"I would let it be." Jenna reached out and took Wendy's hand. "Please. I beg you. Just let it be."

Wendy thought about that. She had come here feeling one way. Had her opinion shifted? Again she pictured John alive. She pictured Charlie coming up the stairs. She pictured the girl dead on the floor.

"Wendy?"

"I'm not up for being judge and jury," she said, flashing now on Ed Grayson, on what he'd done. "It's not my place to punish you. But it's not my place to absolve you either."

"What does that mean?"

"I'm sorry, Jenna."

Jenna stepped back. "You can't prove any of this. I'll deny this whole conversation took place."

"You could try, but I don't think that will help you."

"It will be your word against mine."

"No, it won't," Wendy said. She gestured toward the gate. Frank Tremont and two other police detectives came around the corner.

"I lied before," Wendy said, opening up her shirt. "I am wired."

CHAPTER 38

THAT NIGHT, when it was all done, Wendy sat alone on the porch of her house. Charlie was upstairs on the computer. Pops came out and stood by her chair. They both stared up at the stars. Wendy drank white wine. Pops had a bottle of beer.

"I'm ready to go," he said.

"Not if you have a beer."

"Just having this one."

"Still."

He sat. "We need to have a little talk first anyway."

She took another sip of the wine. Odd. Alcohol had killed her husband. Alcohol had killed Haley McWaid. Yet here they both were, sitting on a cool, clear spring evening drinking. Some other time, maybe when she was stone-cold sober, Wendy would search for the deeper meaning in that.

"What's up?" she asked.

"I didn't come back to New Jersey just to visit you and Charlie."

She turned to him. "Why then?"

"I came," he said, "because I got a letter from Ariana Nasbro."

Wendy just stared at him.

"I met with her this week. More than once."

"And?"

"And I'm forgiving her, Wendy. I don't want to hold on to it anymore. I don't think John would want me to. If we don't have compassion, what have we got?"

She said nothing. She thought back to Christa Stockwell, how she had forgiven the college boys who had done her wrong. She said that if you hold on to hate, you lose your grip on so much more. Phil Turnball had learned that lesson the hard way, hadn't he? Revenge, hate-if you hold on to them too tightly, you could lose the important stuff.

On the other hand, Ariana Nasbro wasn't a college kid playing a harmless prank. She had been a drunk driver, a repeat offender, who had killed her husband. Still, Wendy couldn't help but wonder: If Dan Mercer were alive, would he forgive? Were the situations comparable? Did it matter if they were?

"I'm sorry, Pops," she said. "I can't forgive her."

"I'm not asking you to. I respect that. And I want you to respect what I'm doing. Can you do that?"

She thought about it. "Yeah, I think I can."

They sat in comfortable silence.

"I'm waiting," Wendy said.

"For what?"

"For you to tell me about Charlie."

"What about him?"

"Did you tell him why you came back?"

"Not my place," Pops said. He rose and finished packing. An hour later, Pops left. Wendy and Charlie flipped on the television. Wendy sat there for a moment, the images flickering before her. Then she rose and went into the kitchen. When she came back, the envelope was in her hand. She handed it to Charlie.

"What's this?" he asked.

"It's a letter to you from Ariana Nasbro. Read it. If you want to talk about it, I'll be upstairs."

Wendy got ready for bed and left her door open. She waited. Eventually she heard Charlie making his way up the stairs. She braced herself. He poked his head in the doorway and said, "I'm heading to bed."

"You okay?"

"Fine. I don't want to talk about it right now, okay? I just want to think a little on my own."

"Okay."

"Good night, Mom."

"Good night, Charlie."

TWO DAYS LATER, right before Kasselton High School girls played Ridgewood for the county championship in lacrosse, a memorial service was held at midfield. A big sign that read HALEY MCWAID'S PARK was hoisted up on the scoreboard during a moment of silence.

Wendy was there. She watched at a distance. Ted and Marcia were there, of course. Their remaining children, Patricia and Ryan, stood with them. Wendy looked at them and felt her heart break all over again. Another sign was hoisted below Haley's name. This one said NOT IN OUR HOUSE, and reminded parents not to host drinking parties. Marcia McWaid looked away as the sign went up. She scanned the crowd then, and her eyes landed on Wendy. She gave Wendy a small nod. Wendy nodded back. That was all.

When the game began, Wendy turned and walked away. Now-retired county investigator Frank Tremont was there too, way in the back, wearing the same rumpled suit he'd worn to the funeral. It had helped for him to know that Haley McWaid was dead before he ever got the case. But right now, it didn't seem to help a lot.

Walker wore his full sheriff uniform for the ceremony, complete with gun and holster. He stood on the blacktop talking to Michele Feisler. Michele was covering the event for NTC. She moved away when she saw Wendy approach, leaving the two of them alone. Walker started shifting his feet nervously.

Walker said, "You okay?"

"I'm fine. Dan Mercer was innocent, you know."

"I do."

"So that means Ed Grayson murdered an innocent man."

"I know."

"You can't just let him get away with that. He needs to be brought to justice too."

"Even if he thought Mercer was a pedophile?"

"Even if."

Walker said nothing.

"Did you hear what I said?"

"I did," Walker said. "And I will do my best."

He didn't add "but." He didn't have to. Wendy was doing all she could to rehabilitate Dan's name, but nobody much cared. Dead is dead, after all. Wendy turned toward Michele Feisler. Michele had that pad out again, watching the crowd, jotting down notes like the last time they'd been together.

That reminded her of something.

"Hey," Wendy said to her. "What was that thing about the timeline again?"

"You got the order wrong," Michele said.

"Oh, right. Ed Grayson shot his brother-in-law Lemaine before Mercer."

"Yes. I don't think that changes anything, does it?"

Wendy thought about it, ran it through her head now that she had time.

Actually it changed everything.

She turned toward Walker and saw the gun in his holster. For a moment she just stared at it.

Walker saw what she was doing. "What's wrong?"

"How many slugs did you find at the trailer park?"

"Excuse me?"

"Your crime-tech guys went through the park where Dan Mercer was shot, right?"

"Of course."

"How many slugs did they find?"

"Just the one in that cinder block."

"The one that made the hole in the trailer?"

"Yes. Why?"

Wendy started for her car.

Walker said, "Wait, what's going on?"

She didn't reply. She walked back to her car and looked it over. Nothing. Not a mark, not a scratch. Her hand fluttered up toward her mouth. She bit back the scream.

Wendy got in her car and drove to Ed Grayson's house. She found him out back, pulling weeds. He was startled by her sudden approach.

"Wendy?"

"Whoever killed Dan," she said, "shot at my car."

"What?"

"You're an expert shot. Everyone says so. I saw you aim at my car and fire several rounds. Yet there isn't a mark on it. In fact, the only slug found in the whole park was the one that went through the wall-the first shot you took. The most obvious place."

Ed Grayson looked up from the dirt. "What are you talking about?"