quietly crying.

"Tell me," he said.

"No." Terese's hand stroked his hair. "Why did you leave?"

"A friend is in trouble."

"That sounds so noble."

Again with that word. "I thought we agreed we wouldn't do this," he said.

"You complaining?"

"Hardly," he said. "Just curious why you changed your mind."

"Does it matter?"

"I don't think so."

She stroked his hair some more. He closed his eyes, not moving, wanting only to enjoy the wonderful suppleness of her skin against his cheek and ride the rise and fall of her chest.

"Your friend in trouble," she said. "It's Esperanza Diaz."

"Win told you?"

"I read it in the papers."

He kept his eyes closed.

"Tell me about it," she said.

"We were never great at talking on the island."

"Yeah, but that was then, this is now."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning you look a little worse for wear," she said. "I think you'll need the recovery time."

Myron smiled. "Oysters. The island had oysters."

"So tell me."

So he did. Everything. She stroked his hair. She interrupted a lot with follow-up questions, relaxing in the more familiar role of interviewer. It took him almost an hour.

"Some story," she said.

"Yes."

"Does it hurt? I mean, where you got beaten up?"

"Yes. But I'm a tough guy."

She kissed the top of his head. "No," she said. "You're not."

They sat in comfortable silence.

"I remember the Lucy Mayor disappearance," Terese said. "At least the second round."

"The second round?"

"When the Mayors had the money to run the big campaign to find her. Before that there really wasn't much of a story. An eighteen-year-old runaway. No big deal."

"You remember anything that might help me?"

"No. I hate covering stories like that. And not just for the obvious reason that lives are being shattered."

"Then what?"

"There's just too much denial," she said.

"Denial?"

"Yes."

"You mean with the family?"

"No, with the public. People block when it comes to their children. They deny because it's too painful to accept. They tell themselves it can't happen to them. God is not that fickle. There has to be a reason. Do you remember the Louise Woodward case a couple of years ago?"

"The nanny who killed the baby in Massachusetts?"

"Reduced to manslaughter by the judge, but yes. The public kept denying, even those who thought she was guilty. The mother shouldn't have been working, they said. Never mind the fact that the mother worked only part-time and came home at lunch every day to breast-feed the baby. It was her fault. And the father. He should have checked out the nanny's background better. The parents should have been more careful."

"I remember," Myron said.

"In the Mayors' case it was the same kind of thing. If Lucy Mayor had been raised right, she would have never run away in the first place. That's what I mean by denial. It's too painful to think about, so you block and convince yourself it can't happen to you."

"Do you think there's any merit to that argument in this case?"

"What do you mean?"

"Were Lucy Mayor's parents part of the problem?"

Terese's voice was soft. "It's not important"

"What makes you say that?"

She was silent, her breathing a little more hitched again.

"Terese?"

"Sometimes," she said, "a parent is to blame. But that doesn't change anything. Because either way-your fault or not-your child is gone and that's all that matters."

More silence.

Myron broke it. "You okay?" he asked.

"Fine."

"Sophie Mayor told me that the worst part was the not knowing."

"She's wrong," Terese said.

Myron wanted to ask her more, but she got out of bed then. When she came back, they made love again-languid and bittersweet, as the song says-both feeling loss, both searching for something in the moment or at least settling for the numb.

They were still snarled in the sheets when the phone woke Myron early in the morning. He reached over her head and picked up the receiver.

"Hello?"

"What's so important?"

It was FJ. Myron quickly sat up.

"We need to chat," Myron said.

"Again?"

"Yes."

"When?"

"Now."

"Starbucks," FJ said. "And Myron?"

"What?"

"Tell Win to stay outside."
Chapter 31

FJ sat alone at the same table. He had his legs crossed at the knee and sipped as if maybe there were something in the bottom of the cup he wanted no part of. A bit of foam clung to his upper lip. His face was clean and wax-treatment smooth. Myron checked for Hans and Franz or some new goons, but nobody was there. FJ smiled and as always, something cold scrambled down Myron's back.

"Where's Win?" FJ asked.

"Outside," Myron said.

"Good. Have a seat."

"I know why Clu signed with you, FJ."

"Care for an iced latte? You take it skim, correct?"

"It was bugging the hell out of me," Myron said. "Why would Clu sign with