After breakfast, Paul got into his car and fished the keys from the pocket of his coat. From the porch, Adrienne waved, as if wishing him luck. A moment later, Paul looked over his shoulder and began backing out of the drive.

He reached Torrelson’s street in a few minutes; though he could have walked, he didn’t know how fast the weather would deteriorate, and he didn’t want to be caught in the rain. Nor did he want to feel trapped if the meeting started to go badly. Though he wasn’t sure what to expect, he de-cided he would tell Torrelson everything that had hap-pened with regard to the operation but wouldn’t speculate on what had caused her death.

He slowed the car, pulled it to the side of the road, and switched off the engine. After taking a moment to prepare himself, he got out and started up the walkway. A neighbor next door was standing on a ladder, hammering a piece of plywood over a window. He looked over at Paul, trying to figure out who he was. Paul ignored the stare, and when he reached Torrelson’s door, he knocked, then stepped back, giving himself space.

When no one came to the door, he knocked again, this time listening for movement inside. Nothing. He moved to the side of the porch. Though the doors of the outbuilding were still open, he didn’t see anyone. He considered calling out but decided against it. Instead, he went to the trunk of his car and opened it. From the medical kit, he pulled out a pen and tore a scrap of paper from one of the notebooks he’d stuffed inside.

He wrote his name and where he was staying, as well as a brief message saying that he would be in town until Tues-day morning if Robert still wanted to talk to him. Then, folding the paper, he brought the note to the front porch and wedged it into the frame, making sure it wouldn’t blow away. He was heading back to the car, feeling both disap-pointed and relieved, when he heard a voice behind him.

“Can I help you?”

When Paul turned, he didn’t recognize the man standing near the house. Though he couldn’t recall what Robert Torrelson looked like—his face was one of thousands—he knew he’d never seen this person before. He was a young man in his thirties or so, gaunt, with thinning black hair, dressed in a sweatshirt and work jeans. He was staring at Paul with the same wariness the neighbor had shown him earlier when he’d first pulled up.

Paul cleared his throat. “Yes,” he said, “I was looking for Robert Torrelson. Is this the right place ?”

The young man nodded without changing his expres-sion. “Yeah, he lives here. That’s my dad.”

“Is he in?”

“You with the bank?”

Paul shook his head. “No. My name is Paul Flanner.” It was a moment before the young man recognized the name. His eyes narrowed.

“The doctor?”

Paul nodded. “Your father sent me a letter saying he wanted to speak to me.”

“What for?”

“I don’t know.”

“He didn’t tell me about no letter.” As he spoke, the muscles in his jaw began to clench.

“Can you tell him I’m here?”

The young man hooked his thumb into his belt. “He’s not in.”

As he said it, his eyes flashed to the house, and Paul wondered if he was telling the truth.

“Will you at least tell him I came by? I left a note on the door telling him where he can reach me.”

“He doesn’t want to talk to you.”

Paul dropped his gaze, then looked up again.

“I think that’s for him to decide, don’t you?” he said.

“Who the hell do you think you are? You think you can come here and try to talk your way out of what you did? Like it was just some mistake or something?”

Paul said nothing. Sensing his hesitation, the young man took a step toward him and went on, his voice rising.

“Just get the hell out of here! I don’t want you around here anymore, and my dad doesn’t, either!”

“Fine . . . okay. . .”

The young man reached for a nearby shovel and Paul raised his hands, backing away.

“I’m going. . .”

He turned and started toward the car.

“And don’t come back,” the young man shouted. “Don’t you think you’ve done enough already? My mother’s dead because of you!”

Paul flinched at the words, feeling their sting, then got in the car. After starting the engine, he pulled away with-out looking back.

He didn’t see the neighbor come down from the ladder to speak with the young man; he didn’t see the young man throw the shovel. He didn’t see the living room curtain fall back into place inside the house.

Nor did he see the front door open or the wrinkled hand that retrieved the note after it had fallen to the porch.

Minutes later, Adrienne was listening to Paul as he re-counted what had happened. They were in the kitchen, and Paul was leaning against the counter, his arms crossed as he gazed out the window. His expression was blank, withdrawn; he looked far more tired than he had earlier in the morning. When he finished, Adrienne’s face showed a mixture of sympathy and concern.

“At least you tried,” she said.

“A lot of good that did, huh?”

“Maybe he didn’t know about his father’s letter.”

Paul shook his head. “It’s not just that. It goes back to the whole reason I came here. I wanted to see if I could fix it somehow or at least make it understandable, but I’m not even going to get the chance.”

“That’s not your fault.”

“Then why does it feel that way?”

In the silence that followed, Adrienne could hear the ticking of the heater.

“Because you care. Because you’ve changed.”

“Nothing’s changed. They still think I killed her.” He sighed. “Can you imagine how it feels to know that some-one believes that about you?”

“No,” she admitted, “I can’t. I&rs............