it already,â my eldest says.
âGo upstairs and brush your hair,â says my wife.
âItâs combed,â she says. âSee?â
âIt doesnât look combed,â my wife says. âComb it again. Go on.â
âMom!â
I put down my fork. âListen to your mother,â I say. âUpstairs.â
My daughter makes a show of leaving, smashing her chair back into the wall, looking at us to see what we will say, climbing the stairs slowly, backwards, looking at us the whole time.
âYou boys too,â my wife says. âGo upstairs and get ready for school.â
âIâm still eating, Mom,â says Jack.
âGo,â she says. âAnd wash your face.â
Mark goes and Jack follows, groaning. My wife pulls Jackâs plate onto the tray of our youngestâs high chair. Our youngest takes up the plate, clatters it onto the floor. My wife gropes absently under the table for it, her eyes still on me, the baby grabbing at the clip in her hair.
âWho killed her?â my wife says.
âI shouldnât say anything,â I say. âClergyâs confidentiality.â
âTell me anyway.â
âI donât know for certain,â I say. âIf I tell you, I donât want to hear it from the neighbors when I get home tonight.â
âDonât worry,â she says. âIâll keep it to myself.â
âI think it was her brother,â I say.
âHer brother?â
âHe got her pregnant. She told me herself.â
âHer own brother?â
âYes.â
âWas it a half-brother?â
âHow should I know? Would that make a difference? I think he was her full brother.â
âLord, that is awful,â she says. âBut if he is capable of incest, heâs capable of murder.â
âWe donât know for certain he did it,â I say. âWe shouldnât judge the boy.â
âNo,â she says. âI guess not.â
She opens the paper again, reading down the column, the picture of the girl in the clearing riding beside her thumb, staring at me. The girl is faceup in the photograph, though my recollection is facedown. I left her facedown, her body anyway. Theyâve moved her head back around, away from where I left it, made it look still attached, ruining the tableau.
A pretty piece of work, if I do say so myself. But sheâs saved. Iâve done her a favor.
âWhat are you going to do?â my wife asks.
âGo to the office. I should have left already.â
âAbout this, I mean,â she says, tapping the girlâs face. âAbout the brother.â
âI canât prove any of it.â
âYou should mention the brother to the police,â she says.
âDonât tell me what to do,â I say. âI imagine theyâll figure it out on their own.â
âGo to them today,â she says.
âI shouldnât have brought it up,â I say. âForget I said anything.â
CHAPTER 3
Bus
I am proofreading a contract when a man chooses to sit next to me, although the bus is empty. He wears a white button-down shirt, a burgundy tie, a dark suit. He nods to me as he pulls his briefcase onto his lap, springing the catches, opening it up. He takes out the morning paper, unfolds the body of the dead girl.
âMorning,â he says.
âPardon?â I say.
âMorning,â he says. âAs in good morning.â
âYes,â I say. âGood morning.â
âOr as in bad morning,â he says.
I shrug.
âOr as in mourning the dead,â he says, tapping the girlâs face.
âYes,â I say. âTerrible tragedy.â
âNo need to hold pretense with me,â the man says. âDonât you recognize me?â
âIâm afraid I canât place you.â
âCan it be youâve forgotten me?â he asks. âEven after last night?â
âI