"Yes."

"Well, he got out the heavy artillery, and as a legal matter, you can make a transition, as you say, only if they agree, and they're not agreeing. They don't trust you or the situation."

"It's not about me."

"I know that, and you should hold on to that thought. It's not personal." Ron patted her hand. "Braverman has to go home and bury his wife, and his lawyer says that he wants to start over. Pick up the pieces."

Ellen's heart sank. "I can see that, but what if that's not what's best for Will? Sending Will into a funeral, his father a grieving widower, right off the bat? He'll freak."

"You're talking best interests again, and remember, that's not the law. It's a power notion. Braverman has absolute power and he's wielding it." Ron's gaze rested on hers. "I think you need to pick up the pieces, too. You need to understand that Will will be loved and very well cared for. They already contacted a pediatrician and a therapist specializing in young children."

Ellen felt tears fighting to surface, but held them back. Will would have medical experts, but no mother. She couldn't even say the words.

"In time, he'll be fine."

"He's not property, to be delivered. He's a child, with feelings."

"Kids are resilient."

"I hate when people say that," Ellen shot back, more harshly than she intended. "It's like we'll all pretend that the kid's feelings don't matter, because they get in the way. But you know what happens, Ron? Kids swallow the hurt, and sooner or later, it comes out. One way or the other, the hurt comes out. And you know who gets hurt then? Not the adults. The kid. W. Someday he'll be hurting and he won't even know why." Ellen gave a little hiccup and covered her mouth, holding back a sob. "He lost a mother at a year old. Now he's losing another. Can't we be a little sensitive? Is it so much to ask?"

"We have no choice, and he will be fine, in the end." Ron patted her hand, then squeezed it, as Marcelo left the bedroom for a minute, then came back with a glass of water.

"Have another pill," he said, offering her the tablet in his open palm, and Ellen raised herself, popped the Valium, and drank the water like she lived on the Sahara.

"Ron, can I call Will? Can I talk to him at least?"

"No."

"You're kidding."

"No." Ron shook his head. "They think a clean break is best."

"For who? Them or him? They accused me of being selfish, but they're the ones who're selfish."

"I hear you, but there's nothing we can do."

Ellen hoped the pill worked fast. "Where is he now, do you think?"

"Will? In the city, still. They'll be in town until the coroner releases Carol Braverman's body."

Ellen felt a pang. "When will that be?"

"A couple of days."

"So knowing Bill, they're at the Ritz or the Four Seasons. I say the Ritz."

"I say the Four Seasons," Marcelo said, but Ron frowned.

"Don't even think about it, either of you. Cusack told me if you try to see Will, they'll take out a restraining order."

Marcelo frowned. "These people, they're cruel beyond belief."

"There it is." Ron shrugged. "Cusack said, and I believe him, that this guy is just trying to protect his kid."

"From me?"

"Yes."

Ellen tried to process it. "I really can't call Will?"

"No. Their child therapist said it would be confusing for him and prevent his bonding with his father again."

"An expert said that?"

"You can find an expert to say anything."

"Then we should find our own expert."

Ron shook his head. "No, there's no trial here, and no judge. They won. They win. On the good-news front, I asked if they'd give you an update on his condition, physical and emotional, next week, and they agreed."

"Big of them." Ellen felt anger flare up, muted by the drug.

"We'll take what we can get and go from there."

"They need to know his medical history. They didn't even know that. I have his records."

"I'm sure we can send it to them or his pediatrician."

Ellen slumped back into the pillow, trying not to hit somebody. Or cry. Or scream. Or turn back time, to the day she read that awful white card in the mail.

"Try to rest, Ellen. You know what Shakespeare says. "Sleep knits up the ravell'd sleave of care."

"Shakespeare was never a mother."

Ron rose. "Call me if you have any questions. Hang in there. I'll be thinking of you. So will Louisa."

"Thanks." Ellen watched Ron go to the door, followed by Marcelo, and she called out after them, "Ron, thanks for not saying, I told you so."

Ron didn't answer and they walked down the steps, the footsteps scuffling again, and in time, Marcelo came back upstairs with another drink.

"Please tell me that's whiskey."

"Coke."

"Or not." Ellen raised herself and took a sip, tasting the sweetness.

"Are you hungry?"

"No." Ellen gave him the glass and lay back down, her head mercifully fuzzy again. Thoughts of Connie and her father popped through the oncoming clouds. "I have to tell the babysitter what happened."

"She probably knows. It's all over the TV."

"She'll be so upset." Ellen felt a deep twinge. "She shouldn't have to find out that way."

"I'll take care of everything." Marcelo put the glass on the night table. "I don't want you to worry about it. What's her phone number?"

"It's in my phone, in my purse. Her name is Connie. Also my father needs to know. He's in Italy. Getting married."

Marcelo frowned. "When does he get home?"

"I forget."

"It'll wait, then."

"I need to feed the cat."

"Let it go. Time to rest." Marcelo squeezed her arm.

"Thank you for being so nice."

"Ron's right, you have to pick up the pieces. I'll help."

"You don't have to."

"I want to. I'm privileged to." Marcelo stroked her arm, and Ellen felt her body relax.

"Am I staying here tonight?"

"Yes."

"Where are you sleeping?"

"You tell me. I do have a spare room, but I'd like to stay here with you.

Ellen's head started to fog. "Is this a date?"

"We're beyond dates."

Ellen closed her eyes. She liked Marcelo's voice, nice and deep, and the accent that made his words sibilant, his speech more like a purr than words. "But what about work? I mean, you're my editor."

"We'll figure it out."

"You were so worried about that, before."

"Let's just say that since then, I've gotten a better perspective."

And whether Marcelo kissed Ellen on the cheek or she just dreamed it, she couldn't tell.

Chapter Eighty-five

Ellen woke up, and the bedroom was still dark. She was lying on top of the comforter in her clothes, and Marcelo was spooning her, fully clothed, his arm hooked over her waist. The bedside clock glowed 3:46 A.M., and she waited for sleep to return, but it was as if a switch had been thrown in her brain. A light seared through the dark room of her mind, illuminating every corner, flooding every crack in the plaster, filling the grain in the floorboards, setting even the dust motes ablaze.

Will is gone.

Ellen imagined him in a hotel. He'd be wondering where she was, what had happened, why he wasn't home, why he wasn't with his cat, why he wasn't going to school. Bill would be calling him Timothy and smiling in his face, and there would be lawyers and pediatricians and shrinks, but there would be no mother. His world had been turned upside down and stood on its head. He'd gone from life with a single mother and no father, to a life with a single father and no mother, like the negative to his positive, his existence in obverse.

He's just a little boy.

Ellen knew what she had to do next, or tears would flow and engulf her. She plucked Marcelo's hand from her hip, edged toward the side of the bed, and rolled out as quietly as she could. She padded downstairs in the dark, running her fingertips along the rough brick wall to guide her way. Her feet hit the floor, and she crossed the room to the glass coffee table, where a black laptop sat with its lid open. She hit a key, and the Screensaver appeared, a color photograph of an old wood fishing boat at ebb tide, its orange paint weathered and peeling, with a tangle of worn netting mounded from its bow, in a twilight sun.