It did not come as a surprise that Marlinchen wasn’t asleep when Aidan and I returned. She came out to wrap her arms around Aidan’s neck and embrace him for a long moment, until I had to turn away from the intimacy of their reunion.

She fixed him a meal in the kitchen, two warm tuna sandwiches with melted cheddar cheese and an oversized glass of milk, and made up a bed for him on the sofa, where he fell into an exhausted sleep. Only when he was asleep did she turn her attention to me.

“Thank you,” she said. “Thank you for bringing him back here.”

“We need to talk about that,” I told Marlinchen. “Let’s go upstairs.”

In Hugh’s bedroom, I sat on the edge of the bed, and Marlinchen folded her legs gracefully to sit cross-legged on the floor. It was as though we’d rewound to an earlier point in the evening.

“Listen,” I told her, “I know Aidan’s your brother, and you’ve been carrying around a lot of guilt and a lot of anxiety where he’s concerned. But do you really know that person down there?” I nodded toward the open door, signifying the stairway and the downstairs area that lay beyond it, where Aidan slept. “It’s like I said about the photo you showed me. Twelve to seventeen are some pretty important years. People change a lot, and Aidan’s been spending those years in circumstances that we don’t know a whole lot about.”

Marlinchen smiled at me, as though I were a child who didn’t understand the real world. “I don’t have to know where he’s been,” she said. “He’s all right.”

“How do you know?”

“I just know,” Marlinchen said. Her pupils, once again, were wide in the semidark. It made her look younger and more guileless than ever.

“I can’t operate based on someone else’s gut feelings,” I told her.

“What are you really saying?” she asked me.

“I’m going to spend a lot of time out here,” I said. I’d been thinking about it during the silent ride back here, with Aidan.

“That’s what you’ve been doing,” she said, confused.

“More than I have,” I said. “Even nights. I know that may seem strange to you kids; it does to me too. But the court gave me a responsibility for your safety. So until I feel better about this whole situation, I’m going to keep a close eye on things.”

Marlinchen smiled then, her natural and easy smile. “That’s all right,” she said. “Really, I like having you here, Sarah. But—”

“I know. You think I’m worrying about nothing,” I said. “Believe me, I hope I am.”

The next day, I was not at my best at work. There was a time when three hours of sleep would have sufficed for me, but those days were gone. On the brighter side, not much of interest happened at work. The nylon-mask bandits had been quiet for a little while. Maybe they’d gotten day jobs or won the lottery.

Late in the day, my phone rang.

“Sarah, it’s Chris Kilander,” the voice on the other end said.

“Kilander?” I said, straightening in my chair. We hadn’t crossed paths since the evening we’d done it so uncomfortably in the parking lot of Surdyk’s. “What’s going on?”

“I wondered if I could see you this evening,” he said.

“For what?”

“A little one-on-one,” he said. “You’re never at the courts anymore.”

Kilander been a power forward at Princeton. I was no one he’d look to for a challenging game of basketball. He wanted something else. The game was just a pretext.

“When?” I said.

Rain clouds were building overhead when I arrived at the courts, which were empty as I started stretching my quadriceps and hamstrings against the chain-link fence.

“Evening,” Kilander said, coming up behind me.

Although well muscled, his long legs looked quite pale in loose shorts, and I was reminded of the old days when slow-footed white guys dominated professional basketball teams. I wasn’t, however, deceived. He was going to be hard to beat.

“What are we playing to, twenty?” he said.

“Twenty’s fine.”

Kilander threw the ball more at me than to me, a hard chest pass. “Let’s see what you’ve got,” he said.

The answer was Not enough. Kilander drove to the basket again and again. When he was up ten points to my six, he asked me, “You played in high school, right? What were you, a guard?”

“Shooting guard first, then point guard,” I said, breathing hard.

“You play like a point guard. Conservative,” he said. Then he added, “A high school point guard.”

“You play like a lawyer,” I said, still dribbling in place, watching him. “I would have fouled you about four times by now if I weren’t afraid you’d sue.”

“I won’t sue,” Kilander said. “I grant you amnesty in advance.”

I pivoted and tried to dive around him to the basket. He blocked me and got the ball. A moment later, I grabbed his shirt as he was going up to score, and later I threw an elbow when he was crowding me. He just laughed, then demonstrated his moral superiority not only by refusing to respond in kind but by suggesting we go to thirty points when he beat me 20–14. We did, which allowed him to beat me 30–22.

“Thank you,” he said, oddly seriously, when we were done.

“For what?” I asked, trying to catch my breath.

“For not giving up on an impossible battle,” he said.

“You’re welcome,” I said, hearing the compliment in what some would have considered an insult. “Thanks for not playing down to me.”

A sharp gust of wind swept across the court, forerunning rain. Kilander picked up his water bottle and walked over to the sidelines, taking a seat on a low stand of bleachers. I followed him, still holding the basketball. “What’s on your mind, Chris?” I asked.

“I want to say something,” Kilander said. “What I said the other day, about you not denying you killed Royce Stewart? I was wrong. I’ve thought about it since then, and I know you didn’t kill that man.”

“Thank you,” I said. Something felt lighter in my chest at his words. “That means a lot to me.”

Kilander nodded casually. “Listen, I don’t know much about Diaz’s investigation, and you know I couldn’t tell you if I did. But I can tell you a few things about him, in general.” He paused to think. “I wouldn’t say I know the guy well, but we have an acquaintance in common, who’s now on the bench in Rochester. Gray called me with some of the usual new-in-town questions: where’s a good place to eat and so on.”

Several cyclists raced past the city courts, tires hissing on the pavement.

“Diaz is an intense guy,” Kilander said. “He’s University of Texas, a criminal justice major. Got his first gray hair in his junior year in college; that’s where the nickname came from. He’d be working in the prosecutor’s office in Dallas or Houston if it weren’t for his father-in-law. His wife’s from Blue Earth, and they moved back so she could be closer to her father, who’s got a chronic heart condition.”

“That’s too bad,” I said.

“In several ways. The condition’s debilitating, but there’s no prediction for life expectancy, not like the bad cancers. So Gray may be down there for the long haul, and he’s not the kind of guy to stay challenged investigating the theft of farm equipment. In Faribault County, he probably feels like he’s on a treadmill stuck on ‘stroll.’ ” Kilander paused to set up his next words. “For him, nailing a big-city cop would be fun. It’s a challenge. Nothing personal.”

“Big-city cop?” I echoed. “That’s how he sees me?”

Kilander had discreetly left out the key word. Corrupt big-city cop was more likely how Diaz viewed me. I’d never been involved in departmental politics, and in fact I was the youngest and newest of the detective division. It was hard to realize others could see me so differently from how I saw myself.

I told Kilander, “The other day, a deputy came up to me privately. He all but congratulated me for ‘killing’ Stewart.”

Kilander nodded but didn’t speak.

“Chris . . . how many people do you think know about Diaz?”

“Well,” Kilander said, “if a young uniformed deputy knows, what does that suggest to you?”

Oh, God. The first raindrops were starting to fall, nearly as light as mist. “Everyone,” I said.

Kilander moved a little closer. “The young man who said that to you is a cretin,” he said. “Sarah, other people will come to the same conclusion I have about you. Their instinct will tell them so; your conduct will, too. And when Diaz’s investigation comes up short, your career will recover.”

I took a steadying breath. “Thanks,” I said. “I mean that.”

Only Liam was up when I reached the Hennessy house that night, studying late over a cup of decaffeinated coffee. I declined his offer to brew some for me. Instead we talked for a moment or two about Shakespeare; Othello, in particular, which he was writing a paper on.

Just before I left him, I asked, “Did anything happen today? Anything strange, or uncomfortable?”

Liam caught the trend of my question. “You mean, with Aidan?” he said. “No.”

“After he’s been gone so long, and everything that’s happened, are you comfortable having him here?” I pursued.

“It’s different now, having him back,” Liam said slowly. “Uncomfortable? No.” He paused, as if thinking, but his next words were quite simple. “I mean, he belongs here. He’s our brother.”