I concentrated on one particular snapshot. Judy's younger daughter, Becky. The girl who'd gotten too thin, needed therapy, tried to play therapist with Stacy.

Becky, who'd been tutored by Joanne. Whose grades had dropped after the tutoring had stopped.

Becky, who'd gotten too thin as Joanne grew obese. Had severed her relationship with Stacy.

Judy slipped out of her robe and hung it on a mahogany rack. Today's suit was banana yellow, form-fitting, trimmed with sand-colored braiding. Big pearl earrings, small diamond brooch. Every blond hair in place.

Shiny hair.

She reclined in her desk chair. Glittery things occupied a good portion of the leather desktop. The picture frames, a crystal bud vase, an assortment of tiny bronze cats, millefleur paperweights, a walnut gavel with a bronze plate on the handle. Her bony hands found a weight and rubbed it.

"Alex. What a surprise. We don't have any cases pending, do we?"

"No," I said. "Don't imagine we ever will."

She squinted past me. "Now, why would you say that?"

"Because I know," I said.

"Know what?"

I didn't answer, not out of any psychological calculation. I'd thought about being here, rehearsed it mentally, had gotten the first words out.

I know.

But the rest of it choked in my chest.

"What is this, riddle time?" she said, trying to smile but managing only a peevish twist of her lipstick.

"You were there," I said. "At the motel with Joanne. Someone saw you. They don't know who you are, but they described you perfectly."

What Maribel had really seen was hair. Short yellow hair.

A skinny woman, no butt on her. I only saw the back of her, she was getting into the car when I came out to fill the ice machine.

She had this hair-real light, real shiny, a really good color job. That hair was shiny from across the parking lot.

"Mate had nothing to do with it," I said. "It was just you and Joanne."

Judy reclined a bit more. "You're talking nonsense, my dear."

"One way to look at it," I said, "was you were helping a friend. Joanne had made her decision, needed someone to be there with her at the end. You'd always been a good friend to her. The only problem is, that friendship had cooled. For good reason."

I waited. She wasn't moving. Then her right eyelid twitched. She pushed back from the desk another inch. "You're starting to sound like one of those psychic idiots-talking obliquely in the hope someone will take it for wisdom. Have you been under strain, Alex? Working too hard? I always thought you pushed yourself-"

"So friendship would be the charitable interpretation of what brought you out to Lancaster with Joanne, but unfortunately that wasn't it at all. Joanne's motivation for destroying herself was crushing guilt-some sin she couldn't forgive herself for. Richard never forgave her, either. And neither did you. So when she asked you to be there, I don't think you minded one bit about seeing her reach the end."

Her lips folded inward. Her hand reached out among the objects on her desk and found one. Walnut gavel. Brass plaque on the handle. An award. The walls were paneled with tributes.

"Having you there was part of the punishment," I said. "Like when family members of victims are invited to attend the execution."

"This is ridiculous," she said. "I don't know what's gotten into you, but you're talking gibberish-please leave."

"Judy-"

"This minute, Alex, or I'll call for Leonard."

"My leaving won't change things. Not for you, not for Becky. Does Bob know? Probably not all of it, I'd guess, because he would've expressed his anger more directly, immediately. Wouldn't have let it sit. But he's mad about something, so he must know something."

She took hold of the gavel, waved it at me. "Alex, I'm giving you one last chance to leave like a gentleman-"

"Joanne and Becky," I said. "When did it happen?"

She shot forward, half standing, and the gavel slammed down on the desk. But instead of making direct contact, the wood twisted, slipping out of her grip, skidding along the leather, pushing a paperweight to the carpet. The glass landed on the carpet with a feeble thump.

Pathetic sound. Maybe that's what did it, or maybe she really wanted to talk.

Her fingers curled into talons that she placed against her breast. As if ready to claw out her own heart. Suddenly they dropped and she sat back down and her hair was no longer in place. Hot eyes, wet eyes, a mouth that shook so badly it took a while for her to speak.

"You bastard," she said. "You goddamn, goddamn bastard. I'm calling Leonard."

But she didn't.

We sat staring at each other. I tried to look as sympathetic as I felt. I'd convinced myself this was all for the best, but now I wondered if it boiled down to feeding my own obsessiveness. A moment more and I might've gotten up and left. But she stood first, crossed the big, beautiful room, locked the door. When she sat back down, her eyes dropped to the gavel.

That's when she reminded me of my oath of confidentiality. Repeated the warning.

I told her of course I'd never talk.

Even then, she kept it theoretical, the way Richard had, could barely stop herself from slapping me, kept drifting into corollary anger.

"What if you were a parent?" she said. "Why aren't you, anyway? I always meant to ask you that. Working with other people's kids, but you never had any of your own."

"Maybe one day," I said.

"So it's not a physical problem? Not shooting blanks?"

I smiled.

"Kind of arrogant, Alex. Preaching to other people about how to raise their kids when you don't have any direct experience."

"Maybe so."

"Sure, agree with me-you guys all do that, another one of those little tricks they teach you in shrink school.

Did you know Becky wants to become a psychologist? What do you think of that!"

"I don't know Becky, but offhand it sounds fine."

"Why's it fine?" she demanded.

"Because people who've dealt with crisis can develop a special kind of empathy."

"Can?"

"Sometimes it goes the other way. I don't know Becky."

"Becky's beautiful-a beautiful person. If you'd bothered to father any of your own, maybe you'd have a clue."

"You're probably right," I said. "I mean that."

"Think of it," she said, as if talking to herself. "You carry this creature inside you for nine months, rip your body up pushing them out, and that's when the real work starts- Do you have any idea what it takes to nurture a child nowadays in this fucking urbanized, overfeeding, overstimulating world we've created? Do you have a clue?"

I kept quiet.

She said, "Think about it: you go through all that, feeding them with your body, waking up in the middle of the night, wiping their ass, getting them through all the tantrums and the hurt feelings and the bad habits, getting them past puberty, for Christ's sake, and someone comes along-someone you trust-and sabotages all that."

She sprang up, paced the space behind her desk.

"I'm not telling you a damn thing, even if I did you couldn't repeat a word of it-and believe me, if I pick up the merest hint you've let on to anyone-your wife, anyone-I'll make sure you lose that license of yours."

Race-walking the width of the room, back again, another circuit.

"Picture this, Doctor: you put all that into another human being, entrust them to someone they've known their whole life. Someone you've done favors for, and what are you asking? Tutoring, stupid tutoring, because the kid's smart but numbers have a way-math-just math, not another goddamn thing. And then you walk in and find that person with-with your treasure, this treasure you've wrought, and they've shattered it… by the pool, the goddamn pool. And where are the math books? Where's the tutoring? Getting wet on the deck next to the pool while they-wet swimsuits lying all wrinkled-oh that would be just great with you, wouldn't it? You'd let that pass, right?"