“Jean,” I said. “It’s okay. Calm down.”

I heard a mighty intake of breath, as if her lungs were nearly starved, yet had found the courage for one last, great effort. The air rushed in, and when it came out, it carried my name, but weakly, so that I almost missed it.

“Yes. It’s me. Are you okay?” I tried to stay calm, but Jean had never sounded this bad, and I saw her blood on a sagging floor or spurting into hot pink water. “Talk to me, Jean. What is it? What’s happening?”

More wet, stifled breathing.

“Where are you?” I asked. “Are you at home?”

She said my name again. A curse. A benediction. A plea. Maybe all three. Then I heard another voice, Alex’s, but it was distant.

“What are you doing, Jean?” Footsteps boomed on wooden floors, accelerated, grew louder. “Who are you talking to?” Jean said nothing. Even her breathing stopped. “It’s Work, isn’t it?” Alex demanded, her voice louder, as hard as the receiver clenched like an ax in my hand. “Give me the phone. Give it.”

Then it was Alex on the phone, and I wanted to reach through the line and beat her.

“Work?”

“Put Jean back on the phone! Right now, goddamn it!”

“I knew it was you,” she said, and her voice was unruffled.

“Alex, I am so serious, you would not believe it. I want to talk to my sister and I want to talk to her now!”

“It’s the last thing she needs right now.”

“That is not for you to decide.”

“Jean’s too upset to know what she’s doing.”

“That still doesn’t make it your decision.”

“Whose, then? Yours?”

I said nothing, and for that instant I could hear Jean crying in the background. I felt a terrible helplessness.

“You know what she’s been through, Alex. You know her history. For God’s sake, she needs help.”

“Yes, she does, but not from you.” I tried to speak, but Alex cut me off. “Let me make one thing perfectly clear. Jean is upset because she saw your picture in the paper, you dumb shit. Black print implicating you in her father’s murder. Is it any wonder she’s upset?”

Then I got it. I understood. The article had compounded Jean’s guilt. She’d killed her father, and her brother was taking the blame for it. No wonder she was falling to pieces. The possibility might have occurred to her-that day she spoke to Detective Mills-but the reality was different, and it was pulling her apart. The revelation staggered me. I was out of my depth, and knew I could do more harm than good. Poor Jean. What more must she endure?

“If anything happens to her, Alex, I’ll hold you responsible.”

“I’m hanging up now. Don’t come over here.”

“Tell her that I love her,” I said, but Alex was already gone. I put the phone down and sat at the breakfast table, there in the back corner of my kitchen. I stared at the wall and then dropped my head into the cradle of my hands. Everything seemed to collapse-the room, my insides-and I wondered what further grief the day could possibly bring.

When I looked up, I saw the bottle of bourbon. I reached for it and pulled straight from the bottle. Hot liquor shot out and I drank too much, choking. I closed my eyes on the burn, wiped away something that felt like tears, and heard a gentle knock on the glass window of the garage door. I looked up, startled, and saw Dr. Stokes’s face on the other side. I stared for a moment, and he cracked the door. He wore a seersucker jacket, a white shirt, and jeans. His white hair was neatly combed.

“I won’t ask if this is a bad time,” he said. “Mind if I come in?”

His was a welcome face, lined, warm, and sincere, and I nodded. He entered with economical movements, passing through a narrow space that closed quietly behind him. He put his back to the door and clasped his hands in front of his belt. His eyes moved over the kitchen, but it was a brief journey. He spent a little more time on me.

“Where do you keep the glasses?” he asked. He was stately and elegant, perfectly composed. I pointed at the cabinet, still uncertain of my own voice. He moved farther into the kitchen and stopped next to me. I thought he would offer his hand or pat me on the back. Instead, he reached for the newspaper and folded it closed; then he was past. He stepped over the shards of my broken glass and filled two fresh glasses with ice. “You don’t have ginger ale, by any chance?” he asked.

“Under the wet bar,” I replied, climbing to my feet.

“Sit down, Work. You look whipped.” He returned to the table and poured bourbon over ice. “You like ginger ale with bourbon?” he asked.

“Sure. Yes.” I remained standing. He was so matter-of-fact that nothing felt quite real. He studied me again as he finished making the drinks.

“Gonna burn your insides out, drinking it straight from the bottle like that.” He handed me a glass. “Why don’t we try the study?”

We walked through the long foyer and into the study, a small room with dark wood trim, green walls, and twin leather chairs flanking the cold fireplace. I turned on several lamps so that it would not appear so gloomy. Dr. Stokes sat opposite me and sipped his bourbon and ginger.

“I wouldn’t have come over had Barbara been here,” he said. He turned one palm up. “But…”

“She’s gone,” I said.

“So it would seem.”

We drank in silence for a moment or two.

“How’s your wife?” I asked, knowing how absurd it sounded under the circumstances.

“She’s fine,” he answered. “She’s playing bridge down the street.”

I looked down into the depths of the cold brown liquid that filled my glass. “Was she home when the police were here?”

“Oh yes. She saw the whole thing. Hard to miss, actually. There being so many of them and here for so long.” He sipped. “I saw you in your truck, down by the lake. My heart went out to you, boy. I feel bad that I didn’t come down, but at the time it seemed like the wrong thing to do.”

I smiled at the old gentleman and at his understatement. “I would have been bad company, yes.”

“I’m sorry that this is happening, Work. For what it’s worth, I don’t believe that you did it, not for a second. And I want you to know that if we can do anything to help, all you have to do is ask.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“We’re your friends. We will always be your friends.”

I nodded, thankful for the words, and we were silent for a moment.

“Have you ever met my son, William?” Dr. Stokes asked unexpectedly.

“He’s a cardiologist in Charlotte. I’ve met him. But it’s been four or five years since I saw him last.”

Dr. Stokes looked at me and then down to his own glass. “I love that boy, Work, more than life itself. He is, quite literally, my pride and joy.”

“Okay.”

“Bear with me, now. I haven’t gone senile just yet. There’s a story coming, and there’s a message in it.”

“Okay,” I said again, no less puzzled.

“When Marion and I first moved to Salisbury, I was right out of residency at Johns Hopkins, younger than you are now. In many ways, I was a damn idiot, not that I knew it at the time. But I loved medicine. I loved everything about it. And I was eager, you understand, ready to build a practice. All Marion wanted was to start a family. She’d been patient through my residency, but she was as eager for that as I was for my career, and eventually we had our son.”

“William,” I stated into a sudden silence.

“No,” Dr. Stokes finally said. “Not William.” He took another sip, draining the glass down to a pale liquid, more melted ice than anything else. “Michael was born on a Friday, at four in the morning.” He looked at me. “You never knew Michael. He was way before you were born. We loved that boy. He was a beautiful child.” He laughed a bitter laugh. “Of course, I only saw Michael in small increments of time. Dinner a few times a week. An occasional bedtime story. Saturday afternoons in the park down there.” He gestured with his head, through the wall, down the hill, to the park we both knew so well. “I was working hard, putting in the hours. I loved him, you know, but I was busy. I had a thriving surgery practice. Responsibilities.”