he night before she was to meet with Miles Ryan, Sarah Andrews was walking through the historic district in New Bern, doing her best to keep a steady pace.  Though she wanted to get the most from her workout—she’d been an avid walker for the past five years—since she’d moved here, she’d found it hard to do. Every time she went out, she found something new to interest her, something that would make her stop and stare.

New Bern, founded in 1710, was situated on the banks of the Neuse and Trent Rivers in eastern North Carolina. As the second oldest town in the state, it had once served as the capital and been home to the Tryon Palace, residence of the colonial governor. Destroyed by fire in 1798, the palace had been restored in 1954, complete with some of the most breathtaking and exquisite gardens in the South. Throughout the grounds, tulips and azaleas bloomed each spring, and chrysanthemums blossomed in the fall. Sarah had taken a tour when she’d first arrived. Though the gardens were between seasons, she’d nonetheless left the palace wanting to live within walking distance so she could pass its gates each day.

She’d moved into a quaint apartment on Middle Street a few blocks away, in the heart of downtown. The apartment was up the stairs and three doors away from the pharmacy where in 1898 Caleb Bradham had first marketed Brad’s drink, which the world came to know as Pepsi-Cola. Around the corner was the Episcopal church, a stately brick structure shaded with towering magnolias, whose doors first opened in 1718. When she left her apartment to take her walk, Sarah passed both sites as she made her way to Front Street, where many of the old mansions had stood gracefully for the past two hundred years.

What she really admired, however, was the fact that most of the homes had been painstakingly restored over the past fifty years, one house at a time. Unlike Williamsburg, Virginia, which was restored largely through a grant from the Rockefeller Foundation, New Bern had appealed to its citizens and they had responded. The sense of community had lured her parents here four years earlier; she’d known nothing about New Bern until she’d moved to town last June.  As she walked, she reflected on how different New Bern was from Baltimore, Maryland, where she’d been born and raised, where she’d lived until just a few months earlier. Though Baltimore had its own rich history, it was a city first and foremost. New Bern, on the other hand, was a small southern town, relatively isolated and largely uninterested in keeping up with the ever quickening pace of life elsewhere. Here, people would wave as she passed them on the street, and any question she asked usually solicited a long, slow-paced answer, generally peppered with references to people or events that she’d never heard of before, as if everything and everyone were somehow connected. Usually it was nice, other times it drove her batty.

Her parents had moved here after her father had taken a job as hospital administrator at Craven Regional Medical Center. Once Sarah’s divorce had been finalized, they’d begun to prod her to move down as well. Knowing how her mother was, she’d put it off for a year. Not that Sarah didn’t love her mother, it was just that her mother could sometimes be . . .draining, for lack of a better word. Still, for peace of mind she’d finally taken their advice, and so far, thankfully, she hadn’t regretted it. It was exactly what she needed, but as charming as this town was, there was no way she saw herself living here forever.  New Bern, she’d learned almost right away, was not a town for singles. There weren’t many places to meet people, and the ones her own age that she had met were already married, with families of their own. As in many southern towns, there was still a social order that defined town life. With most people married, it was hard for a single woman to find a place to fit in, or even to start.  Especially someone who was divorced and completely new to the area.  It was, however, an ideal place to raise children, and sometimes as she walked, Sarah liked to imagine that things had turned out differently for her. As a young girl, she’d always assumed she would have the kind of life she wanted: marriage, children, a home in a neighborhood where families gathered in the yards on Friday evenings after work was finished for the week. That was the kind of life she’d had as a child, and it was the kind she wanted as an adult. But it hadn’t worked out that way. Things in life seldom did, she’d come to understand.  For a while, though, she had believed anything was possible, especially when she’d met Michael. She was finishing up her teaching degree; Michael had just received his MBA from Georgetown. His family, one of the most prominent in Baltimore, had made their fortune in banking and were immensely wealthy and clannish, the type of family that sat on the boards of various corporations and instituted policies at country clubs that served to exclude those they regarded as inferior. Michael, however, seemed to reject his family’s values and was regarded as the ultimate catch. Heads would turn when he entered a room, and though he knew what was happening, his most endearing quality was that he pretended other people’s images of him didn’t matter at all.  Pretended,of course, was the key word.

Sarah, like every one of her friends, knew who he was when he showed up at a party, and she’d been surprised when he’d come up to say hello a little later in the evening. They’d hit it off right away. The short conversation had led to a longer one over coffee the following day, then eventually to dinner. Soon they were dating steadily and she’d fallen in love. After a year, Michael asked her to marry him.

Her mother was thrilled at the news, but her father didn’t say much at all, other than that he hoped that she would be happy. Maybe he suspected something, maybe he’d simply been around long enough to know that fairy tales seldom came true. Whatever it was, he didn’t tell her at the time, and to be honest, Sarah didn’t take the time to question his reservations, except when Michael asked her to sign a prenuptial agreement. Michael explained that his family had insisted on it, but even though he did his best to cast all the blame on his parents, a part of her suspected that had they not been around, he would have insisted upon it himself. She nonetheless signed the papers. That evening, Michael’s parents threw a lavish engagement party to formally announce the upcoming marriage.  Seven months later, Sarah and Michael were married. They honeymooned in Greece and Turkey; when they got back to Baltimore, they moved into a home less than two blocks from where Michael’s parents lived. Though she didn’t have to work, Sarah began teaching second grade at an inner-city elementary school.  Surprisingly, Michael had been fully supportive of her decision, but that was typical of their relationship then. In the first two years of their marriage, everything seemed perfect: She and Michael spent hours in bed on the weekends, talking and making love, and he confided in her his dreams of entering politics one day. They had a large circle of friends, mainly people Michael had known his entire life, and there was always a party to attend or weekend trips out of town. They spent their remaining free time in Washington, D.C., exploring museums, attending the theater, and walking among the monuments located at the Capitol Mall. It was there, while standing inside the Lincoln Memorial, that Michael told Sarah he was ready to start a family. She threw her arms around him as soon as he’d said the words, knowing that nothing he could have said would have made her any happier.

Who can explain what happened next? Several months after that blissful day at the Lincoln Memorial, Sarah still wasn’t pregnant. Her doctor told her not to worry, that it sometimes took a while after going off the pill, but he suggested she see him again later that year if they were still having problems.  They were, and tests were scheduled. A few days later, when the results were in, they met with the doctor. As they sat across from him, one look was enough to let her know that something was wrong.

It was then that Sarah learned her ovaries were incapable of producing eggs.  A week later, Sarah and Michael had their first major fight. Michael hadn’t come home from work, and she’d paced the floor for hours while waiting for him, wondering why he hadn’t called and imagining that something terrible had happened. By the time he came home, she was frantic and Michael was drunk. “You don’t own me” was all he offered by way of explanation, and from there, the argument went downhill fast. They said terrible things in the heart of the moment. Sarah regretted all of them later that night; Michael was apologetic.  But after that, Michael seemed more distant, more reserved. When she pressed him, he denied that he felt any differently toward her. “It’ll be okay,” he said, “we’ll get through this.”

Instead, things between them grew steadily worse. With every passing month, the arguments became more frequent, the distance more pronounced. One night, when she suggested again that they could always adopt, Michael simply waved off the suggestion: “My parents won’t accept that.”

Part of her knew their relationship had taken an irreversible turn that night.  It wasn’t his words that gave it away, nor was it the fact that he seemed to be taking his parents’ side. It was the look on his face—the one that let her know he suddenly seemed to regard the problem as hers, not theirs.  Less than a week later, she found Michael sitting in the dining room, a glass of bourbon at his side. From the unfocused look in his eyes, she knew it wasn’t the first one he’d had. He wanted a divorce, he began; he was sure she understood.  By the time he was finished, Sarah found herself unable to say anything in response, nor did she want to.

The marriage was over. It had lasted less than three years. Sarah was twenty-seven years old.

The next twelve months were a blur. Everyone wanted to know what had gone wrong; other than her family, Sarah told no one. “It just didn’t work out” was all she would say whenever someone asked.

Because she didn’t know what else to do, Sarah continued to teach. She also spent two hours a week talking to a wonderful counselor, Sylvia. When Sylvia recommended a support group, Sarah went to a few of the meetings. Mostly, she listened, and she thought she was doing better. But sometimes, as she sat alone in her small apartment, the reality of the situation would bear down hard and she would begin to cry again, not stopping for hours. During one of her darkest periods, she’d even considered suicide, though no one—not the counselor, not her family—knew that. It was then that she’d realized she had to leave Baltimore; she needed a place to start over. She needed a place where the memories wouldn’t be so painful, somewhere she’d never lived before.

Now, walking the streets of New Bern, Sarah was doing her best to move on. It was still a struggle at times, but not nearly as bad as it once had been. Her parents were supportive in their own way—her father said nothing whatsoever about it; her mother clipped out magazine articles that touted the latest medical developments—but her brother, Brian, before he headed off for his first year at the University of North Carolina, had been a life-saver.  Like most adolescents, he was sometimes distant and withdrawn, but he was a truly empathetic listener. Whenever she’d needed to talk, he’d been there for her, and she missed him now that he was gone. They’d always been close; as his older sister, she’d helped to change his diapers and had fed him whenever her mother let her. Later, when he was going to school, she’d helped him with his homework, and it was while working with him that she’d realized she wanted to become a teacher.

That was one decision she’d never regretted. She loved teaching; she loved working with children. Whenever she walked into a new classroom and saw thirty small faces looking up at her expectantly, she knew she had chosen the right career. In the beginning, like most young teachers, she’d been an idealist, someone who assumed that every child would respond to her if she tried hard enough. Sadly, since then, she had learned that wasn’t possible. Some children, for whatever reason, closed themselves off to anything she did, no matter how hard she worked. It was the worst part of the job, the only part that sometimes kept her awake at night, but it never stopped her from trying again.  Sarah wiped the perspiration from her brow, thankful that the air was finally cooling. The sun was dropping lower in the sky, and the shadows lengthened. As she strode past the fire station, two firemen sitting out front in a couple of lawn chairs nodded to her. She smiled. As far as she could tell, there was no such thing as an early evening fire in this town. She’d seen them every day at the same time, sitting in exactly the same spots, for the past four months.  New Bern.

Her life, she realized, had taken on a strange simplicity since she’d moved here. Though she sometimes missed the energy of city life, she had to admit that slowing down had its benefits. During the summer, she’d spent long hours browsing through the antique stores downtown or simply staring at the sailboats docked behind the Sheraton. Even now that school had started again, she didn’t rush anywhere. She worked and walked, and aside from visiting her parents, she spent most evenings alone, listening to classical music and reworking the lesson plans she’d brought with her from Baltimore. And that was fine with her.  Since she was new at the school, her plans still needed a little tinkering.  She’d discovered that many of the students in her class weren’t as far along as they should have been in most of the core subjects, and she’d had to scale down the plans a bit and incorporate more remedial work. She hadn’t been surprised by this; every school progressed at a different rate. But she figured that by the end of the year, most students would finish where they needed to be. There was, however, one student who particularly concerned her.

Jonah Ryan.

He was a nice enough kid: shy and unassuming, the kind of child who was easy to overlook. On the first day of class, he’d sat in the back row and answered politely when she’d spoken to him, but working in Baltimore had taught her to pay close attention to such children. Sometimes it meant nothing; at other times, it meant they were trying to hide. After she’d asked the class to hand in their first assignment, she’d made a mental note to check his work carefully. It hadn’t been necessary.

The assignment—a short paragraph about something they’d done that summer—was a way for Sarah to quickly gauge how well the children could write. Most of the pieces had the usual assortment of misspelled words, incomplete thoughts, and sloppy handwriting, but Jonah’s had stood out, simply because he hadn’t done what she’d asked. He’d written his name in the top corner, but instead of writing a paragraph, he’d drawn a picture of himself fishing from a small boat.  When she’d questioned him about why he hadn’t done what she’d asked, Jonah had explained that Mrs. Hayes had always let him draw, because “my writing isn’t too good.”

Alarm bells immediately went off in her head. She’d smiled and bent down, in order to be closer to him. “Can you show me?” she’d asked. After a long moment, Jonah had nodded, reluctantly.

While the other students went on to another activity, Sarah sat with Jonah as he tried his best. She quickly realized it was pointless; Jonah didn’t know how to write. Later that day, she found out he could barely read as well. In arithmetic, he wasn’t any better. If she’d been forced to guess his grade, having never met him, she would have thought Jonah was just beginning kindergarten.

Her first thought was that Jonah had a learning disability, something like dyslexia. But after spending a week with him, she didn’t believe that was the case. He didn’t mix up letters or words, he understood everything she was telling him. Once she showed him something, he tended to do it correctly from that point on. His problem, she believed, stemmed from the fact that he’d simply never had to do his schoolwork before, because his teachers hadn’t required it.  When she asked a couple of the other teachers about it, she learned about Jonah’s mother, and though she was sympathetic, she knew it wasn’t in anyone’s best interest—especially Jonah’s—to simply let him slide, as his previous teachers had done. At the same time, she couldn’t give Jonah all the attention he needed because of the other students in her class. In the end, she decided to meet with Jonah’s father to talk to him about what she knew, in hopes that they could find a way to work it out.

She’d heard about Miles Ryan.

Not much, but she knew that people for the most part both liked and respected him and that more than anything, he seemed to care about his son. That was good.  Even in the little while she’d been teaching, she’d met parents who didn’t seem to care about their children, regarding them as more of a burden than a blessing, and she’d also met parents who seemed to believe their child could do no wrong. Both were impossible to deal with. Miles Ryan, people said, wasn’t that way.

At the next corner, Sarah finally slowed down, then waited for a couple of cars to pass. Sarah crossed the street, waved to the man behind the counter at the pharmacy, and grabbed the mail before making her way up the steps to her apartment. After unlocking the door, she quickly scanned the mail and then set it on the table by the door.

In the kitchen, she poured herself a glass of ice water and carried the glass to her bedroom. She was undressing, tossing her clothes in the hamper and looking forward to a cool shower, when she saw the blinking light on the answering machine. She hit the play button and her mother’s voice came on, telling Sarah that she was welcome to stop by later, if she had nothing else going on. As usual, her voice sounded slightly anxious.

On the night table, next to the answering machine, was a picture of Sarah’s family: Maureen and Larry in the middle, Sarah and Brian on either end. The machine clicked and there was a second message, also from her mother: “Oh, I thought you’d be home by now . . .,” it began. “I hope everything’s all right.

. . .”

Should she go or not? Was she in the mood?

Why not? she finally decided. I’ve got nothing else to do anyway.

• • •

Miles Ryan made his way down Madame Moore’s Lane, a narrow, winding road that ran along both the Trent River and Brices Creek, from downtown New Bern to Pollocksville, a small hamlet twelve miles to the south. Originally named for the woman who once ran one of the most famous brothels in North Carolina, it rolled past the former country home and burial plot of Richard Dobbs Spaight, a southern hero who’d signed the Declaration of Independence. During the Civil War, Union soldiers exhumed the body from the grave and posted his skull on an iron gate as a warning to citizens not to resist the occupation. When he was a child, that story had kept Miles from wanting to go anywhere near the place.  Despite its beauty and relative isolation, the road he was following wasn’t for children. Heavy, fully loaded logging trucks rumbled over it day and night, and drivers tended to underestimate the curves. As a homeowner in one of the communities just off the lane, Miles had been trying to lower the speed limit for years.

No one, except for Missy, had listened to him.

This road always made him think of her.

Miles tapped out another cigarette, lit it, then rolled down the window. As the warm air blew in the car, simple snapshots of the life they’d lived together surfaced in his mind; but as always, those images led inexorably to their final day together.

Ironically, he’d been gone most of the day, a Sunday. Miles had gone fishing with Charlie Curtis. He’d left the house early that morning, and though both he and Charlie came home with mahi-mahi that day, it wasn’t enough to appease his wife. Missy, her face smudged with dirt, put her hands on her hips and glared at him the moment he got home. She didn’t say anything at all, but then, she didn’t need to. The way she looked at him spoke volumes.

Her brother and sister-in-law were coming in from Atlanta the following day, and she’d been working around the house, trying to get it ready for guests. Jonah was in bed with the flu, which didn’t make it any easier, since she’d had to take care of him as well. But that wasn’t the reason for her anger; Miles himself had been the cause.

Though she’d said that she wouldn’t mind if Miles went fishing, shehad asked him to take care of the yardwork on Saturday so she wouldn’t have to worry about that as well. Work, however, had intervened, and instead of calling Charlie with his regrets, Miles had elected to go out on Sunday anyway. Charlie had teased him on and off all day—“You’ll be sleeping on the couch tonight”—and Miles knew Charlie was probably right. But yardwork was yardwork and fishing was fishing, and for the life of him, Miles knew that neither Missy’s brother nor his wife would care in the slightest whether there were a few too many weeds growing in the garden.

Besides, he’d told himself, he would take care of everything when he got back, and he meant it. He hadn’t intended to be gone all day, but as with many of his fishing trips, one thing had led to the next and he’d lost track of time. Still, he had his speech worked out—Don’t worry, I’ll take care of everything, even if it takes the rest of the night and I need a flashlight.It might have worked, too, had he told her his plans before he’d slipped out of bed that morning. But he hadn’t, and by the time he got home she’d done most of the work. The yard was mowed, the walk was edged, she’d planted some pansies around the mailbox. It must have taken hours, and to say she was angry was an understatement. Even furious wasn’t sufficient. It was somewhere beyond that, the difference between a lit match and a blazing forest fire, and he knew it. He’d seen the look a few times in the years they’d been married, but only a few. He swallowed, thinking, Here we go.

“Hey, hon,” he said sheepishly, “sorry that I’m so late. We just lost track of time.” Just as he was getting ready to start his speech, Missy turned around and spoke over her shoulder.

“I’m going for a jog. Youcan take care of this, can’t you?” She’d been getting ready to blow the grass off the walkway and drive; the blower was sitting on the lawn.

Miles knew enough not to respond.

After she’d gone inside to change, Miles got the cooler from the back of the car and brought it to the kitchen. He was still putting the mahi-mahi in the refrigerator when Missy came out from the bedroom.

“I was just putting the fish away . . .,” he started, and Missy clenched her jaw.

“What about doing what I asked you?”

“I’m going to—just let me finish here so this won’t spoil.”

Missy rolled her eyes. “Just forget it. I’ll do it when I get back.”

The martyr tone. Miles couldn’t stand that.

“I’ll do it,” he said. “I said I would, didn’t I?”

“Just like you’d finish the lawn before you went out fishing?” He should have just bitten his lip and kept quiet. Yes, he’d spent the day fishing instead of working around the house; yes, he’d let her down. But in the whole scheme of things, it wasn’tthat big a deal, was it? It was just her brother and sister-in-law, after all. It wasn’t as if the president were coming.  There wasn’t any reason to be irrational about the whole thing.  Yep, he should have kept quiet. Judging from the way she looked at him after he’d said it, he would have been better off. When she slammed the door on her way out, Miles heard the windows rattle.

Once she’d been gone a little while, however, he knew he’d been wrong, and he regretted what he’d done. He’d been a jerk, and she was right to have called him on it.

He wouldn’t, however, get the chance to say he was sorry.

• • •

“Still smoking, huh?”

Charlie Curtis, the county sheriff, looked across the table at his friend just as Miles took his place at the table.

“I don’t smoke,” Miles answered quickly.

Charlie raised his hands. “I know, I know—you’ve already told me that. Hey, it’s fine with me if you want to delude yourself. But I’ll make sure to put the ashtrays out when you come by anyway.”

Miles laughed. Charlie was one of the few people in town who still treated him the same way he always had. They’d been friends for years; Charlie had been the one who suggested that Miles become a deputy sheriff, and he’d taken Miles under his wing as soon as Miles had finished his training. He was older—sixty-five, next March—and his hair was streaked with gray. He’d put on twenty pounds in the past few years, almost all of it around his middle. He wasn’t the type of sheriff who intimidated people on sight, but he was perceptive and diligent and had a way of getting the answers he needed. In the last three elections, no one had even bothered to run against him.

“I won’t be coming by,” Miles said, “unless you stop making these ridiculous accusations.”

They were sitting at a booth in the corner, and the waitress, harried by the lunchtime crowd, dropped off a pitcher of sweet tea and two glasses of ice on her way to the next table. Miles poured the tea and pushed Charlie’s glass toward him.

“Brenda will be disappointed,” Charlie said. “You know she starts going through withdrawals if you don’t bring Jonah by every now and then.” He took a sip from the glass. “So, you looking forward to meeting with Sarah today?” Miles looked up. “Who?”

“Jonah’s teacher.”

“Did your wife tell you that?”

Charlie smirked. Brenda worked at the school in the principal’s office and seemed to know everything that went on at the school. “Of course.” “What’s her name again?”

“Brenda,” Charlie said seriously.

Miles looked across the table, and Charlie feigned a look of sudden comprehension. “Oh—you mean the teacher? Sarah. Sarah Andrews.” Miles took a drink. “Is she a good teacher?” he asked.  “I guess so. Brenda says she’s great and that the kids adore her, but then Brenda thinks everyone is great.” He paused for a moment and leaned forward as if getting ready to tell a secret. “But she did say that Sarah was attractive. A real looker, if you know what I mean.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“She also said that she was single.”

“And?”

“And nothing.” Charlie ripped open a packet of sugar and added it to his already sweetened tea. He shrugged. “I’m just letting you know what Brenda said.” “Well, good,” Miles said. “I appreciate that. I don’t know how I could have made it through the day without Brenda’s latest evaluation.”

“Oh, take it easy, Miles. You know she’s always on the lookout for you.”

“Tell her that I’m doing fine.”

“Hell, I know that. But Brenda worries about you. She knows you smoke, too, you know.”

“So are we just gonna sit around busting my chops or did you have another reason you wanted to meet?”

“Actually, I did. But I had to get you in the right frame of mind so you don’t blow your stack.”

“What are you talking about?”

As he asked, the waitress dropped off two plates of barbecue with coleslaw and hush puppies on the side, their usual order, and Charlie used the moment to collect his thoughts. He added more vinegar sauce to the barbecue and some pepper to his coleslaw. After deciding there was no easy way to say it, he just came out with it.

“Harvey Wellman decided to drop the charges against Otis Timson.” Harvey Wellman was the district attorney in Craven County. He’d spoken with Charlie earlier that morning and had offered to tell Miles, but Charlie had decided it would probably be better if he handled it.

Miles looked up at him. “What?”

“He didn’t have a case. Beck Swanson suddenly got a case of amnesia about what happened.”

“But I was there—”

“You got there after it happened. You didn’tsee it.”

“But I saw the blood. I saw the broken chair and table in the middle of the bar.

I saw the crowd that had gathered.”

“I know, I know. But what was Harvey supposed to do? Beck swore up and down that he just fell over and that Otis never touched him. He said he’d been confused that night, but now that his mind was clear, he remembered everything.” Miles suddenly lost his appetite, and he pushed his plate off to the side. “If I went down there again, I’m sure that I could find someone who saw what happened.”

Charlie shook his head. “I know it grates on you, but what good would it do? You know how many of Otis’s brothers were there that night. They’d also say that nothing happened—and who knows, maybe they were the ones who actually did it.  Without Beck’s testimony, what choice did Harvey have? Besides, you know Otis.

He’ll do something else—just give him time.”

“That’s what I’m worried about.”

Miles and Otis Timson had a long history between them. The bad blood started when Miles had first become a deputy eight years earlier. He’d arrested Clyde Timson, Otis’s father, for assault when he’d thrown his wife through the screen door on their mobile home. Clyde had spent time in prison for that—though not as long as he should have—and over the years, five of his six sons had spent time in prison as well on offenses ranging from drug dealing to assault to car theft.  To Miles, Otis posed the greatest danger simply because he was the smartest.  Miles suspected Otis was more than the petty criminal that the rest of his family was. For one thing, he didn’t look the part. Unlike his brothers, he shied away from tattoos and kept his hair cut short; there were times he actually held down odd jobs, doing manual labor. He didn’t look like a criminal, but looks were deceiving. His name was loosely linked with various crimes, and townspeople frequently speculated that it was he who directed the flow of drugs into the county, though Miles had no way to prove that. All of their raids had come up empty, much to Miles’s frustration.

Otis also held on to a grudge.

He didn’t fully understand that until after Jonah was born. He’d arrested three of Otis’s brothers after a riot had broken out at their family reunion. A week after that, Missy was rocking four-month-old Jonah in the living room when a brick came crashing through the window. It nearly hit them, and a shard of glass cut Jonah’s cheek. Though he couldn’t prove it, Miles knew that Otis had somehow been responsible, and Miles showed up at the Timson compound—a series of decrepit mobile homes arranged in a semicircle on the outskirts of town—with three other deputies, their guns drawn. The Timsons came out peacefully and, without a word, held out their hands to be cuffed and were taken in.  In the end, no charges were brought for lack of evidence. Miles was furious, and after the Timsons were released, he confronted Harvey Wellman outside his office. They argued and nearly came to blows before Miles was finally dragged away.

In the following years, there were other things: gunshots fired nearby, a mysterious fire in Miles’s garage, incidents that were more akin to adolescent pranks. But again, without witnesses, there was nothing Miles could do. Since Missy’s death it had been relatively quiet.

Until the latest arrest.

Charlie glanced up from his food, his expression serious. “Listen, you and I both know he’s guilty as hell, but don’t even think about handling this on your own. You don’t want this thing to escalate like it did before. You’ve got Jonah to think about now, and you’re not always there to watch out for him.” Miles looked out the window as Charlie went on.

“Look—he’ll do something stupid again, and if there’s a case, I’ll be the first to come down on him. You know that. But don’t go looking for trouble—he’s bad news. So stay away from him.”

Miles still didn’t respond.

“Let it go, you got that?” Charlie was speaking now not simply as a friend, but as Miles’s boss as well.

“Why are you telling me this?”

“I just told you why.”

Miles looked at Charlie closely. “But there’s something else, isn’t there.” Charlie held Miles’s gaze for a long moment. “Look . . . Otis says you got a little rough when you arrested him, and he filed a complaint—” Miles slammed his hand against the table, the noise reverberating throughout the restaurant. People at the next table jumped and turned to stare, but Miles didn’t notice.

“That’s crap—”

Charlie raised his hands to stop him. “Hell, I know that, and I told Harvey that, too, and Harvey isn’t gonna do anything with it. But you and him aren’t exactly best friends, and he knows what you’re like when you get worked up. Even though he’s not gonna press it, he thinks it’s possible that Otis is telling the truth and he told me to tell you to lay off.”

“So what am I supposed to do if I see Otis committing a crime? Look the other way?”

“Hell, no—don’t be stupid. I’d come down on you if you did that. Just keep your distance for a while, until all this blows over, unless there’s no other choice.  I’m telling you this for your own good, okay?”

It took a moment before Miles finally sighed. “Fine,” he answered.  Even as he spoke, however, he knew that he and Otis weren’t finished with one another yet.