“That’s not what I said, March. Don’t put words in my mouth.”

“And it’s seven. Seven years as of next week, remember? The big anniversary.”

Cavallo falls silent, gives me a look of pity. My forehead’s clammy. The small of my back, too. The people around us are making a point of not paying attention, which is good of them really. Indulgent. I start to wilt a little with embarrassment. Better to say nothing than to pour out all this raw, unedited self-revelation, especially in front of Cavallo, who doesn’t deserve it, and who still has to be convinced to do me an after-hours favor.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“You don’t have to apologize.”

“I’m sorry. The thing is, it’s not something I like to talk about.

There’s no point dwelling on things. And this time of year…” Across the table she’s nodding encouragingly, and I know something more is owed to her, some compensating confession. I’ve told her off, and to make up for that, I have to trust her with some confidence.

“March,” she says, “I completely understand.”

“The hardest part…”

Her eyebrows lift. “Yes?”

“It was Charlotte driving,” I say, my voice distant, “and she was injured, too. In the crash. The car, it hit them like this.” I form a T with my hands, like a coach calling a time-out from the sidelines. “So the passenger side…” My twitch comes back. I can’t say more about that. “But Charlotte, her head hit the window hard, and there had to be surgery, you know? I wasn’t there. I was still somewhere in Louisiana. They grounded all the planes, you remember, and so me and Wilcox arranged with this detective there, Fontenot, to get a car we could drive back to Houston. We put Fauk in the back in cuffs, then hit the road.”

She nods the whole time, the details fresh on her mind from Templeton’s account.

“What’s not in the book is this…”

The doctor had offered to tell her for me, but this was my job, the one I took on without realizing the moment we married, the moment our daughter was born. Charlotte’s eyelids fluttered and then opened. She blinked at the gathered onlookers, family and friends from the four corners of Houston, bewildered by their presence. Then the surroundings dawned on her. She glanced anxiously at the tubes running into her arm, at the blinking, hissing machines over each shoulder. Finally, with a hint of panic in her eyes, she noticed me sitting at the foot of the bed. Her intubated arm reached forward.

“Roland?”

I didn’t tell the others to leave. I didn’t have to. At the sound of her voice they began to file out, all except her sister, Ann, who lingered at the doorway, thinking she might be needed, until Bridger urged her out into the corridor. She disappeared with a suppressed sob.

“What’s wrong?” Charlotte asked. “What am I doing in here?”

“You don’t remember?”

She bit her lip, eyes darting toward the door. “How long have I been like this?”

“A few hours,” I said, checking my watch. “About eight.”

“Eight? What happened to me?”

I took a deep breath and tried to start, but lost my grasp of vocabulary. All the words in my head suddenly gone.

“Roland,” she says, “am I… sick?”

“You were in an accident. You really don’t remember?”

Her eyes grew wide. “If I remembered, I wouldn’t have to ask. Why did everyone just leave? What’s wrong, Roland? It’s something terrible, isn’t it?”

I nodded my head, unable to do more.

She gazed around the room in frustration, casting back in her mind. Putting the pieces together, I suspected. Working out what must have occurred. Exhaling, her body grew small under the covers, her chin trembling.

“Why wasn’t Jessica here? I didn’t see her. Where is she?”

“She’s…” I willed myself to say it, but still nothing came. “She’s -”

“Is she all right? Is Jessica all right? Roland, did something happen to her? You have to look at me and tell me. Tell me what happened.”

I tried, but couldn’t even bring myself to look at her, or even imagine the expression on her face. Begging me, imploring me to do the most terrible thing, to wound her in the deepest way I could. Suddenly, I didn’t want to be the one.

“Baby, she’s…” But no. I couldn’t.

“There was an accident.” Her voice matter-of-fact. “Was she in it? Was she hurt in the accident?”

I nodded.

Charlotte sucked in her breath, and the tethered hand went to her mouth. I glanced up to see her eyes welling with shock.

“A car came,” I said. “The driver ran the light. A drunk driver. She ran into you, into your car.” My throat tightened. I began to cough. “She hit… She hit the passenger side.”

“I was driving?” she asked. “I was behind the wheel? Who was the passenger? Was it Jessica?”

I nodded again.

Her breathing took on a voice, each gasp an unknown word sighed into the air, a glossolalia of grief.

“She’s all right, though,” Charlotte said. “She’s all right.” She imbued the pronouncement with a confidence she surely couldn’t feel. The intervals between each sentence, each word, punctuated by the strange sibilance of her breathing. She’s all right, the words said. No she’s not, the breath answered. “Tell me, Roland. Tell me she’s all right.”

My head shook.

“She’s… hurt?”

My head shook again.

Charlotte’s lip trembled. “She’s -?”

“I’m sorry,” I said, choking on the syllables.

Her face opened utterly, the eyes wide, the mouth a twisted gash, even the tear ducts began to burst and stream, as if a prophet had struck a rock. The moaning breath came quicker and quicker, hyperventilating, and her arms thrashed at the bedclothes, twisting the plastic tubing against her skin. I moved up the bed, my arms circling, holding her down, squeezing gently.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“It’s my fault,” she whispered. “I did it.”

“No, it’s not your fault.”

The door opened and I turned to find Ann there, hands over her mouth. I waved her back and she retreated, letting the wood slam against the doorframe.

Charlotte shrank in my arms, emptied herself out. The sigh from her lips was like a soul departing. Her eyes fluttered again, then closed. She rested her head against the pillow, going slack.

I stood, feeling so drained, so completely flayed open and raw. But it was done. The unthinkable deed. I shrank back, edging alongside the bed, resuming my seat near the footboard. The room grew quiet apart from the occasional beep and hiss of the monitors. I felt my own eyes closing, though there was no relief.

“Roland?” she said.

“I’m here.”

I opened my eyes and she was sitting up in bed, examining the tubes in her forearm. She smiled wanly, preternaturally calm, glancing around the room in mild dismay.

“What’s wrong?” she said. “What am I doing here?”

“What do you mean?”

She bit her lip. “How long have I been like this?”

“Charlotte, I already told you this. It’s been eight hours – ”

“Eight?”

“I told you – ”

“What happened, Roland? Tell me what happened?”

My fist closed around the blanket. “Are you serious?”

“Am I… sick?”

“You were in an accident, remember?”

“An accident?” Her hand went to her mouth again, tugging the tubes taut. “What’s wrong, Roland? It’s something terrible, isn’t it?”

“You don’t remember?” I heard myself saying. “You don’t remember what I just told you? About Jessica?”

“She’s all right, isn’t she? Tell me she’s all right.”

Her hand reached toward me, eyes pleading, the bruises on her cheek glowing with lividity, and I… I recoiled, retreated into my chair, glancing to the floor in confusion, the gears of my mind seizing up and grinding.

“She’s hurt, isn’t she?”

I choked back a sob.

“But she’s not -?”

“She is,” I said.

Again, the strange breathing, the primal keening grief, as fresh as the first time. Her cheeks flowed with tears, her mouth gaped, and then her arms, so recently still, flailed with renewed violence, slapping the intravenous cable against its pole. I forced myself forward, wrapping her again in my arms.