“Maybe I should go tonight,” Scott said.

“No,” Sally said quickly. “That would have an element of panic in it. Let’s just proceed steadily.”

They were both quiet for a moment. “Hey,” Scott asked abruptly, “do you have any experience with this sort of thing?”

What he meant was legal experience, but Sally took it a different way. “No,” she said suddenly. “The only man who ever said he would love me forever was you.”

There had been a story in the local paper over the past few days that had captured much attention in the valley where I lived. A child, thirteen years old, had been placed in the tenth of a series of foster homes and had died under questionable circumstances. Police and the local district attorney’s office were investigating, as was every ham-fisted news outlet for miles. But the facts of the case seemed murky, so dark and conflicted that the truth might never emerge. The child had died from a single gunshot wound, administered at close range. The foster parents said that the boy had found the father’s handgun and been playing with it when it discharged. Or perhaps he wasn’t playing with it but had committed suicide. Or perhaps the set of brand-new bruises on the child’s arms and torso that the autopsy revealed meant that he’d been beaten or held down while something far more evil had taken place. Or perhaps the gun had been the source of a struggle between child and adult, discharging in an accident. Or, even darker, perhaps it was murder. Murder prompted by rage. Murder prompted by frustration. Murder prompted by desire. Murder prompted by nothing more than the lousy hand that life sometimes deals to those least equipped to bluff their way out of trouble.

It seemed to me that the truth is often impossibly elusive.

Each day for a week, the black-and-white photo of the dead child stared out at me from the pages of the newspaper. He wore a beautifully wry, almost shy smile, beneath eyes that seemed bright with promise. Maybe that was what drove the story, gave it the impetus that it had, before it was swallowed up and disappeared in the steady march of events; there was something dishonest in the death. Someone was cheated.

No one cared for the child. At least, no one cared enough.

I suppose I was no different from everyone else who read the story or heard it on the nightly news or discussed it over the proverbial watercooler. It hit anyone who had ever looked in on a sleeping child and imagined how fragile all life is, and how tenuous our grip on what passes for happiness can truly be. I guessed, in its own way, that this was what slowly became apparent for Scott and Sally and Hope.

12

Scott drove east the following morning, early enough so that the rising sun reflected off the reservoir outside the town of Gardner, momentarily filling the windshield with glare. Usually when he drove the Porsche up Route 2, with its long, empty stretches through some of the least scenic countryside in New England, he let the car fly. He’d been ticketed once by a humorless state trooper, who’d clocked him at over a hundred miles per hour, and who had started a series of quite predictable lectures, which Scott had ignored. When he drove alone and fast, which was as frequently as he could, he sometimes thought it was the only time that he truly failed to act his age. The rest of his life was dedicated to being responsible and adult. He knew inwardly that the recklessness he exhibited spoke of some larger issue within him, but he ignored it.

The car began to hum in the distinctive sound that the Porsche had, an I can go faster, if you’ll let me reminder, and he settled into the drive, considering the brief conversation he’d had with Ashley the night before.

There had been no discussion of the reason for his trip to get her. He’d started to ask a question or two, but realized that she’d already spoken with both Hope and her mother, and so he was likely to simply be repeating questions already asked. So it had been all I’ll be there early and Don’t bother parking, just beep, and I’ll come running out. He figured that once she got into the car, she would open up, at least enough for him to make some sort of assessment of the situation.

He wasn’t sure what he thought, so far. The recognition that his first instincts upon reading the letter were correct didn’t give him any satisfaction.

Nor did he know, now that he was heading toward Boston to pick up his daughter, just how worried he should be. In a slightly perverse way, he was looking forward to seeing her because he doubted that he would have many more opportunities to truly act like a father. She was growing up, and she didn’t need him or her mother nearly as much as she did when she was a child.

Scott slid a pair of sunglasses down on his nose. He wondered, What does Ashley need now? A little extra cash. Maybe a wedding party sometime in the future. Advice? Not likely.

He punched the accelerator and the car jumped forward.

It was nice to be needed, but he doubted he would ever be again. At least, not needed in that small-child-and-parent way, where the smallest of problems can be magnified. Ashley was equipped to extricate herself from the problem. Indeed, he suspected she would demand this right. His role, he believed, was truly cheering from the sidelines, limited to making a modest suggestion or two.

When he had first seen the letter, he’d been filled with protective feelings that were reminiscent of her childhood. Now, as he drove to get her, more or less vindicated in his concerns, he glumly realized that his role was probably going to be small, and his feelings were best kept to himself. Still, as the stands of trees still carrying their fall colors swept past him, a part of him was overjoyed to be allowed into his daughter’s life in something other than a peripheral way. Scott grinned Can’t catch me as he headed down the highway.

Ashley heard the car horn beep twice, quickly peered out the window, and saw the familiar profile of her father in the black Porsche. He gave a small wave, which was both a greeting and a hurry-up gesture, because he was blocking the street and more than a few people who drive in Boston are willing to exchange words over the inconveniences of the narrow traffic lanes. Boston drivers take a sporting delight in honking and shouting. In Miami or Houston, that sort of conversation might produce handguns, but in Boston it is more or less considered protected speech.

She grabbed a small overnight bag and made sure that her apartment was locked. She had already unplugged the answering machine and turned off her cell phone and computer.

No messages. No e-mails. No contact, she thought, as she bounded down the stairwell and through the front door.

“Hi, beautiful,” Scott said as she crossed the sidewalk.

“Hi, Dad.” Ashley smiled. “Gonna let me drive?”

“Ah,” Scott hesitated. “Maybe next time.”

This was a joke between them. Scott never let anyone else drive the Porsche. He said it was for insurance reasons, but Ashley knew better.

“That all you’re going to need?” Scott asked, eyeing the small bag.

“That’s it. I’ve got enough stuff out there anyway, either at your place or Mom’s.”

Scott shook his head and smiled as he embraced her. “There was a time,” he said with a fake, sonorous tone, “that I distinctly recall carrying trunks and suitcases and backpacks and huge, military-issue duffel bags, all crammed with completely unnecessary clothing, just to be sure that you would be able to change at least a half dozen times each day.”

She smiled and headed toward the passenger door.

“Let’s get out of here before some delivery truck comes along and decides to squash your midlife-crisis toy car,” she said, laughing.