“You must realize, of course, that Dr. Hawthorne is a clinical psychologist,” continued Skander, “practically a psychiatrist, though he can’t hand out pills. Perhaps you’ve had contact with such people in your time—always asking how you feel and if you’re happy. And psychologists often suffer from an inferiority complex about not having a medical degree. It makes them more devious. That’s the thing about Hawthorne, isn’t it? You never know if what he says is true. Perhaps he’s saying it because he thinks that’s what you should hear. For instance, if he tells you how good you look, who knows if that’s what he feels? Rather, that’s the strategy he’s devised. In fact, he may have decided you could benefit from the deception. To me he’s been quite open about you, and let me tell you that I’ve found it shocking. Just because you haven’t had the educational advantages of the rest of us doesn’t mean you aren’t intelligent. I’ve been quite straightforward about that. Even blunt. Your French Canadian heritage, the way you speak, your lack of sophistication, even your jokes—no, no, I’ve told Dr. Hawthorne right to his face that he mustn’t judge you. Indeed, I’ve told him that I didn’t want to hear you verbally abused in my presence, that even if you weren’t as fortunate as he, it didn’t mean you could be turned into a figure of fun and ridiculed. He’s not a trustworthy sort, if you see what I mean. And I think he rather liked young Scott.”

LeBrun got to his feet and walked across his small apartment to the refrigerator. He opened the door and took out a bottle of Budweiser. “You want one?” he asked Skander.

“Much too early for me, I’m afraid.”

LeBrun held up a bottle toward Bennett, who shook his head. “What’s wrong, Bennett, you’re not smiling. Aren’t you the guy who’s always smiling? You used to be a regular clown.” Taking an opener from a drawer, LeBrun popped the top, put the bottle to his lips, and tilted back his head. Bennett watched him drink nearly the whole bottle without pausing. Then LeBrun lowered the bottle, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and belched. “So what you’re telling me,” said LeBrun, leaning against the refrigerator, “is that I have to kill Hawthorne. You’re saying I got no choice.”

—

The snow blew horizontally into the windshield and then clogged the wipers, forcing Hawthorne to roll down his window, reach around, and flick the wiper, knocking the snow off so he could see, at least for another five minutes, until he had to roll down the window and knock off the snow all over again. The usual thirty-five-minute drive from Bishop’s Hill to Plymouth had taken over an hour and during that time the winter weather advisory had been upgraded to a storm warning. Hawthorne had brought four students to Plymouth so they could catch the bus to Logan Airport in Boston. Luckily, most of the other students had left the previous day. Concord Trailways had assured Hawthorne over the phone that the bus would be running, though it might be late. Hawthorne himself had been a little late, but he’d still been able to get the students to the bus station—a gas station and convenience store with a bench—by noon. That evening Hawthorne was supposed to visit Kate; her son was with his father. Hawthorne told himself that he would be there no matter what—snowstorms, hurricanes, tornadoes notwithstanding.

Jessica Weaver had come along. All week she had been skipping meals and looking depressed and anxious. Helen Selkirk had told Hawthorne, “Not even her kitten cheers her up.” But Helen had taken the bus to Boston two days earlier, leaving Jessica alone in their dorm room. So Hawthorne had decided to bring her to Plymouth and buy her lunch after dropping off the other kids. Jessica’s stepfather planned to pick her up at school either that day or the next, although Hawthorne thought that he might be delayed by the snow.

“He’s got a Jeep Wrangler,” Jessica told him, “it’s one of his toys. He thinks he can go anywhere. He’ll be there all right.”

“You don’t seem to be looking forward to it.”

“I hate him,” Jessica answered perfectly calmly. “I wish he was dead. But at least I might see my brother. If it weren’t for Jason, I wouldn’t be going home at all.”

“Is that what’s been bothering you?”

“Partly. Have you ever felt that you really deserved to be punished?”

“For what sort of thing?”

“I don’t want to say, but it’s about the worst thing in the world.”

“Does it concern your stepfather?”

“Sure, but it concerns me a lot more.”

Hawthorne had spoken with Jessica’s stepfather over the phone, although he had never met him. Peter Tremblay had the genial and articulate manner of a professional speaker—a lawyer well-practiced in boardrooms and courtrooms. In this way, he reminded Hawthorne of Hamilton Burke. Hawthorne wondered how such people were when they became sad or wistful or sentimental, when they expressed anything other than authority and hearty assurance.

“What about your mother?” Hawthorne asked.

“Dolly’s too scared of Tremblay to complain. But they’re going to be flying to Las Vegas right after Christmas. Tremblay loves to gamble but he’s not very good at it. And Dolly loves to drink. He’s hired a baby-sitter from an agency to take care of me and Jason, which surprised me.”

“Why should it surprise you?”

Jessica didn’t answer right away. “Tremblay doesn’t like to leave us together. He thinks we conspire against him.”

“And do you?”

“Of course.”

From the bus station, Hawthorne drove Jessica to a diner called Main Street Station, across from Plymouth State College. He parked and they waded through the snow to the diner, which had a bright yellow front, a green metal awning, and two green pillars. Inside were red booths trimmed with dark maple and thirteen red-topped stools along a marble counter. They took a booth by a window that looked out from about six feet above the sidewalk. Cars and pickups were crawling along with their lights on and there was the jingle of snow chains. Across the street and up the hill beyond the parking lot, the four-story Rounds Hall was barely visible, its clock tower a blur in the blowing snow. Four students passed on cross-country skis right down the middle of the street.

Jessica ordered a half-pound monster burger with guacamole, jalapeño peppers, and sautéed mushrooms, and a strawberry frappe. Hawthorne got the turkey club, French fries, and a cup of coffee. The young waitress smiled as if she thought Jessica was his daughter. At the counter, four men were drinking coffee, each with a puddle of melting snow beneath his stool.

“So,” said Hawthorne, wanting to continue the conversation they had had in the car, “what’s this thing that’s the worst thing in the world?”

Jessica’s hair hung in two braids. She had unzipped her down jacket and underneath she wore her blue University of New Hampshire sweatshirt. “I don’t know, it’s not that big a deal. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Does it have to do with what happened before you came to Bishop’s Hill?”

“Partly.”

“And what else?”

“Just a lot of bullshit.” Jessica seemed no longer interested in talking. She sipped her water, then set her glass back on the table. She stared out the window and didn’t look at Hawthorne. Each window had a border of red stained glass running across the top. “I miss my brother,” she said at last.

“You’ll be seeing him tomorrow, won’t you?”

“I guess so.” Jessica tore open a packet of sugar, poured it into her hand, and licked it slowly. Her tongue was pointed and very pink.

“So it’s more than that, isn’t it?”

Jessica crumpled up the empty sugar packet. “You can probably figure it out.” She again seemed to be deflecting his questions.

“What do you mean?”

“Your wife and kid were killed, right? Well, my father was killed.”

Hawthorne remembered that Jessica’s father had died in an accident in which he had been flying his own plane “You think about your dad a lot?”