Banks and Markinson looked at me as if I had two heads. “If there was even the faintest possibility that could happen, I would be bargaining for two thirty-year concurrent sentences,” Banks said. “And feel lucky to get it.”

Around and around and around we go, where we stop, nobody knows, I thought. Unknowingly, Banks had given me my answer. If the lawyers knew about the existence of the shirt, they would want to plea-bargain, and Peter would never admit to committing those murders just to get a sentence that would give him a possibility-at best-of getting out of prison when he was seventy-two years old.

Our child will be thirty by then, I thought.

“I will not try to persuade Peter to change his mind about the focus of his defense,” I told them. “It’s what he wants, and I’ll support him.”

They pushed back their chairs and stood to leave. “Then you’ll have to face the inevitable, Kay,” Markinson said. “You’re going to raise your child alone.”

On his way out of the dining room, Markinson stopped at the breakfront. “Magnificent china,” he observed.

“Yes,” I said, aware that we were now making polite conversation, that Peter’s lawyers had as good as thrown in the towel, emotionally speaking.

Conner Banks was looking at one of the paintings I had brought down from the third floor. “This is outstanding,” he said. “It’s a Morley, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know,” I confessed. “I’m woefully lacking in my knowledge of art. I just liked it more than the one that was there.”

“Then you have a good eye,” he said approvingly. “We’ll be on our way. We’re lining up medical doctors who have treated people who are parasomniacs, and who can testify they are completely unaware of their behavior when they are sleepwalking. If you and Peter insist on this defense, then we’ll have to call them as expert witnesses.”

It was visiting day at the Bergen County Jail. My waist was thickening and, when I dressed this morning, I had to leave the top button of my slacks open. I had started to wear high-necked sweaters almost all the time; they helped disguise how thin I was, except, of course, for my waistline. I was worried that I was still losing weight, but the obstetrician had told me that that wasn’t uncommon in the first few months of pregnancy.

When did it happen that all my nagging doubts about Peter’s innocence began to dissolve? I believe it had to do with the file cabinets I started going through on the third floor. I was learning so much about his childhood in what I found in them. His mother had kept a photograph album for each year of his life until she died; he was twelve at the time. I was struck by the fact that his father was in so few of the pictures. Peter had told me that after he was born, his mother stopped accompanying his father on business trips.

She had written notes on some of the pages, loving references to how smart Peter was, how quick to learn, his wonderful disposition, his sense of humor.

I found myself becoming wistful in seeing how very close Peter had been to his mother. At least you had her twelve years, I thought. Then I found a picture taken by the Bergen Record photographer the day of her funeral. A devastated twelve-year-old Peter, trying to blink back tears, was walking beside his mother’s coffin, his hand resting on it.

His college yearbooks were in one of the files. In one, the caption about him referred to “grace under pressure,” and I realized that he was just beginning his senior year at Princeton when Susan disappeared. In the months that followed, the prosecutor’s office was constantly pulling him in for questioning.

When I got to the jail that afternoon and Peter was brought in, he looked at me through the Plexiglas for a long minute without speaking. He was trembling, and his eyes glistened with tears. He picked up the phone on his side of the divider. His voice husky, he said, “Kay, I don’t know why, but I had a feeling that you wouldn’t come today, or ever again, that you’ve had as much of this misery as you can take.”

I felt for a moment as if I were looking at the face of the twelve-year-old boy at the funeral of the person he loved best in the world. “I will never leave you,” I told him. “I love you far too much to leave you. Peter, I don’t believe you ever hurt anyone. You couldn’t. There’s another answer, and, so help me God, I’m going to find it.”

That evening, I phoned Nicholas Greco.

62

Jane Barr had made beef barley soup in case the lawyers stayed for lunch, but they were gone by quarter of twelve. She was glad that she’d had a reason to cook-she needed something to distract her. Gary had been asked to stop at the prosecutor’s office, and he was there now. Why did they want to talk to him? she worried. After all these years, they’re not questioning him about Susan Atthorp, are they?

Please, don’t let it be that, she prayed.

Kay Carrington had a cup of soup before she went to visit Peter at the jail. It’s funny about her, Jane thought. She didn’t come from money, but she has an air about her, not haughty, but knowing. She’s perfect for Peter. And I think she’s pregnant. She hasn’t said so, but I bet she is.

Where was Gary? she wondered, checking the time. What kind of questions were they asking him? How much was he telling?

After lunch, Jane normally went home to the gatehouse for a good part of the afternoon, then would return to the mansion to turn on lights, draw curtains, and prepare dinner. Today when she arrived home, she found Gary there eating a sandwich and having a beer.

“Why didn’t you let me know you were home?” she demanded. “I’ve been a wreck waiting to hear what they wanted.”

“They dug up some stuff about me from the time I was a kid,” Gary snapped. “I told you about it. I was in a little trouble when I was a teenager, but the records were supposed to be sealed. There was some stuff in the newspapers at the time, though, and I guess they found out about it that way.”

Jane collapsed into a chair. “That was so long ago. They’re not holding what happened back then against you, are they? Or are they reading more into it now?”

Gary Barr looked at his wife, something approaching contempt in his eyes. “What do you think?” he asked.

Jane had not yet started to unbutton her winter jacket. Now she reached for the top button and slipped it through the buttonhole. Her shoulders sagged. “I’ve lived in this town all my life,” she said. “I never wanted to be anyplace else. We’ve worked for nice people. Now all that is in jeopardy. What you did was so awful. Did they ask you about it? Do they know about it? Do they?”

“No,” Gary replied angrily. “They haven’t figured out anything, so stop worrying. The statute of limitations means I’m clear now. They can’t file charges because too many years have passed. And even if they try to pin something else on me, I’ve got an offer for them they can’t refuse.”

“What are you talking about?” Jane asked, her dismay apparent. “There’s no statute of limitations on murder!”

Gary Barr sprang up from his chair and threw the sandwich he was eating at his wife. “Don’t ever use that word again!” he shouted.

“I’m sorry, Gary. I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m sorry.” Tears starting to well in her eyes, Jane looked at the smear of mustard on her coat, the broken pieces of rye bread, the slices of ham and tomato on the floor in front of her.

Clenching and unclenching his hands, Barr made a visible effort to control himself. “Okay. All right. Just remember. It was one thing to be there; another thing to kill her. All right. I’ll clean up the mess. Anyhow, that sandwich was lousy. Any of that soup left that you were making this morning?”

“Yes. Plenty of it.”

“Do me a favor and get me some, will you? I’ve had a tough day. And I’m sorry I lost my temper. You don’t deserve that, Jane. You’re a good woman.”