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“I see.”

“In all honesty, I don’t believe we stand to gain much from the golf club that we weren’t able to collect from elsewhere in the house,” Harmon said. “But of course that’s not the point. It was a royal screwup.”

I didn’t disagree.

“If you or Sara wanted to press the issue, you could probably hang somebody’s job on your wall, and I wouldn’t be able to say that I blamed you.”

I’d thought about this more than once over the past few weeks, but in the end, it seemed that Harmon had a point. “Like you said,” I told him. “We probably wouldn’t stand to gain much.”

We chatted awhile longer, Harmon did his best to reassure me that our case was still important to the Clark Falls Police Department, and I left with nothing more than I’d had when I arrived.

Outside, on my way back to my car, I felt a tingle at the back of my neck and glanced over my shoulder. John Gardner, Detective Harmon’s old boss, stood smoking a cigarette in one of the building’s exterior doorways, watching me. When I saw him there, he lifted his chin and held up a palm. I don’t remember if I waved back or not.

Later that afternoon, Brit Seward returned a collection of short stories I’d given her, thinking it seemed like something she’d like. I asked her what she’d thought of the stories.

“I liked the main one,” she said. “About the truck driver and his wife. It was sad.”

“Something happier, then.” I started browsing my shelves, looking for something funny but not too light. A challenge, but not too far beyond her. She was a tricky case.
Thirteen going on twenty- three,
Michael Sprague had said. He’d had it about right.

Brit said, “What about this?”

I took the book she’d pulled from the R’s—a hardback copy of Russo’s
Empire Falls
—and remembered her claim that she’d chosen to read Emily Brontë because
Wuthering Heights
reminded her of Ponca Heights. I liked that Brit liked titles and stories that reminded her of where she lived.

I nodded and handed the book back to her. “Happy parts,” I said. “And sad parts.”

“Sounds good.”

“It’s pretty good,” I agreed. “What makes you pick this one?”

“My dad has the DVD.”

“Yeah? Paul Newman?”

“I guess so. He’s the old guy? Max?”

“Hey,” I said. “Read the book before you watch the movie.”

“Too late, but thanks for the advice.”

“You’re killing me.”

Brit laughed. “Can I hang out here?”

I’d set up a reading nook for myself in the far alcove: a beat- up couch that had come from an early apartment of mine, with wide flat arms, where you could set a cup of coffee or a beer or a rocks glass or, in Brit’s case, a plastic Diet Mountain Dew bottle; an unmatched footstool that stood at just the right height; and a floor lamp that had come from my grandmother’s house in Cresskill, New Jersey, which seemed to make an ordinary lightbulb produce more pleasing light.

If allowed, Brit would spend all day up here. This had in fact become a habit of hers in recent weeks, but as long as Pete and Melody didn’t mind, and I didn’t have any work to do in the office, it didn’t bother me.

“Fine by me,” I said. “Your dad knows you’re here?”

“I told Melody I was coming over.”

“Fair enough.”

“Like Melody’s fair.”

She liked to try and get me to take sides. “None of my business.”

“I’m just saying.” She hopped into the couch with the book and her soda and tucked her long legs up.

“That’s a first edition,” I said, heading for the stairs. “Don’t spill on it.”

“Yes, Mother.”

“I’m just saying.”

She stuck out her tongue. “Can I use your computer while I’m up here?”

“If you can figure out the password.”

“What’s the password?”

“The password is, ‘You have your own computer.’ ”

“Yeah,” she said, “but Dad has Net Nanny.” “Enjoy the book,” I said.

That night, on patrol, Roger said, “I’d be careful.”

“How do you mean?”

“Brit spends a lot of time at your place,” he said. “You never know.”

The whole conversation had caught me off guard. I said, “You never know what?”

“What people might be thinking.”

We’d run a few kids out of the construction zone at the future site of Spoonbill Circle, and now we were heading back home. The hot weather had held on through Labor Day, and you could still feel summer in the air. But with nightfall came the first tangy threads of autumn.

I forced myself to wait before I spoke again. The problem with waiting was that it gave my annoyance more time to flare, which must have been apparent, because Roger said, “Don’t take what I’m saying the wrong way.”

“What
are
you saying?”

“I just notice that she’s been spending a lot of time at your place. Sometimes when Sara’s not home.”

“You notice that, huh?”

“Easy, Doc.” He chucked me on the shoulder. “I happened to notice today. That’s all.”

I’d grown tired of Roger chucking me on the shoulder and calling me Doc. “And?”

“Well, listen,” he said. “I’m not saying it’s fair, but in my experience, these are the types of situations where you can run into perception problems.”

“Perception problems.”

“I guess you probably know what I mean.”

I knew what he meant. But now I was angry. “Are you telling me that there’s a
perception
about Brit Seward coming over to our house?”

“I’m just—”

“I know Michael doesn’t have a perception,” I said. “If Pete and Melody have a perception, I haven’t heard about it from them. Barry Firth wouldn’t be able to keep a perception to himself if you locked him in a closet.” I counted off the residents of Sycamore Court on one hand. By the time I was finished, only my index finger remained. I tilted that remaining finger toward Roger. “Who does that leave?”

He didn’t seem perturbed by the gesture, which part of me already regretted as childish. Another part of me wanted to show him a different finger. As far as Roger seemed concerned, we might have been talking about the weather finally turning cooler.

“Don’t forget Brit,” he said. “She could have a perception.”

“Not through any encouragement from me, she couldn’t.”

“Oh hell, Paul, I know that. Come on, now. That never crossed my mind.”

It did cross your mind,
I almost said.
It crossed your mind, and then you brought it up, and now we’re talking about it.

I became aware that I’d started walking faster. But Roger hadn’t quickened his pace to keep up. He just kept moving along in his calm, steady stroll, which forced me to slow down or end up a block ahead, talking to myself in the dark. This annoyed me even more.

“Listen,” he said. “I’ve known Brit since she was Sofie’s size. If I had a perception I wanted you to be aware of, you’d be aware of it. Believe me.”

I thought up half a dozen responses to that and stopped.

Maybe it was me. Sara had said that I’d begun to annoy easily, and that was probably true.

It annoyed me that the police hadn’t managed to generate any leads on Sara’s attacker in two months’ time. It annoyed me that Barry Firth had blabbed about our pregnancy weeks ago, and that despite our intention to keep the result at least somewhat private, at least until we felt ready to share, everyone in the circle—based on Barry’s inability to keep his trap shut,
Michael Sprague’s unwavering dedication to the same task, and Sara’s drinking margaritas at Pete and Melody’s barbecue three weekends earlier—had been able to put two and two together.

On the subject of alcohol consumption, I didn’t like the fact that Roger seemed to know how many beer and wine bottles went out in our recycling tub on garbage day. It annoyed me that he’d been able to spot the increase in number these past few weeks. It annoyed me that he’d found himself concerned enough to make a comment to Sara about it, which she’d conveyed to me.

Of course, everyone meant well. In offering their condolences. In expressing their concerns.

Maybe it all boiled down to the simple fact that Sara and I hadn’t really
been
Sara and I lately. School had started, our schedules conflicted, and six weeks after losing the baby, we seemed to be operating on different frequencies. For the longest period in our marriage so far, we seemed to be struggling to tune in to each other.

And now this horseshit?

“Hell, forget all that,” Roger said. “There’s more you don’t know, and that’s not your fault.”

“What don’t I know?”

“Between you and me,” he said, “turns out you’re a pretty good alibi.”

“What does that mean?”

While we worked our way back up Sycamore Drive, Roger proceeded to tell me about an instance he happened to be aware of, in which Brit had claimed to be at our place, but had in fact slipped away to Loess Lake in a Mustang convertible with her girlfriend Rachel, her banned bikini, and two seniors from Clark Falls High.

“That’s the first I’ve heard about that,” I said. “Pete and Melody haven’t said a word.”

“That’s because Pete and Melody don’t know about it,” Roger said. “I was coming home from the hardware store, saw Brit get in the car down the hill there. Heard from Melody she’d
gone to your place with an armload of books. I waited for the kid to come walking back up the hill four hours later. We had a little chat before she went in for supper.”

He’d waited for her? For four hours? “No kidding.”

“No kidding.”

I chose my next words carefully. Actually, that’s not true. I flat- out asked him what made having a chat with Brit Seward about her behavior
his
responsibility.

“Listen, Doc, it’s not my place to be talking about it. But if you didn’t know, Pete and Melody… well. They’ve been having a little rough patch here lately.”

“Oh?” I thought of the night I’d overheard Roger talking to Pete, out on the deck at the country club. I didn’t mention it. “That’s too bad.”

“Brit’s a hell of a kid, but I’ll tell you what. College prep smarts and that centerfold body and only thirteen years to know what to do with it all. That’s a hell of a combination.” He shook his head. “Point is, she’s not making it any easier on ‘em, all this running around. So we had a chat. One less thing for Pete and Mel to worry about.”

We climbed the hill in silence. “Well,” I finally said. “I guess it takes a village.”

Roger stayed quiet for a moment. The moment passed. He flicked the ember from the end of his cigar, dropped the dead butt in his vest pocket, and said, “Careful, Doc.”

We walked home without saying another word.

EARLY THE NEXT MORNING, our front doorbell rang. When I answered, I found Roger standing on our stoop in a light jacket, khaki trousers, and hiking shoes.

Sara had gone for a run with Melody Seward. I’d just gotten a pot of coffee going. Roger had one hand in his jacket pocket, a steel thermal mug in the other.

“Morning,” he said.

“Roger.”

“Doc, I believe I owe you an apology.”

After coming home the night before, I’d ranted to Sara for half an hour. She’d listened patiently, nodded along, and finally suggested that perhaps I was overreacting.

Maybe she’d been right. Either way, I didn’t have the energy for a snit with a neighbor.

“Listen, forget it.” I waved my hand. “I guess I’m a little touchy lately. Sara would tell you the same. No hard feelings.”

“Well, I didn’t like the way we left things. Wanted to come by and tell you that before the sun got too high.”

“Come on in.”

“Actually, I was just heading out for a walk,” he said. “Thought I’d see if you’d mind keeping me company.”

I was still in the sweatpants and T-shirt I’d slept in, and I didn’t much feel like walking anywhere. On the other hand, I had a stack of student essays to grade before class on Monday, and I was already thinking of ways to avoid diving in. And Roger seemed to be hoping I’d agree.

So I threw on a pair of jeans, sneakers, and an old Dixson sweatshirt. On the way out of the house, I stopped in the kitchen long enough to fill a carry- along mug of my own.

Roger and I walked a short way down Sycamore Drive, chatting about the temperature. It was the first true fall morning so far. The air was crisp and misty, and the lawns all twinkled with dew. Halfway down the hill, Roger cut across a patch of empty ground. “Scenic route. Follow me.” We crossed through a border of sumac and wildgrass and entered the nature preserve. Roger picked up a trampled deer path in the forest floor. “Here we go.”

A hundred feet into the woods, the trees gathered in around us, and the temperature seemed to drop ten degrees. Occasional slivers of blue sky peeked in through the gaps in the whispering canopy high over our heads. The air smelled rich and musty; threads of steam leaked from our coffee mugs. The legs of my jeans were soaked from walking through the tall wet grass at the border, and I was glad I’d put on the sweatshirt. “When is tick season again?”

Roger chuckled. “It opens up here in a bit.”

I ducked a branch and followed along.

“This was actually Omaha country back when,” he said as we walked. “The Ponca were mostly on the other side of the river.”

“No kidding. Omaha Heights, huh?”

“Guess somebody forgot to do their homework when they named the place.” Roger winked and glanced over his shoulder, in the general direction of Ponca Heights behind us. “Or, hell. Maybe they just thought it sounded better. Big root sticking up here. Watch your step.”

We walked in silence for a while, listening to the early-morning chatter of the birds, the creak and sigh of the treetops above, the sound of our feet crunching along through last year’s leaf litter.

Though it was only September, I already missed fall back home. A New England autumn is like an explosion; by comparison, autumn in Clark Falls arrived quietly, in muted shades. If you didn’t pay attention, you might not even notice the season changing in front of your eyes.

I began to wonder, the farther Roger and I walked into the woods, if the leaves would change before we made it home. The trail was narrow, too narrow to take side by side through the thicker timber. At some point I’d begun to notice that tree limbs had been pruned back in spots; the scarred ends of the branches had dried and gone brown. That was the first time I realized that we weren’t on a deer path. I’d already started to suspect that we weren’t on a casual morning walk, either.