Lacey changed out of her wet bathing suit in the cottage bedroom that had, for a very short time, belonged to Bobby. She thought she could still smell him in there, that funny blend of sweet shampoo and pungent tobacco, but it was probably her imagination. She lay down on the bed on top of a thin and faded bedspread that she feared had covered the sweaty, sandy bodies of too many renters over too many years. She hoped Rick would have cooled off by the time he returned with the pizza. Right now, as she replayed their conversation in her mind, the last thing she felt like doing was eating. She was an idiot. You don’t tell Guy Number Two that you just slept with Guy Number One. She had wanted to clean the slate with Rick for a new beginning. That had probably been unfair. She had thought only of her needs, not his.

She must have dozed off, because the sound of knocking seemed to be coming to her in a dream. The sound came again, waking her up, and she felt the slightest twinge of fear at being alone in an unlocked cottage in the middle of the woods. Evening had turned to nighttime while she’d been asleep, and the cottage was as dark as the outdoors.

A woman’s voice called from the deck, “Hello? Fred?”

Getting off the bed, Lacey padded out of the bedroom and across the sandy linoleum floor of the dark living room. She could see a woman standing on the other side of the screen door, illuminated by the deck light, her short hair a golden color.

“Hi,” Lacey said, as she neared the door. She flipped on the light switch in the kitchen so she wouldn’t be a disembodied voice as she spoke to the woman. “I think you must have the wrong cottage,” she said through the screen. “There’s no Fred here.”

The woman looked at a sheet of paper in her hand, holding it under the light. “You must be right,” she said, “but I’m so turned around. It took me ages to find this place, and—”

Lacey pushed the door open. “Come in,” she said. “Maybe I can help you figure out where you need to go.”

The woman offered her a look of gratitude as she walked into the cottage. She appeared to be in her late forties, probably pretty under other circumstances, but right now she had that dazed, puffy-eyed look of someone who was completely lost and tired of trying to find her way.

Lacey switched on the table lamp in the living room and motioned to the woman to sit down on the old couch. “Have a seat,” she said.

“Here are the directions I have.” The woman held out the sheet of paper, covered with lines of neat handwriting and a hand-drawn map, complete with squiggly lines that served as waves in the sound and tiny trees dotting the woods. Lacey sat down on the end of the couch closest to the light and studied it.

“Well, it certainly looks like this is the right cottage. But you know what?” It suddenly dawned on her. “The owner is away for the summer, and I don’t know his name. Maybe that’s who you’re looking for?”

The woman frowned. “I don’t think so. I’m looking for my son, Fred Pointer.”

Lacey shook her head. “I don’t know—” The name suddenly sunk in, and she felt an icy chill up her spine. “Pointer?” she asked.

The woman nodded. “Do you know him? Oh, I forgot! He goes by Rick, now. I’ve always called him Fred, though.”

Lacey pressed her hand to her throat, suddenly nauseous, wondering if she was going to throw up. The woman was beginning to look familiar to her. She could picture her face across the serving table at the women’s shelter as she ladled green beans onto her plate.

She stood up. “Oh, my God.”

“Are you all right?” The woman looked alarmed.

“He’s been using me,” Lacey said.

You don’t need to write that victim’s impact statement, Lacey. Let them go ahead without yours.

“Are you talking about Fred?” the woman asked. “About Rick?”

She couldn’t answer. She felt afraid, her head spinning, as she tried to sort one thought from another.

The woman got to her feet. “You’d better sit down,” she said, taking Lacey’s arm. “I don’t know what’s got you so upset, but you look like you might pass out.”

The woman nearly had to bend Lacey into a sitting position on the couch. She felt as rigid as a stick.

“I’ve upset you, and I’m very sorry,” the woman said, sitting close to her.

Lacey turned her face to hers. “Do you recognize me?” she asked.

The woman shook her head. “I…you do remind me of someone,” she said. “But I’m afraid that woman died a long time ago.”

“My mother,” Lacey said. “Annie O’Neill.”

It was the woman’s turn to blanch, her mouth open in disbelief. “Oh, honey,” she said, touching Lacey’s arm. “Oh, my God. You were there, too. I remember. And I’ve thought of you so often. But…” She looked around the room, helplessly. “I don’t understand what’s going on. Why would you be here with Fred? Is it just a…coincidence?”

“Oh, no.” Lacey stood up again, anger replacing the shock and nausea. She remembered the book he’d given her about forgiveness. She remembered the flowers. She remembered how he’d steer every conversation to the topic of Zachary Pointer’s parole. “Damn him!” She picked up an empty mug from the coffee table and threw it at the wall with such force that the woman recoiled. “He’s been using me all summer.” She raked her hair away from her face with her fingers as she let the reality of the situation sink in. She looked at the visitor. “Are you in on this?” she asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Your husband is up for parole,” Lacey said.

“My ex-husband.” The woman nodded. “I learned that just today.”

Lacey sat down on a lumpy old chair near the window. “Well, here’s what happened,” she said. “Your son showed up in my art studio one day. He never said a word about Zachary Pointer being his father. He told me his name was Rick Tenley and—”

“That’s his partner’s name. Christian Tenley.”

Lacey stared at her. “His law partner?”

The woman shook her head. “His…his significant other.”

Lacey was incredulous. “He’s gay?”

The woman nodded, and in spite of her rage, Lacey could not stop a laugh. “Well, that explains a few things,” she said.

“So…” The woman prompted her. “Was it just a coincidence he came to your studio?”

“No way,” Lacey said. “He knew what he was doing. He started…courting me. Sending me flowers. Asking me out. And when he got close enough—not that we had sex,” she added quickly. “You can tell this Christian guy that Rick’s been faithful to him, if to nobody else.” She thought back to their conversation that evening. It all made sense now: He had not been angry about her sleeping with Bobby. His rage had to do with her decision to write the victim’s statement. “When he got close enough to me,” she repeated, “I told him about my mother’s death and that my family was going to fight her killer’s parole. He started talking about the whole parole thing, telling me how I shouldn’t fight it, how I should learn to forgive your…husband, or whatever he is to you now. I was so touched that he took such an interest in me. He was such a good listener. God, he really sucked me in!” She looked at the table in the corner, where a stack of papers rested next to his computer. “He told me he was staying here in his friend’s cottage so he could have some peace and quiet to write, that he was working on a book about tax law.”

“I believe he is working on a book,” the woman said quietly, “but Christian told me it has something to do with parole.”

Lacey got to her feet and walked the two steps to the table in the corner. Lifting a few of the sheets from the top of the pile of paper, she scanned them quickly. The word “parole” was everywhere on the pages. “Bastard!” She lifted the entire stack of papers in her hands and tossed them into the air, letting them fall into disorderly layers on the floor. She felt wildly out of control. She wanted to destroy something.

The woman was leaning forward, watching Lacey’s tirade, with her fist pressed hard against her mouth and a deep crease between her eyebrows. Suddenly, she lowered her hand to her knees and sat up straight.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

“Lacey O’Neill.”

“I’m Faye Collier,” the woman said. “I took back my maiden name when I divorced Zachary, and I’ve been estranged from my son since he was a teenager. I’ve had no contact with him, and I came here to try to reconnect with him. I live in California now, but I was able to find out that Fred lives in Princeton, so I—”

“Princeton?” Lacey stood riveted to the floor in the sea of papers. “He told me he lived in Chapel Hill and taught law at Duke.”

“He does teach law,” Faye said, “but it’s at Princeton. I went to the address I had for him there and met Christian, who told me I could find Fred here. He doesn’t know I was coming. We haven’t talked in ten years, Lacey, so I don’t even know him anymore. But even though I don’t…” The woman blinked back tears, and Lacey could see the pain in her eyes. “Even though I don’t know him, I feel like I need to apologize to you for what he’s done.”

Her voice was calming. Lacey sat down on the couch again, sideways, drawing her feet up and wrapping her arms around her legs.

“You’re not the one who owes me an apology,” she said.

They both turned at the sound of the screen door creaking open, and Rick walked into the room carrying a pizza box. It took him a moment to recognize his mother, but when he did, Lacey saw all color leave his face, and the box fell to the floor with a thud.

“Mom?”

No matter what Faye had just learned about her son, it was apparent that it didn’t matter. She rose from the couch in a rush, moving toward Rick, motherhood transcending all else. And despite the fact that Rick had to know the jig was up, he opened his arms wide for her. They embraced with an intensity that Lacey couldn’t watch. She rested her head on her knees, feeling intrusive, and it was a full minute before the two of them finally let go of each other.

“How did you find me?” he asked.

“Christian,” Faye said.

They were both quiet for a moment, then Rick seemed to notice her. “Lacey,” he said.

She lifted her head and saw that he was crying, his face red.

“I’m truly sorry,” he said.

She shook her head slowly, without speaking, filled at that moment with more pity than anger.

“I lost it,” he said. “I’m sorry. I just want my father to be free. He was crazy when he shot your mother. Crazy and needed help, not prison. I need to get him out. I—”

“What you need right now is time with your mother,” Lacey said abruptly, standing up. “And what I need to do is go home and write my victim’s impact statement. And you can bet it’s going to be a good one.”

She marched past the two of them, deliberately stepping on the loose pages of his book about parole, and let the screen door slam behind her as she left the cottage. She’d forgotten to get her bathing suit from the spare bedroom—the second bathing suit she had lost in as many days—but she didn’t care.

It wasn’t until she was sitting in her car in the dark wooded driveway that she started to cry. The windows were down, the song of the cicadas blaring in her ears, and she didn’t reach for the ignition or even bother to wipe the tears from her face for a long time. She’d been taken advantage of sexually by men, too many times to count. But Rick—the one man she’d never imagined would hurt her—had used her in a way that cut right to the core.