“We both acted that way.”

“But we had a history, and…do you want to hear this?”

“If you know something about what Jeff thought, then yes.”

He runs his hand over his face. “Jeff worried, sometimes, that he was your second choice. And so, what he saw confirmed it, but…you already know this, right?”

“How do you know that?”

“Jeff told me, when we started talking again, how you’d worked things out.”

I can’t help the hurt from creeping into my voice. “He told you?”

“I think he needed to. But you have to listen to me. You have to believe this: When you told him that you really did choose him, he believed you.”

I absorb this information like a dry sponge.

“But even if that’s true, that doesn’t explain any of this. It doesn’t mean that he didn’t—”

Beth’s arm is around my shoulders. “Of course it does, honey, and that’s why there has to be a rational explanation for all of this.”

“There does?”

“Yes,” Beth and Tim say together with certainty.

I look back and forth between them until I connect the dots.

They’re certain Jeff wouldn’t betray me because I’d betrayed him. He knew how it felt, and he was too good a person to ever make someone feel the way I’d made him feel.

But see, I have another theory: If Jeff was going to betray me (if he did), it wouldn’t have been prevented by my actions, but caused by them. Like a chemical reaction that needs the right condition, my actions, Tim’s and mine, created the nitroglycerine, waiting, locked away until the right reagent came along.

Then somehow, somewhere, he met Tish, and the air rushed in, and any resolve he had exploded.

The problem with my theory, though, is that Jeff’s not here for me to test it. He’s not here for me to ask. He left me clues that point to something, something, but maybe nothing, and I already know in my clouded brain that if I don’t solve this puzzle, I will sink, I will go under, I will drown.

So when I get away from Beth and Tim and their little co-conspiracy to make me forget, make me believe, make me dismiss for lack of evidence, I check one last thing on the computer.

Springfield to Springfield.

If I leave right now, I can be there by dinner.


It’s after six. I’m in my rental car, driving.

I’m driving. I’m actually driving. For the first time since Jeff died, I’m driving.

The minutes I had between flights were enough time to realize that I literally didn’t know where I was going, and that I’d be arriving too late to find Tish at her office. I had no idea where she lived or how to contact her other than through Facebook, and something told me she wouldn’t accept my friend request.

Or maybe she would, this woman I met in a moment of crisis, this woman I tried to help, this woman who had the audacity to come into my home, talk to me, talk to my son.

Then it struck me: Maybe there was something Facebook could help me with after all. A quick check on my phone proved me right. Her husband’s a doctor, and his number’s listed in the phone book. A reverse address search later and I have their address. It’s so easy, even in this day of suspicion and privacy, to find someone if they’re not careful.

It’s so easy to lose someone too.

Her address is loaded into the car’s GPS, and the woman’s voice emanating from it tells me calmly but firmly to turn right in a hundred and fifty yards, turn right, turn right, your destination is on your left.

I pull over, too close to the curb, and my wheels skim it. Half a cigarette later, a man backs out of their driveway. His car passes mine on his way out. This must be her husband, Brian.

I watch her husband’s taillights fade. Does he know the answer to my questions? Does he have his own clues, his own suspicions? Or if I follow him, ask him, would I bring his world crashing down?

I find this option tempting for a moment. There’s something about the power in it, but no. Dr. Brian Underhill isn’t the answer to the wreck that is my life. He’s just another person caught in the jetsam.


When Tish opens the door, half laughing, words of dismissal on her lips, her mouth drops open. She closes it quickly, hiding her surprise. She must be good at hiding things, I think.

“Claire? What on earth are you doing here?”

She’s still wearing her work clothes (a black skirt, a pale yellow sweater), and her hair is tied back.

“I came to get some answers.”

“You…what? I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

She bites her thumb and glances over her shoulder. “Um, why don’t you…come in?”

I follow her into the house. It’s a typical four-bedroom suburban, not that different from my own. The furniture is nicer, though; a doctor’s house.

She takes me into the family room and motions to the couch. “Will you take a seat? I need to check on something in the kitchen. Do you want anything?”

“I’m fine.”

She stares at me for a minute, then disappears. I look around the room slowly. School shots of her daughter and family vacations are on the mantelpiece. There’s an afghan over the back of a squashy chair holding a half-read book, the spine cracked, and unobtrusive art on the walls hanging over the taupe paint. With a bit of straightening, this house would be for-sale ready.

I track back to a shot of her on the mantelpiece, the same shot as on the company website. She isn’t prettier than me, I think, then feel a wave of disgust for making the comparison at all.

Tish reappears holding two glasses of white wine.

“In case you changed your mind,” she says, putting one of the glasses on the coffee table in front of me.

There’s a coaster next to it, and I resist the urge to move the glass onto it. I want to let the glass bleed water onto her nice mahogany, as petty as that is.

She sits across from me, cradling her wineglass in her hand, not drinking from it. She’s eyeing me like my therapist used to, waiting for me to say something.

Eventually, she does.

“I guess I’m just…really confused about why you’re here.”

“I have something to ask you.”

“Okay.”

I hesitate. In court, when you’re trying to get information out of someone, trying to get them to admit what you’re trying to prove, the better strategy is generally to ask a series of innocuous questions, laying a trap, building up to the final question so carefully that they can’t escape. But sometimes another strategy works: Ask what you want to know so directly that the witness will be shocked into telling the truth. And because I haven’t had enough time to prepare properly, this is the strategy I use.

“Were you sleeping with my husband?”

“No!”

The vehemence of her denial startles me. Startles her too, I guess, since she nearly drops her wineglass, and as it is, half of its contents spills on her leg.

She looks down at the spreading wet and pats it with her hand, as if it’s absorbent. She puts the wineglass on the floor next to her.

“Sorry…I…that’s not what I expected you to say.”

“What were you expecting?”

“I really don’t—”

“Mom? Are you all right?”

Her daughter’s standing in the doorway, looking frightened. She’s wearing her school uniform, and she looks innocent, and less confident than in her book jacket photo.

Tish rises quickly. “Didn’t I say to stay in the kitchen?”

“I thought you hurt yourself.”

“No, I…spilled something. See, nothing’s the matter.” Zoey looks at me with her pale blue eyes. I feel a stab of guilt that I’ve made this child worried somehow, but that’s her mother’s fault, not mine.

“Who’s that?” she asks.

“This is…Claire. She came to…visit for a few minutes.”

Zoey relaxes and holds out her hand. It’s stained with blue ink. “Hi, Claire. I’m Zoey.”

My hand reaches out automatically. She takes it and pumps it up and down, once, twice, a grown-up’s handshake, though I know from my Internet snooping that she’s just a year younger than Seth.

“Nice to meet you,” she says. “How do you know my mom?”

“Zoey.”

“What? I was just curious.”

“Curiosity killed the cat. Why don’t you take your homework and go up to your room? I’ll be up in a few minutes.”

“Aren’t you going to change out of your wet clothes?”

“I’ll do that after Claire leaves. Room, now, please.”

“Oookkkaayyy. Bye, Claire.”

“Bye, Zoey.”

She leaves and pounds up the stairs, leaving an imprint on the world.

Tish comes back to her seat. “Sorry about that.”

“No, I…I know how it is. Seth’s…”

“Seth is…?”

“You know what? I don’t want to talk about him with you.”

“Because you think that Jeff and I—”

“Were sleeping together. Yes.”

“No, Claire. We weren’t. We were only friends.”

“I find that hard to believe, given everything.”

“What everything?”

I rotate through the list that’s been cycling through my brain.

“Why did he have that book? Her book?”

“Zoey’s book? That Seth read from at the funeral?”

“For starters.”

“I gave it to a lot of people. Brian, my husband, ordered so many copies—”

“Did you give it to him at the golf retreat?”

“Yes, that’s right. I brought a bunch of them with me. For the prize packs. Everyone who attended got one.”

A muscle twitches in my eye. “Why did you text him?”