"She called you, and I spoke to her. She's meeting us at your house. I hope that's okay with you. She thought it would be."

"It is, sure." Ellen felt her heart gladden. "How is she? Is she okay?"

"She's very upset, but I think it will do you good to see her." Marcelo swung the car onto her street, and Ellen swallowed hard as she looked at her house. News vans parked in every available space, with microwave towers that pierced the blue sky. Reporters with video cameras mobbed her sidewalk.

Ellen said, "I hate the press."

"Me, too." Marcelo's gaze shifted to her, worried. "Would you like me to go around the block, one time?"

"No, let's do it." Ellen pulled her coat closer around her.

"Looks like national, too, and TV." Marcelo craned his neck, slowing the car as they neared the house. "I'll let you read Sal's piece before we file."

"You filing this afternoon, by two?"

"It can wait. I'll email it to you."

"Thanks." Ellen knew he was pushing the deadline for her. "Are you coming in?"

"If you would like. I'm happy to meet Connie."

"Come in and meet her, then I think I'll be okay." They approached the house, and to Ellen's surprise, her neighbor Mrs. Knox was out front, ignoring the reporters and shoveling her walk for her. The sight gave her a sudden pang, of guilt and gratitude. Maybe she wasn't such a busybody, after all.

"Here we go." Marcelo pulled up, double-parked, and hit the emergency lights. "We'll have to do this fast."

"Okay." Ellen grabbed her purse, and they both opened the doors and jumped out. She hustled around the front of the car, almost slipping on the snow, and Marcelo took her arm and they hurried together to her front walk. The reporters surged toward them almost as one, brandishing microphones, aiming video cameras, and shouting questions.

"Ellen, when did you know he was Timothy Braverman?" "Ellen, were you gonna give him back?" "Marcelo!" "Hey, El, how did the FBI find out who your son was?" "Ellen, aren't you gonna make a statement? Marcelo, give us a break! You're one of us!"

Ellen hurried up her walk with Marcelo right behind her, keeping the press at bay. She hustled to the porch steps, spraying snow, and crossed to the front door, which Connie opened for her.

"Connie!" she cried, more in anguish than in greeting, and the women fell into each other's arms.

Chapter Eighty-seven

After Marcelo had gone home, Ellen sat with Connie in the living room, telling her everything while they shared a box of tissues, and they cried all over again when they came to the same awful conclusion, that Will was gone from both their lives.

"I can't believe this happened." Connie mopped up her eyes with a Kleenex, her voice raspy. "It's unreal."

"I know." Ellen kept stroking Oreo Figaro, who sat in a silky ball on her lap.

"I hope you don't mind, but I got here early and I went up to his room. I looked around at all the stuff, all his toys, all his books." Connie sighed, her chest heaving in her sweatshirt. "I put his books away, force of habit, and I closed his door. I didn't think you'd want to go in. Is that okay?"

"It's all okay. Anything you do is okay."

Connie smiled sadly, her ponytail on her shoulder. "I should've read to him more. I didn't read to him enough."

"You read to him plenty."

"You thought I should read to him more." Connie looked at her directly, cocking her head, her eyes glistening. "You used to think that, didn't you?"

"You were the best babysitter I could have ever asked for."

"Really?" Connie asked, her voice breaking, and she dabbed at fresh tears.

"Really. You can't imagine how grateful I am to you. I could never have done my job without you, and I needed to do my job. For Will and for me."

"Thanks for saying that."

"I should have said it before, a thousand times. It's true." Ellen scratched behind Oreo Figaro's ear, and he began to purr happily, his chest thrumming against the palm of her hand. "You know, I used to be a little jealous."

"Of what?"

"Of you, of your time with W. Of how close you were. I used to not like it that you loved him, and he loved you. It threatened me."

Connie remained silent, inclining her head, listening. The sun coming through the living room windows was too bright to bear, and Ellen didn't really understand what was powering her confession. But it didn't matter why she said it, only that it needed saying, so she continued.

"I'm sorry about that, because now I know better. The more people who loved that boy, the better. We loved him up, really, between the two of us." Ellen felt her eyes fill again, but blinked them clear. "I used to think that kids were like a glass or something, that they'd break if you poured too much love into them. But they're like the ocean. You can fill them up with love, and just when you think you've reached the brim, you can keep on pouring."

Connie sniffled. "Agree, but here's the thing. Will may have loved me, but he always knew who his mother was. He knew the difference between you and me, and he never forgot it."

"You think?" Ellen asked, though the words only hurt more now that he was gone.

"I know. I've sat for kids all my life, and take it from me, the kids always know who Mom is. Always."

"Thanks." Ellen set the cat aside on the couch and rose slowly, on joints that seemed suddenly stiff. "Well, I guess I have to go see what the kitchen looks like."

"No, you don't." Connie wiped her eyes with finality. "I went in there. It made me sick to see it, and it'll make you even sicker."

"I have to live here. I thought about moving, but no way." Ellen walked into the dining room, which was still in disarray. She flashed on Carol on the floor next to her, the two of them looking up at Rob Moore, standing behind the muzzle of his gun.

"I know it's not a crime scene anymore. But I didn't know whether to put the chairs in order or not."

"I will." Ellen picked up a chair from the floor and slid it noisily into place under the table, then did the same to the other, feeling the beginning of an odd sort of satisfaction. Maybe this was what everybody meant by picking up the pieces. She took a deep breath, braced herself, and headed for the kitchen threshold. "Let's see how bad it is."

"Right behind you," Connie said, and they both stood together, eyeing the kitchen.

My God.

Ellen supported herself against the doorjamb, scanning the scene. A large, shiny pool of black-red blood had dried into the floorboards, filling the grain and knots in the hardwood, making a macabre drawing etched in ink. It must have been where Carol had died.

"Disgusting, huh?" Connie asked, and Ellen nodded, her chest tight. She flashed on poor Carol, her arms raised protectively, then chased that thought away.

Across the room, near the back door, lay another island of blood, smaller but just as nauseating, where Moore must have fallen. The stink of gasoline hung in the air, and a dozen yellow spots stained the floor where the solvent had splattered. She squeezed her eyes shut against an instant replay of Will's mouth taped shut, his snowsuit drenched with gasoline.

"I told you it was bad."

"It's worse than bad." Ellen bit her lip, thinking. "Do you think I can scrub the blood out?"

"No, and I swear I smell it."

"There's only one solution."

"Cover it with a rug?"

"No." Ellen crossed to the window and opened it, then fumbled around for the metal slides and threw open the storm windows, letting in a blast of fresh, snowy air that somehow felt cleansing. "I'm going to rip up the whole damn floor."

"You mean do it yourself?" Connie smiled, surprised.

"Sure. How hard can it be? It's just destruction. Any idiot can destroy something." Ellen went to the base cabinet, found her orange plastic toolbox, and set it out on top of the stove, trying not to notice that one burner was missing. She opened the toolbox and took out her hammer. "I'm no contractor, but the sharp end looks like it could do the trick. If I start now, I can get it done by tonight."