whostoodwithPeterbetweenthem,hishandscuffed.“IhavetotalktomyclientaboutMonday.”

Thebailiffs looked at eachother, and then at Jordan. “Twominutes,” theysaid, but theydidn’t step away. If Jordanwanted to talk toPeter, thiswas theonlycircumstanceinwhichhewasgoingtodoit.

Peter’sfacewasflushed,beaming.“DidIdoagoodjob?”Jordan hesitated, fishing for a string of words. “Did you say what you

wantedtosay?”“Yeah.”“Thenyoudidareallygoodjob,”Jordansaid.HestoodinthehallwayandwatchedthebailiffsleadPeteraway.Justbefore

heturnedthecorner,Peterliftedhisconjoinedhands,awave.Jordannodded,hishandsinhispockets.

Heslippedoutof the jail througha reardoorandwalkedpast threemediavanswithsatellitedishesperchedonthetoplikeenormouswhitebirds.Throughthebackwindowofeachvan,Jordancouldseetheproducerseditingvideofortheeveningnews.Hisfacewasoneverytelevisionmonitor.

Hepassed the lastvanandheard, through theopenwindow,Peter’svoice.Thegame’snotoveryet.

Jordanhikedhisbriefcaseoverhisshoulderandwalkedalittlefaster.“Oh,yesitis,”hesaid.

SelenahadmadeherhusbandwhathereferredtoastheExecutioner’sMeal,thesamethingsheservedhimeachnightbeforeaclosingargument:roastgoose,asin,Yourgooseiscooked.WithSamalreadyinbed,sheslippedaplateinfrontofJordanandthensatdownacrossfromhim.“Idon’tevenreallyknowwhattosay,”sheadmitted.

Jordanpushedthefoodaway.“I’mnotreadyforthisyet.”

“Whatareyoutalkingabout?”“Ican’tendthecasewiththat.”“Baby,”Selenapointedout,“aftertoday,youcouldn’tsavethiscasewithan

entiresquadoffirefighters.”“Ican’tjustgiveup.ItoldPeterhehadachance.”Heturnedhisanguished

faceuptoSelena’s.“Iwastheonewholethimgetuponthestand,eventhoughIknewbetter.There’sgottobesomethingIcando…somethingIcansaysothatPeter’stestimonyisn’tthelastonethejury’sleftwith.”

Selenasighedandreachedforthedinnerplate.ShetookJordan’sknifeandforkandcutherselfapiece,dippeditincherrysauce.“Thisissomedamnfinegoose,Jordan,”shesaid.“Youdon’tknowwhatyou’remissing.”

“Thewitnesslist,”Jordansaid,standingupandrummagingthroughastackofpapersontheotherendofthediningroomtable.“There’sgottobesomeonewe haven’t called who can help us.” He scanned the names. “Who’s LouiseHerrman?”

“Peter’sthird-gradeteacher,”Selenasaid,hermouthfull.“Whythehellissheonthewitnesslist?”“She called us,” Selena said. “She told us that ifwe needed her, she’d be

willingtotestifythathewasagoodboyinthirdgrade.”“Well,that’snotgoingtowork.Ineedsomeonerecent.”Hesighed.“There’s

nobody else here…”Flipping to the secondpage, he sawa single, final nametyped.“ExceptJosieCormier,”Jordansaidslowly.

Selenaputdownherfork.“You’recallingAlex’sdaughter?”“SincewhendoyoucallJudgeCormierAlex?”“Thegirldoesn’trememberanything.”“Well,I’mcompletelyscrewed.Maybesherememberssomethingnow.Let’s

bringherinandseeifshe’lltalk.”Selenasifted through thepilesofpapers thatcovered theserving table, the

fireplace mantel, the top of Sam’s walker. “Here’s her statement,” she said,handingittoJordan.

ThefirstpagewastheaffidavitthatJudgeCormierhadbroughthim-theonethat said Jordan wouldn’t put Josie on the stand because she didn’t knowanything.ThesecondwasthemostrecentinterviewthegirlhadgiventoPatrickDucharme.“They’vebeenfriendssincekindergarten.”

“Werefriends.”“Idon’tcare.Diana’salreadylaidthegroundworkhere-Peterhadacrushon

Josie;hekilledherboyfriend.Ifwecangethertosaysomethingniceabouthim-maybeeventoshowthatsheforgiveshim-itwillcarryweightwiththejury.”Hestoodup.“I’mgoingbacktothecourthouse,”hesaid.“Ineedasubpoena.”

WhenthedoorbellrangonSaturdaymorning,Josiewasstillinherpajamas.She’dsleptlikethedead,whichwasn’tsurprising,becauseshehadn’tmanagedto sleep well all week. Her dreams were full of highways that carried onlywheelchairs;of combination lockswithnonumbers;ofbeautyqueenswithoutfaces.

Shewastheonlypersonleftsittinginthesequesteredwitnessroom,whichmeantthatthiswasnearlyover;thatsoon,she’dbeabletobreatheagain.

Josie opened the door to find the tall, stunning African-American womanwhowasmarriedtoJordanMcAfeesmilingather,holdingoutapieceofpaper.“Ineedtogiveyouthis,Josie,”shesaid.“Isyourmomhome?”

Josietookthefoldedbluenote.Maybeitwaslikeacastpartyfortheendofthe trial. That would be kind of cool. She called for her mother over hershoulder.AlexappearedwithPatricktrailingbehind.

“Oh,”Selenasaid,blinking.Unflappable,hermotherfoldedherarms.“What’sgoingon?”“Judge, I’m sorry to bother you on a Saturday, but my husband was

wonderingifJosiemightbefreetospeaktohimtoday.”“Why?”“Becausehe’ssubpoenaedJosietotestifyonMonday.”Theroomstartedtospin.“Testify?”Josierepeated.Hermother stepped forward, and from the look on her face, she probably

wouldhavedoneseriousdamage ifPatrickhadn’twrappedanarmaroundherwaist to hold her back. He plucked the blue paper out of Josie’s hand andscannedit.

“Ican’tgotocourt,”Josiemurmured.Hermothershookherhead.“YouhaveasignedaffidavitfromJosiestating

thatshedoesn’trememberanything-”“Iknowyou’reupset.But the reality is, Jordan’scallingJosieonMonday,

andwe’drathertalktoherabouthertestimonybeforehandthanhavehercomeincold.It’sbetterforus,andit’sbetterforJosie.”Shehesitated.“Youcandoitthehardway,Judge,oryoucandoitthisway.”

Josie’s mother clenched her jaw. “Two o’clock,” she gritted out, and sheslammedthedoorinSelena’sface.

“Youpromised,”Josiecried.“YoupromisedmeIdidn’thavetogetupthereandtestify.YousaidIwouldn’thavetodothis!”

Hermother grabbed her by the shoulders. “Honey, I know this is scary. Iknowyoudon’twanttobethere.Butnothingyousayisgoingtohelphim.It’sgoingtobeveryshortandpainless.”SheglancedatPatrick.“Whythehellishedoingthis?”

“Becausehiscaseisinthetoilet,”Patricksaid.“HewantsJosietosaveit.”Thatwasallittook:Josieburstintotears.Jordanopenedthedoorofhisoffice,carryingSamlikeafootballinhisarms.

Itwas twoo’clockon thedot, and JosieCormier andhermotherhad arrived.JudgeCormier looked about as inviting as a sheer cliffwall; by contrast, herdaughter was shaking like a leaf. “Thanks for coming,” he said, pasting anenormous,friendlysmileonhisface.Aboveallelse,hewantedJosietofeelatease.

Neitherofthewomensaidaword.“I’m sorry about this,” Jordan said, gesturing toward Sam. “Mywifewas

supposedtobeherebynowtogetthebabysothatwecouldtalk,butaloggingtruckoverturnedonRoute10.”Hestretchedhissmilewider.“Itshouldonlybeaminute.”

Hegesturedtowardthecouchandchairsinhisoffice,offeringaseat.Therewerecookiesonthetable,andapitcherofwater.“Pleasehavesomethingtoeat,ordrink.”

“No,”thejudgesaid.Jordansatdown,bouncingthebabyonhisknee.“Right.”Hestaredattheclock,amazedathowverylongsixtysecondscouldbewhen

you wanted them to pass quickly, and then suddenly the door flew open andSelena ran inside. “Sorry, sorry,” she said, flustered, reaching for thebaby.Asshedid,thediaperbagfelloffhershoulder,skitteringacrossthefloortolandinfrontofJosie.

Josie stood up, staring at Selena’s fallen backpack. She backed away,stumbling over her mother’s legs and the side of the couch. “No,” shewhimpered,andshecurledintoaballinthecorner,coveringherheadwithherhandsasshestartedtocry.ThenoisesetSamoffshrieking,andSelenapressedhimupagainsthershoulderasJordanwatched,speechless.

Judge Cormier crouched beside her daughter. “Josie, what’s the matter.Josie?What’sgoingon?”

The girl rocked back and forth, sobbing. She glanced up at hermother. “Iremember,”shewhispered.“MorethanIsaidIdid.”

The judge’smouth dropped open, and Jordan used her shock to seize themoment.“Whatdoyouremember?”heasked,kneelingbesideJosie.

JudgeCormierpushedhimoutofthewayandhelpedJosietoherfeet.Shesatherdownonthecouchandpouredheraglassofwaterfromthepitcheronthetable.“It’sokay,”thejudgemurmured.

Josie took a shudderingbreath. “Thebackpack,” she said, jerkingher chintoward theoneon thefloor.“It felloffPeter’sshoulder, like thatonedid.The

zipperwasopen,and…andagunfellout.Mattgrabbedit.”Herfacecontorted.“He fired atPeter, buthemissed.AndPeter…andhe…”Sheclosedher eyes.“That’swhenPetershothim.”

JordancaughtSelena’seye.Peter’sdefensehingedonPTSD-howoneeventmight trigger another; how a personwhowas traumatizedmight be unable torecall anything about the event at all.How someone like Josiemightwatch adiaper bag fall and instead seewhat hadhappened in the locker roommonthsearlier:Peter,withagunpointingathim-arealandpresentthreat,abullyabouttokillhim.

Or,inotherwords,whatJordanhadbeensayingallalong.“It’samess,”JordansaidtoSelenaaftertheCormiershadgonehome.“And

thatworksforme.”Selena hadn’t left with the baby; Samwas now asleep in an empty filing

cabinet drawer. She and Jordan sat at the tablewhere, less than an hour ago,Josiehadconfessedthatshe’drecentlystartedtorememberbitsandpiecesoftheshooting but hadn’t told anyone, out of fear of having to go to court and talkaboutit.Thatwhenthediaperbaghadfallen,ithadallcomefloodingback,full-force.

“IfI’dfoundthisoutbeforethetrialstarted,IwouldhavetakenittoDianaandusedittactically,”Jordansaid.“Butsincethejury’salreadysitting,maybeIcandosomethingevenbetter.”

“Nothinglikeaneleventh-hourHailMarypass,”Selenasaid.“Let’s assumewe put Josie on the stand to say all this in court. All of a

sudden, those tendeathsaren’twhat theyseemed tobe.Nooneknew the realstory behind this one, and that calls into question everything else theprosecution’stoldthejuryabouttheshootings.Inotherwords,ifthestatedidn’tknowthis,whatelsedon’ttheyknow?”

“And,”Selenapointedout,“ithighlightswhatKingWahsaid.Herewasoneofthekidswho’dtormentedPeter,holdingagunonhim,justlikehe’dfiguredall along would happen.” She hesitated. “Granted, Peter was the one whobroughtinthegun…”

“That’s irrelevant,”Jordansaid.“Idon’thave tohaveall theanswers.”Hekissed Selena square on the mouth. “I just need to make sure that the statedoesn’teither.”

Alexsaton thebench,watchinga raggedcrewofcollegestudentsplayingUltimate Frisbee as if they had no idea that the world had split at its seams.Besideher,Josiehuggedherkneestoherchest.“Whydidn’tyoutellme?”Alexasked.

Josieliftedherface.“Icouldn’t.Youwerethejudgeonthecase.”

Alex felt a stab beneath her breastbone. “But even after I recusedmyself,Josie…when we went to see Jordan, and you said you didn’t rememberanything…That’swhyIhadyousweartheaffidavit.”

“I thought that’swhatyouwantedme todo,”Josiesaid.“You toldme if Isigned it, Iwouldn’thave tobeawitness…and Ididn’twant togo tocourt. Ididn’twanttoseePeteragain.”

Oneof the collegeplayers leaped andmissed theFrisbee. It sailed towardAlex,landinginascuffleofdustatherfeet.“Sorry,”theboycalled,waving.

Alexpickeditupandsentitsoaring.ThewindliftedtheFrisbeeandcarriedithigher,astainagainstaperfectlybluesky.

“Mommy,” Josie said, although she had not called Alex that for years.“What’sgoingtohappentome?”

Shedidn’tknow.Notasajudge,notasalawyer,notasamother.Theonlythingshecoulddowasoffergoodcounselandhopeitwithstoodwhatwasyettocome.“Fromhereonout,”AlextoldJosie,“allyouhavetodoistellthetruth.”

Patrickhadbeencalledintoadomestic-violencehostagenegotiationdowninCornish and did not reach Sterling until it was nearly midnight. Instead ofheading to his own house, hewent toAlex’s-it feltmore like home, anyway.He’dtriedtocallherseveraltimestodaytoseewhathadhappenedwithJordanMcAfee,buthecouldn’tgetcellphoneservicewherehewas.

He found her sitting in the dark on the living room sofa, and sank downbeside her. For amoment, he stared at thewall, just likeAlex. “What arewedoing?”hewhispered.

Shefacedhim,andthat’swhenherealizedshehadbeencrying.Heblamedhimself-You should have tried harder to call, you should have come homeearlier.“What’swrong?”

“Iscrewedup,Patrick,”Alexsaid.“IthoughtIwashelpingher.IthoughtIknewwhatIwasdoing.Asitturnedout,Ididn’tknowanythingatall.”

“Josie?”heasked,tryingtofittogetherthepieces.“Whereisshe?”“Asleep.Igaveherasleepingpill.”“Youwanttotalkaboutit?”“We saw JordanMcAfee today, and Josie toldhim…she toldhim that she

rememberedsomethingabouttheshooting.Infact,sherememberedeverything.”Patrickwhistledsoftly.“Soshewaslying?”“Idon’tknow.I thinkshewasscared.”AlexglancedupatPatrick.“That’s

notall.AccordingtoJosie,MattshotatPeterfirst.”“What?”“TheknapsackPeterwascarryingfelldowninfrontofMatt,andhegothold

ofoneoftheguns.Heshot,buthemissed.”

Patrick rubbed a hand down his face. Diana Leven was not going to behappy.

“What’sgoingtohappentoJosie?”Alexsaid.“Thebest-casescenarioisthatshe gets on the stand and the entire town hates her for testifying on Peter’sbehalf.Theworst-casescenarioisthatshecommitsperjuryonthestandandgetschargedwithit.”

Patrick’s mind was racing. “You can’t worry about this. It’s out of yourhands.Besides,Josiewillbefine.She’sasurvivor.”

He leaned down and kissed her, softly, hismouth rounding overwords hecouldn’tyettellher,andpromiseshewasafraidtomake.Hekissedheruntilhefeltthetightnessgooutofherspine.“Yououghttogotakeoneofthosesleepingpills,”hewhispered.

Alextiltedherhead.“You’renotstaying?”“Can’t.I’vestillgotworktodo.”“Youcameallthewayoverheretotellmeyou’releaving?”Patricklookedather,wishinghecouldexplainwhathehadtodo.“I’llsee

youlater,Alex,”hesaid.Alexhadconfidedinhim,butasajudge,shewouldknowthatPatrickcould

notkeephersecret.OnMondaymorning,whenPatricksawtheprosecutor,he’dhavetotellDianawhathenowknewaboutMattRoystonfiringthefirstshotinthe locker room. Legally, he was obligated to disclose this new wrinkle.However, technically, he had all day Sunday to do with that informationwhateverheliked.

IfPatrickcould findevidence tobackup Josie’s allegations, then itwouldsoften theblow forheron the stand-andmakehimahero inAlex’seyes.Buttherewasanotherpartofhim thatwanted to search the locker roomagain foranother reason. Patrick knew he had personally combed that small space forevidence,thatnootherbullethadbeenfound.AndifMatthadshotfirstatPeter,thereshouldhavebeenone.

Hehadn’twantedtosaythistoAlex,butJosiehadliedtothemonce.Therewasnoreasonshecouldn’tbedoingitagain.

At six in themorning, SterlingHigh Schoolwas a sleeping giant. Patrickunlockedthefrontdoorandmovedthroughthecorridorsinthedark.Theyhadbeenprofessionallycleaned,butthatdidn’tstophimfromseeing,inthebeamofhisflashlight,thespotswherebulletshadbrokenwindowsandbloodhadstainedthefloor.Hemovedquickly,theheelsofhisbootsechoing,ashepushedasideblueconstructiontarpsandavoidedstacksoflumber.

PatrickopenedthedoubledoorsofthegymandsqueakedhiswayacrosstheMorse-coded markings on the polyurethaned boards. He flicked a bank of

switchesandthegymfloodedwithlight.Thelasttimehe’dbeeninhere,therehadbeenemergencyblankets lyingon thefloor,corresponding to thenumbersthat had been inked on the foreheads ofNoah James andMichael Beach andJustinFriedmanandDustySpears andAustinProkiov.Therehadbeen crime-scene techscrawlingon theirhandsandknees, takingphotographsof chips inthecementblock,diggingbulletsoutofthebackboardofthebasketballhoop.

Hehad spent hours at the police station, his first stop after leavingAlex’shouse, scrutinizing the enlarged fingerprint that had been on Gun B. Aninconclusiveone;onethathe’dassumed,lazily,tobePeter’s.ButwhatifitwasMatt’s?Was there any way to prove that Royston had held the gun, as Josieclaimed?Patrickhad studied theprints taken fromMatt’s deadbody andheldthem up every which way against the partial print, until the lines and ridgesblurredevenmorethantheyshouldhave.

Ifhewasgoingtofindproof,itwasgoingtohavetobeintheschoolitself.The locker room looked exactly like the photo he’d used during his

testimonyearlierthisweek,exceptthatthebodies,ofcourse,hadbeenremoved.Unlikethecorridorsandclassroomsoftheschool,thelockerroomhadn’tbeencleaned or patched. The small area held too much damage-not physical, butpsychological-and the administration had unanimously agreed to tear it down,alongwiththerestofthegymandthecafeteria,laterthismonth.

The locker roomwas a rectangle.Thedoor that led into it, from thegym,wasinthemiddleofonelongwall.Awoodenbenchsatdirectlyopposite,andaline of metal lockers. In the far left corner of the locker room was a smalldoorwaythatopenedintoacommunalshowerstall.Inthiscorner,Matt’sbodyhad been found,with Josie lying beside him; thirty feet away in the far rightcorner of the locker room, Peter had been crouching. The blue backpack hadfallenjusttotheleftofthedoorway.

IfPatrickbelievedJosie,thenPeterhadcomerunningintothelockerroom,whereJosieandMatthadgonetohide.Presumably,hewasholdingGunA.Hedroppedhisbackpack,andMatt-whowouldhavebeenstandinginthemiddleoftheroom,closeenoughtoreachit-grabbedGunB.MattshotatPeter-thebulletthat had never been found, the one that proved Gun B was fired at all-andmissed.Whenhe tried to shootagain, thegun jammed.At thatmoment,Petershothim,twice.

Theproblemwas,Matt’sbodyhadbeenfoundatleastfifteenfeetawayfromthebackpackwherehe’dgrabbedthegun.

Why wouldMatt have backed up, and then shot at Peter? It didn’t makesense.ItwaspossiblethatPeter’sshotshadsentMatt’sbodyrecoiling,butbasicphysicstoldPatrickthatashotfiredfromwherePeterwasstandingwouldstill

not have landedMatt where he’d been found. In addition, there had been noblood-spatterpatterntosuggestthatMatthadbeenstandinganywherenearthebackpackwhenhewashitbyPeter.He’dprettymuchdroppedwherehe’dbeenshot.

Patrickwalkedtowardthewallwherehe’dapprehendedPeter.Hestartedatthe upper corner andmethodically ran his fingers over every divot and niche,over the edges of the lockers and inside them, around the bend of theperpendicularwalls.Hecrawledbeneaththewoodenbenchandscrutinizedtheunderside.Heheld his flashlight up to the ceiling. In such close quarters, anybulletfiredbyMattshouldhavemadeenoughseriousdamagetobenoticeable,and yet, there was absolutely no evidence that any gun had been fired-successfully-inPeter’sdirection.

Patrickwalked to theoppositecornerof the locker room.Therewasstilladarkbloodstainonthefloor,andadriedbootprint.Hesteppedoverthestainandinto the shower stall, repeating the samemeticulous investigation of the tiledwallthatwouldhavebeenbehindMatt.

Ifhefoundthatmissingbullethere,whereMatt’sbodyhadbeenfound,thenMattclearlyhadn’tbeentheonetofireGunB-itwouldhavebeenPeterwieldingthatweapon,aswellasGunA.Orinotherwords:JosiewouldhavebeenlyingtoJordanMcAfee.

Itwaseasywork,becausethetilewaswhite,pristine.Therewerenocracksorflakes,nochips,nothingthatwouldsuggestabullethadgonethroughMatt’sstomachandstrucktheshowerwall.

Patrick turned around, looking inplaces that didn’tmake sense: the topoftheshower,theceiling,thedrain.Hetookoffhisshoesandsocksandshuffledalongtheshowerfloor.

Itwaswhenhe’djustscrapedhislittletoealongthelineofthedrainthathefeltit.

Patrickgotdownonhishandsandkneesandfeltalongtheedgeofthemetal.Therewasalong,rawscuffonthetilethatborderedthedrainagegrate.Itwouldhaveeasilygoneunnoticedbecauseofitslocation-techswhosawithadprobablyassumed it was grout. He rubbed it with his finger and then peered with aflashlightintothedrain.Ifthebullethadslippedthrough,itwaslonggone-andyet,thedrainageholesweretinyenoughthatthisshouldn’thavebeenpossible.

Openinga locker,Patrick rippeda tinysquareofmirroroffwithhishandsandsetitface-upontheflooroftheshower,justwherethescuffmarkwas.Thenhe turnedoff the lightsand tookouta laserpointer.HestoodwherePeterhadbeenapprehendedandpointed thebeamat themirror,watched it bounceontothefarwalloftheshowers,wherenobullethadleftamark.

Circlingaround,hecontinuedtopoint thebeamuntil it ricochetedup-rightthrough the center of a small window that served as ventilation. He knelt,markingthespotwherehestoodwithapencilfromhispocket.Thenhedugouthiscellphone.“Diana,”hesaidwhen theprosecutoranswered.“Don’t let thattrialstarttomorrow.”

“I know it’s unusual,”Diana said in court the nextmorning, “and thatwehave a jury sitting here, but I have to ask for a recess untilmydetective getshere. He’s investigating something new on the case…possibly somethingexculpatory.”

“Haveyoucalledhim?”JudgeWagnerasked.“Several times.” Patrickwas not answering his phone. If hewas, then she

couldhavetoldhimdirectlyhowmuchshewantedtokillhim.“Ihavetoobject,YourHonor,”Jordansaid.“We’rereadytogoforward.I’m

sure thatMs.Levenwill giveme that exculpatory information, if andwhen iteverarrives,butI’mwillingatthispointtotakemychances.Andsincewe’reallhereatthebench,I’dliketoaddthatIhaveawitnesswho’spreparedtotestifyrightnow.”

“Whatwitness?”Dianasaid.“Youdon’thaveanyoneelsetocall.”Hesmiledather.“JudgeCormier’sdaughter.”Alexsatoutsidethecourtroom,holdingtighttoJosie’shand.“Thisisgoing

tobeoverbeforeyouknowit.”Thegreatironyhere,Alexknew,wasthatmonthsagowhenshe’dfoughtso

hardtobe the judgeonthiscase, itwasbecauseshefeltmoreateaseofferinglegalcomfort toherdaughter thanemotionalcomfort.Well,hereshewas,andJosiewasabout to testify in thearenaAlexknewbetter thananyoneelse,andshestilldidn’thaveanygrandjudicialadvicethatcouldhelpher.

Itwouldbescary.Itwouldbepainful.AndallAlexcoulddowaswatchhersuffer.

Abailiffcameouttothem.“Judge,”hesaid.“Ifyourdaughter’sready?”AlexsqueezedJosie’shand.“Just tell themwhatyouknow,”shesaid,and

shestooduptotakeaseatinthecourtroom.“Mom?” Josie called after her, andAlex turned. “What ifwhat you know

isn’twhatpeoplewanttohear?”Alextriedtosmile.“Tellthetruth,”shesaid.“Youcan’tlose.”Tocomplywithdiscoveryrules,JordanhandedDianaasynopsisofJosie’s

testimony as she was walking up to the stand. “When did you get this?” theprosecutorwhispered.

“Thisweekend.Sorry,”hesaid,althoughhereallywasn’t.HewalkedtowardJosie, who looked small and pale. Her hair had been gathered into a neat

ponytail, and her hands were folded in her lap. She was studiously avoidinganyone’sgazeby focusingon thegrainof thewoodon the railof thewitnessstand.

“Canyoustateyourname?”“JosieCormier.”“Wheredoyoulive,Josie?”“45EastPrescottStreet,inSterling.”“Howoldareyou?”“I’mseventeen,”shesaid.Jordantookastepcloser,sothatonlyshewouldbeabletohearhim.“See?”

hemurmured.“Pieceofcake.”Hewinkedather,andhethoughtshemightevenhavesmiledbackthetiniestbit.

“WherewereyouonthemorningofMarch6,2007?”“Iwasatschool.”“Whatclassdidyouhavefirstperiod?”“English,”Josiesaidsoftly.“Whataboutsecondperiod?”“Math.”“Thirdperiod?”“Ihadastudy.”“Wheredidyouspendit?”“With my boyfriend,” she said. “Matt Royston.” She looked sideways,

blinkingtoofast.“WherewereyouandMattduringthirdperiod?”“Weleftthecafeteria.Weweregoingtohislocker,beforethenextclass.”“Whathappenedthen?”Josie looked into her lap. “There was a lot of noise. And people started

running.Peoplewerescreamingaboutguns,aboutsomeonewithagun.Afriendofours,DrewGirard,toldusitwasPeter.”

Sheglancedupthen,andhereyeslockedonPeter’s.Foralongmoment,shejuststaredathim,andthensheclosedhereyesandturnedaway.

“Didyouknowwhatwasgoingon?”“No.”“Didyouseeanyoneshooting?”“No.”“Wheredidyougo?”“To the gym. We ran across it, toward the locker room. I knew he was

comingcloser,becauseIkepthearinggunshots.”“Whowaswithyouwhenyouwentintothelockerroom?”

“I thoughtDrewandMatt,butwhen I turnedaround, I realized thatDrewwasn’tthere.He’dbeenshot.”

“DidyouseeDrewgettingshot?”Josieshookherhead.“No.”“DidyouseePeterbeforeyougotintothelockerroom?”“No.”Herfacecrumpled,andshewipedathereyes.“Josie,”Jordansaid,“whathappenednext?”10:16A.M.,TheDayOfG et down,”Matt hissed, and he shoved Josie so that she fell behind the

woodenbench.Itwasn’tagoodplacetohide,but then,nowhereinthelockerroomwasa

goodplacetohide.Matt’splanhadbeentoclimboutthewindowintheshower,and he’d even opened it up, but then they’d heard the shots in the gym andrealizedtheydidn’thavetimetodragthebenchoverandclimbthrough.They’dboxedthemselvesin,literally.

Shecurledherself intoaballandMattcroucheddown in frontofher.Herheartthunderedagainsthisback,andshekeptforgettingtobreathe.

Hereachedbehindhimuntilhefoundherhand.“Ifanythinghappens,Jo,”hewhispered,“Ilovedyou.”

Josie started to cry. Shewas going to die; theywere all going to die. Shethoughtofahundredthingsshehadn’tdoneyetthatshesobadlywantedtodo:go to Australia, swim with dolphins. Learn all the words to “BohemianRhapsody.”Graduate.

Getmarried.ShewipedherfaceagainstthebackofMatt’sshirt,andthenthelockerroom

burst open. Peter stumbled inside, his eyes wild, holding a handgun. His leftsneakerwasuntied,Josienoticed,andthenshecouldn’tbelieveshenoticed.HeliftedhisgunatMatt,andshecouldn’thelpit;shescreamed.

Maybe it was the noise; maybe it was her voice. It startled Peter, and hedroppedhisbackpack.Itslidoffhisshoulder,andasitdid,anothergunfelloutofanopenpocket.

Itskitteredacrossthefloor,landingjustbehindJosie’sleftfoot.Doyouknowhowtherearemomentswhentheworldmovessoslowlyyou

can feel your bones shifting, your mind tumbling? When you think that nomatterwhathappens toyou for the restofyour life,youwill remembereverylast detail of that one minute forever? Josie watched her hand stretch back,watchedherfingerscurlaroundthecoldblackbuttofthegun.Fumblingit,shestaggeredupright,pointingthegunatPeter.

Matt backed away toward the showers, under Josie’s cover. Peter held his

gun steady, still pointing it atMatt, even though Josiewas closer. “Josie,” hesaid.“Letmefinishthis.”

“Shoothim,Josie,”Mattsaid.“Fuckingshoothim.”Peter pulledback the slideof thegun so that a bullet from the clipwould

cycleintoplace.Watchinghimcarefully,Josiemimickedhisactions.She rememberedbeing innurseryschoolwithPeter-howotherboyswould

pickupsticksorrocksandrunaroundyellingHandsup.WhathadsheandPeterusedthesticksfor?Shecouldn’trecall.

“Josie, for Christ’s sake!” Matt was sweating, his eyes wide. “Are youfuckingstupid?”

“Don’ttalktoherlikethat,”Petercried.“Shut up, asshole,” Matt said. “You think she’s going to save you?” He

turnedtoJosie.“Whatareyouwaitingfor?Shoot.”Soshedid.Asthegunfired,itrippedtwostripesofherskinfromthebaseofherthumb.

Herhandsjerkedupward,numb,humming.ThebloodwasblackonMatt’sgrayT-shirt. He stood for a moment, shocked, his hand over the wound in hisstomach.Shesawhismouthclosearoundhername,butshecouldn’thearit,herearswereringingsoloudly.Josie?andthenhefelltothefloor.

Josie’shandstartedshakingviolently;shewasn’tsurprisedwhenthegunjustfell out of it, as singularly repelled by her grasp as it had been glued to itmomentsbefore.“Matt,”shecried,runningtowardhim.Shepressedherhandsagainsttheblood,becausethat’swhatyouweresupposedtodo,wasn’tit,buthewrithedandscreamedinagony.Bloodbegantobubbleoutofhismouth,trailingdownhisneck.“Dosomething,”shesobbed,turningtoPeter.“Helpme.”

Peterwalkedcloser,liftedthegunhewasholding,andshotMattinthehead.Horrified,shescrambledbackward,awayfromthemboth.Thatwasn’twhat

she’dmeant;thatcouldn’thavebeenwhatshemeant.She stared at Peter, and she realized that in that one moment, when she

hadn’tbeenthinking,sheknewexactlywhathe’dfeltashemovedthroughtheschoolwithhisbackpackandhisguns.Everykid in thisschoolplayeda role:jock,brain,beauty,freak.AllPeterhaddonewaswhattheyallsecretlydreamedof:besomeone,evenforjustnineteenminutes,whonobodyelsewasallowedtojudge.

“Don’t tell,”Peterwhispered,andJosierealizedhewasofferingherawayout-adealsealedinblood,apartnershipofsilence:Iwon’tshareyoursecrets,ifyoudon’tsharemine.

Josienoddedslowly,andthenherworldwentblack.Ithinkaperson’slifeissupposedtobelikeaDVD.Youcanseetheversion

everyoneelsesees,oryoucanchoosethedirector’scut-thewayhewantedyoutoseeit,beforeeverythingelsegotintheway.

Therearemenus,probably, so thatyoucan start at thegood spotsandnothavetorelivethebadones.Youcanmeasureyourlifebythenumberofscenesyou’vesurvived,ortheminutesyou’vebeenstuckthere.

Probably, though, life is more like one of those dumb video surveillancetapes.Grainy,nomatterhowhardyoustareat it.And looped: thesame thing,overandover.

FiveMonthsAfterAlexpushedpastthepeopleinthegallerywhohaderuptedinconfusionin

the wake of Josie’s confession. Somewhere in this crowd of people were theRoystons,whohadjustheardthattheirsonhadbeenshotbyherdaughter,butshecouldnotthinkofthatrightnow.ShecouldonlyseeJosie,trappedonthatwitnessstand,whileAlexstruggledtogetpastthebar.Shewasajudge,dammit;sheshouldhavebeenallowedtogothere,but twobailiffswerefirmlyholdingherback.

Wagnerwassmackinghisgavel,althoughnobodygaveadamn.“We’lltakeafifteen-minuterecess,”heordered,andasanotherbailiffhauledPeterthroughareardoor,thejudgeturnedtoJosie.“Younglady,”hesaid,“youarestillunderoath.”

Alex watched Josie being taken through another door, and she called outafterher.Amoment later,Eleanorwasather side.Theclerk tookAlex’sarm.“Judge,comewithme.You’renotsafeouthererightnow.”

For the first time she could actively remember,Alex allowedherself tobeled.

Patrick arrived in the courtroom just as it exploded. He saw Josie on thestand,cryingdesperately;hesawJudgeWagnerfightingforcontrol-butmostofall,hesawAlexsingle-mindedlytryingtogettoherdaughter.

Hewouldhavedrawnhisgunrightthenandtheretohelpherdoit.Bythetimehefoughthiswaydownthecentralaisleofthecourtroom,Alex

was gone.He caught a glimpse of her as she slipped into a room behind thebench, and he hurdled the bar to followher but felt someone grab his sleeve.Annoyed,heglanceddowntoseeDianaLeven.

“Whatthehellisgoingon?”heasked.“Youfirst.”He sighed. “I spent the night at Sterling High, trying to check Josie’s

statement.Itdidn’tmakesense-ifMatthadfiredatPeter,thereshouldhavebeenphysicalevidenceofdestructioninthewallbehindhim.Iassumedthatshewaslying again-that Peter had been the one to shoot Matt unprovoked. Once I

figuredoutwhere that firstbullethit, Iuseda laser toseewhere itcouldhavericocheted-and then I understoodwhywedidn’t find it the first time around.”Digging inhiscoat,heextractedanevidencebagwithaslug inside.“Thefiredepartment helped me dig it out of a maple tree outside the window in theshower stall. I drove it straight to the lab for testing-and stood over them allnightwithawhipuntiltheyagreedtodotheworkonthespot.Notonlywasthebullet fired from Gun B, it’s got blood and tissue on it that types to MattRoyston.Thethingis,whenyoureversetheangleofthatbullet-whenyoustandinthetreeandricochetthelaseroffthetilewhereitstruck,toseewheretheshotoriginated from-you don’t get anywhere close towhere Peterwas standing. Itwas-”

The prosecutor sighed wearily. “Josie just confessed to shooting MattRoyston.”

“Well,”Patricksaid,handingtheevidencebagtoDiana,“she’sfinallytellingthetruth.”

Jordanleanedagainstthebarsoftheholdingcell.“Didyouforgettotellmeaboutthis?”

“No,”Petersaid.He turned.“Youknow, ifyou’dmentioned thisat thebeginning,yourcase

couldhavehadaverydifferentoutcome.”Peter was lying on the bench in the cell, his hands behind his head. To

Jordan’s shock, he was smiling. “She wasmy friend again,” Peter explained.“Youdon’tbreakapromisetoafriend.”

Alexsatinthedarkoftheconferenceroomwheredefendantswereusuallybroughtduringbreaks,andrealizedthatherdaughternowwouldqualify.Therewouldbeanothertrial,andthistimeJosiewouldbeatthecenterofit.

“Why?”sheasked.ShecouldmakeoutthesilveredgeofJosie’sprofile.“Becauseyoutoldme

totellthetruth.”“Whatisthetruth?”“IlovedMatt.AndIhatedhim.Ihatedmyselfforlovinghim,butifIwasn’t

withhim,Iwasn’tanyoneanymore.”“Idon’tunderstand…”“How could you? You’re perfect.” Josie shook her head. “The rest of us,

we’re all like Peter. Some of us just do a better job of hiding it.What’s thedifferencebetweenspendingyourlifetryingtobeinvisible,orpretendingtobethepersonyouthinkeveryonewantsyoutobe?Eitherway,you’refaking.”

Alexthoughtofallthepartiesshe’devergonetowherethefirstquestionshewasaskedwasWhatdoyoudo?asifthatwereenoughtodefineyou.Nobody

everaskedyouwhoyoureallywere,becausethatchanged.Youmightbeajudgeoramotheroradreamer.Youmightbealoneroravisionaryorapessimist.Youmightbe thevictim,andyoumightbe thebully.Youcouldbe theparent,andalsothechild.Youmightwoundonedayandhealthenext.

I’m not perfect, Alex thought, and maybe that was the first step towardbecomingthatway.

“What’sgoingtohappentome?”Josieasked,thesamequestionshe’daskedadayago,whenAlexthoughtherselfqualifiedtogiveanswers.

“What’sgoingtohappentous,”Alexcorrected.AsmilechasedoverJosie’sface,gonealmostasquicklyasithadcome.“I

askedyoufirst.”The door to the conference room opened, spilling light from the corridor,

silhouettingwhatevercamenext.Alexreachedforherdaughter’shandandtookadeepbreath.“Let’sgosee,”shesaid.

Peter was convicted of eight first-degree murders and two second-degreemurders. The jury decided that in the case of Matt Royston and CourtneyIgnatio,hehadnotbeenactingwithpremeditationanddeliberation.He’dbeenprovoked.

After the verdict was handed down, Jordanmet with Peter in the holdingcell.He’dbebroughtbacktothejailonlyuntilthesentencinghearing;thenhewould be transferred to the state prison in Concord. Serving out eightconsecutivemurdersentences,hewouldnotleaveitalive.

“Youokay?”Jordanasked,puttinghishandonPeter’sshoulder.“Yeah.”Heshrugged.“Isortofknewitwasgoingtohappen.”“Buttheyheardyou.That’swhytheycamebackwithmanslaughterfortwo

ofthecounts.”“I guess I should say thanks for trying.” He smiled crookedly at Jordan.

“Haveagoodlife.”“I’llcomeseeyou,ifIgetdowntoConcord,”Jordansaid.HelookedatPeter.Inthesixmonthssincethiscasehadfallenintohislap,

hisclienthadgrownup.PeterwasastallasJordannow.Heprobablyweighedalittle more. He had a deeper voice, a shadow of beard on his jaw. Jordanmarveledthathehadn’tnoticedthesethingsuntilnow.

“Well,”Jordansaid.“I’msorryitdidn’tworkoutthewayI’dhoped.”“Me,too.”Peterheldouthishand,andJordanembracedhiminstead.“Takecare.”Hestartedoutofthecell,andthenPetercalledhimback.Hewasholdingout

the eyeglasses Jordan had brought him for the trial. “These are yours,” Petersaid.

“Hangontothem.Youhavemoreuseforthem.”Peter tucked theglasses into the frontpocketof Jordan’s jacket.“Ikindof

likeknowingyou’retakingcareofthem,”hesaid.“Andthereisn’tallthatmuchIreallywanttosee.”

Jordannodded.Hewalkedoutof theholdingcellandsaidgood-byetothedeputies.Thenheheadedtowardthelobby,whereSelenawaswaiting.

Asheapproachedher,heputonPeter’sglasses.“What’supwiththose?”sheasked.

“Ikindoflikethem.”“Youhaveperfectvision,”Selenapointedout.Jordanconsideredthewaythelensesmadetheworldcurveinattheends,so

thathehadtomovemoregingerlythroughit.“Notalways,”hesaid.Intheweeksafterthetrial,Lewisbeganfoolingaroundwithnumbers.He’d

donesomepreliminaryresearchandentereditintoSTATAtoseewhatkindsofpatternsemerged.And-herewastheinterestingthing-ithadabsolutelynothingtodo with happiness. Instead, he’d started looking at the communities whereschoolshootingshadoccurredinthepastandspinningthemouttothepresent,toseehowasingleactofviolencemightaffecteconomicstability.Orinotherwords-oncetheworldwaspulledoutfrombeneathyourfeet,didyouevergettostandonfirmgroundagain?

He was teaching again at Sterling College-basic microeconomics. ClasseshadonlyjustbeguninlateSeptember,andLewisfoundhimselfslippingeasilyinto the lecture circuit. When he was talking about Keynesian models andwidgetsandcompetition,itwasroutine-soeffortlessthathecouldalmostmakehimself believe this was any other freshman survey course he’d taught in thepast,beforePeterhadbeenconvicted.

Lewis taughtbywalkingupanddowntheaisles-anecessaryevil,nowthatthe campus had goneWiFi and studentswould play online poker or IM eachotherwhilehelectured-whichwashowhehappenedtocomeacrossthekidsinthe back.Two football playerswere taking turns squeezing a sports-topwaterbottlesothatthestreamarcedupwardandsprayedontothebackofanotherkid’sneck.Theboy,tworowsforward,keptturningaroundtoseewhowassquirtingwaterathim,butbythen,thejockswerelookingupatthegraphsonthescreeninthefrontofthehall,theirfacesassmoothaschoirboys’.

“Now,”Lewissaid,notmissingabeat,“whocantellmewhathappensifyousetthepriceabovepointAonthegraph?”Hepluckedthewaterbottleoutofthehandsofoneofthejocks.“Thankyou,Mr.Graves.Iwasgettingthirsty.”

Theboytworowsaheadraisedhishandlikeanarrow,andLewisnoddedathim.“Noonewouldwanttobuythewidgetforthatmuchmoney,”hesaid.“So

demandwouldfall,andthatmeansthepricewouldhavetodrop,orthey’dwindupwithawholeboatloadofextrasinthewarehouse.”

“Excellent,”Lewissaid,andheglancedupattheclock.“Allright,guys,onMondaywe’llbecoveringthenextchapterinMankiw.Anddon’tbesurprisedifthere’sasurprisequiz.”

“Ifyoutoldus,it’snotasurprise,”agirlpointedout.Lewissmiled.“Oops.”He stood by the chair of the boy who’d given the right answer. He was

stuffing his notebook into his backpack,whichwas already so crammedwithpapersthatthezipperwouldn’tclose.Hishairwastoolong,andhisT-shirthadapictureofEinstein’sfaceonit.“Niceworktoday.”

“Thanks.”Theboyshiftedfromonefoottotheother;Lewiscouldtell thathewasn’tquitesurewhattosaynext.Hethrustouthishand.“Um,nicetomeetyou.Imean,you’vealreadymetusall,butnot,like,personally.”

“Right.What’syournameagain?”“Peter.PeterGranford.”Lewisopeneduphismouthtospeak,butthenjustshookhishead.“What?”Theboyduckedhishead.“Youjust,uh,lookedlikeyouweregoing

tosaysomethingimportant.”Lewis looked at this namesake, at the way he stood with his shoulders

rounded, as if he did not deserve so much space in this world. He felt thatfamiliarpainthatfell likeahammeronhisbreastbonewheneverhethoughtofPeter,ofalifethatwouldbelosttoprison.Hewishedhe’dtakenmoretimetolookatPeterwhenPeterwasrightinfrontofhiseyes,becausenowhewouldbeforcedtocompensatewithimperfectmemoriesor-evenworse-tofindhissoninthefacesofstrangers.

Lewis reached deep inside and unraveled the smile that he saved formomentslikethis,whentherewasabsolutelynothingtobehappyabout.“Itwasimportant,”hesaid.“YouremindmeofsomeoneIusedtoknow.”

It took Lacy three weeks to gather the courage to enter Peter’s bedroom.Now that the verdict had been handed down-now that they knewPeterwouldneverbecominghomeagain-therewasnoreason tokeep itasshehadfor thepastfivemonths:ashrine,ahavenforoptimism.

She sat down on Peter’s bed and brought his pillow to her face. It stillsmelledlikehim,andshewonderedhowlongitwouldtakeforthattodissipate.Sheglancedaroundatthescatteredbooksonhisshelves-theonesthatthepolicehadnottaken.Sheopenedhisnightstanddrawerandfingeredthesilkytasselofa bookmark, the metal teeth of a lockjawed stapler. The empty belly of atelevisionremotecontrol,missingitsbatteries.Amagnifyingglass.Anoldpack

ofPokémoncards,amagictrick,aportableharddriveonakey-chain.Lacytooktheboxshe’dbroughtupfromthebasementandplacedeachitem

inside.Herewas the crime scene: look atwhatwas left behind and try to re-createtheboy.

Shefoldedhisquilt,andthenhissheets,andthenpulledthepillowcasefree.Shesuddenly recalledadinnerconversationwhereLewishad toldher that for$10,000,youcouldflattenahousewithawreckingball.Imaginehowmuchlessittooktodestroysomethingthanitdidtobuilditinthefirstplace:inlessthananhour,thisroomwouldlookasifPeterhadneverlivedhereatall.

When it was all a neat pile, Lacy sat back down on the bed and lookedaroundatthestarkwalls,thepaintalittlebrighterinthespotswherepostershadbeen.She touched thepiped seamofPeter’smattressandwonderedhow longshewouldcontinuetothinkofitasPeter’s.

Lovewassupposedtomovemountains, tomaketheworldgoround, tobeallyouneed,butitfellapartatthedetails.Itcouldn’tsaveasinglechild-nottheones who’d gone to Sterling High that day, expecting the normal; not JosieCormier; certainlynotPeter.Sowhatwas the recipe?Was it love,mixedwithsomethingelseforgoodmeasure?Luck?Hope?Forgiveness?

She remembered, suddenly,whatAlexCormier had said to her during thetrial:Somethingstillexistsaslongasthere’ssomeonearoundtorememberit.

Everyonewould rememberPeter fornineteenminutesofhis life,butwhatabouttheotherninemillion?Lacywouldhavetobethekeeperofthose,becauseitwastheonlywayforthatpartofPetertostayalive.Foreveryrecollectionofhim that involvedabulletora scream, shewouldhaveahundredothers:ofalittleboy splashing in apond,or ridingabicycle for the first time,orwavingfromthetopofajunglegym.Ofakissgoodnight,oracrayonedMother’sDaycard, or a voice off-key in the shower. She would string them together-themomentswhenherchildhadbeenjustlikeotherpeople’s.Shewouldwearthem,preciouspearls,everydayofherlife;becauseifshelostthem,thentheboyshehadlovedandraisedandknownwouldreallybegone.

Lacy began to stretch the sheets over the bed again. She settled the quilt,tuckedthecorners,fluffedthepillow.Shesetthebooksbackontheshelvesandthetoysandtoolsandknickknacksbackinthenightstand.Last,sheunrolledthelongtonguesofthepostersandputthembackuponthewalls.Shewascarefultoplace the thumbtacks in the sameoriginalholes.Thatway, shewouldn’tbedoinganymoredamage.

Exactlyonemonthafterhewasconvicted,whenthelightsweredimmedandthedetentionofficersmadeafinalsweepofthecatwalk,Peterreacheddownandtuggedoffhisrightsock.Heturnedonhissideinthelowerbunk,sothathewas

facingthewall.Hefedthesockintohismouth,stuffingitasfarbackasitwouldgo.

Whenitgothardtobreathe,hefellintoadream.Hewasstilleighteen,butitwas the first day of kindergarten. He was carrying his backpack and hisSuperman lunch box. The orange school bus pulled up and,with a sigh, splitopenitsgapingjaws.Peterclimbedthestepsandfacedthebackofthebus,butthis time,hewas theonlystudenton it.Hewalkeddown theaisle to theveryend,neartheemergencyexit.Heputhislunchboxdownbesidehimandglancedouttherearwindow.Itwassobrighthethoughtthesunitselfmustbechasingthemdownthehighway.

“Almost there,”avoicesaid,andPeter turnedaroundto lookat thedriver.Butjustastherehadbeennopassengers,therewasnooneatthewheel.

Herewas the amazing thing: in his dream, Peterwasn’t scared. He knew,somehow,thathewasheadedexactlywherehe’dwantedtogo.

March6,2008YoumightnothaverecognizedSterlingHigh.Therewasanewgreenmetal

roof,freshgrassgrowingoutfront,andaglassatriumthatrosetwostoriesattherear of the school. A plaque on the bricks by the front door read: A SAFEHARBOR.

Later today, there would be a ceremony to honor the memories of thosewho’ddiedhereayearago,butbecausePatrickhadbeen involved in thenewsecurityprotocolsfortheschool,he’dbeenabletosneakAlexinforanadvanceviewing.

Inside,therewerenolockers-justopencubbies,sothatnothingwashiddenfromview.Studentswereinclass;onlyafewteachersmovedthroughthelobby.They wore IDs around their necks, as did the kids. Alex had not reallyunderstoodthis-thethreatwasalwaysfromtheinside,nottheoutside-butPatricksaidthatitmadepeoplefeelsecure,andthatwashalfthebattle.

Hercellphonerang.Patricksighed.“Ithoughtyoutoldthem-”“I did,” Alex said. She flipped it open, and the secretary for the Grafton

Countypublicdefender’sofficebeganreelingoffalitanyofcrises.“Stop,”shesaid,interrupting.“Remember?I’mmissinginactionfortheday.”

She had resigned her judicial appointment. Josie had been charged as anaccessory to second-degreemurder and accepted a plea ofmanslaughter,withfive years served. After that, every time Alex had a child in her courtroomcharged with a felony, she couldn’t be impartial. As a judge, weighing theevidence had taken precedence; but as a mother, it was not the facts thatmattered-onlythefeelings.Goingbacktoherrootsasapublicdefenderseemednot only natural but comfortable. She understood, firsthand, what her clients

were feeling. She visited them when she went to visit her daughter at thewomen’s penitentiary.Defendants likedher because shewasn’t condescendingandbecauseshetoldthemthetruthabouttheirchances:whatyousawofAlexCormierwaswhatyougot.

PatrickledhertothespotthathadoncehousedthebackstaircaseatSterlingHigh. Instead, now, therewas an enormous glass atrium that covered the spotwhere the gymnasium and locker room had been. Outside, you could see theplayingfields,whereagymclasswasnowinthethickofasoccergame,takingadvantageof the early springand themelted snow. Inside, therewerewoodentablessetup,withstoolswherestudentscouldmeetorhaveasnackorread.Afewkidsweretherenow,studyingforageometrytest.Theirwhispersroselikesmoketotheceiling:complementary…supplementary…intersection…endpoint.

Toonesideoftheatrium,infrontoftheglasswall,weretenchairs.Unliketherestoftheseatsintheatrium,thesehadbacksandwerepaintedwhite.Youhadtolookcloselytoseethattheyhadbeenboltedtothefloor,insteadofhavingbeendraggedoverbystudentsandleftbehind.Theywerenotlinedupinarow;theywerenotevenlyspaced.Theydidnothavenamesorplacardsonthem,buteveryoneknewwhytheywerethere.

ShefeltAlexcomeupbehindherandslidehisarmaroundherwaist.“It’salmosttime,”hesaid,andshenodded.

Asshereachedforoneoftheemptystoolsandstartedtodragitclosertotheglass wall, Patrick took it from her. “For God’s sake, Patrick,” shemuttered.“I’mpregnant,notterminal.”

That had been a surprise, too.The babywas due at the end ofMay.Alextriednottothinkaboutitasareplacementforthedaughterwhowouldstillbeinjail for thenext fouryears;she imagined instead thatmaybe thiswouldbe theonewhorescuedthemall.

PatricksankdownbesideheronastoolasAlexlookedatherwatch:10:02a.m.

Shetookadeepbreath.“Itdoesn’tlookthesameanymore.”“Iknow,”Patricksaid.“Doyouthinkthat’sagoodthing?”Hethoughtforamoment.“Ithinkit’sanecessarything,”hesaid.Shenoticedthatthemapletree,theonethathadgrownoutsidethewindow

ofthesecond-storylockerroom,hadnotbeencutdownduringtheconstructionof the atrium.Fromwhere shewas sitting, you couldn’t see the hole that hadbeencarvedoutof it to retrieveabullet.The treewasenormous,witha thickgnarledtrunkandtwistedlimbs.Ithadprobablybeenherelongbeforethehighschooleverwas,maybeevenbeforeSterlingwassettled.

10:09.ShefeltPatrick’shandslipintoherlapasshewatchedthesoccergame.The

teamsseemedgrosslymismatched,thekidswhohadalreadyhitpubertyplayingagainst thosewhowere still slight and small.Alexwatched a striker charge adefenseman for the other team, leaving the smaller boy trampled as the ballhurtledhighintothenet.

All that, Alex thought, and nothing’s changed. She glanced at her watchagain:10:13.

The last few minutes, of course, were the hardest. Alex found herselfstanding,herhandspressedflatagainst theglass.Shefelt thebabykick insideher,answeringbacktothedarkerhookofherheart.10:16.10:17.

Thestrikerreturnedtothespotwherethedefensemanhadfallenandreachedout his hand to help the slighter boy stand.Theywalked back to center field,talkingaboutsomethingAlexcouldn’thear.

Itwas10:19.Shehappenedtoglanceatthemapletreeagain.Thesapwasstillrunning.A

fewweeksfromnow,therewouldbeareddishhueonthebranches.Thenbuds.Aburstoffirstleaves.

AlextookPatrick’shand.Theywalkedoutoftheatriuminsilence,downthecorridors,pasttherowsofcubbies.Theycrossedthelobbyandthresholdofthefrontdoor,retracingthestepsthey’dtaken.