was a dumb one from the start. Everything in the room was still murky, as though he were looking through a shower curtain. He could see lights and shadows. He could make out shapes. But to know exactly what had happened, he would have to push aside the curtain.

He could still back off, let the curtain rest or even flick the light back off. But that was the problem with darkness and Win's options. In the dark you cannot see the rot fester. The rot is free to continue to eat away, undisturbed, until it consumes everything, even the man huddled in the corner, trying like hell to stay away from that damned light switch.

So Myron got in his car. He drove back out to the farmhouse on Claremont Road. He knocked on the door, and again Barbara Cromwell told him to go away. "I know why Clu Haid came here," he told her. He kept talking. And eventually she let him in.

When he left, Myron called Win again. They talked a long time. First about Clu Haid's murder. Then about Myron's dad. It helped. But not a lot. He called Terese and told her what he knew. She said that she'd tried to check some of the facts with her sources.

"So Win was right," Terese said. "You are personally connected."

"Yes."

"I blame myself every day," Terese said. "You get used to it."

Again he wanted to ask more. Again he knew that it wasn't time.

Myron made two more calls on the cell phone. The first was to the law office of Hester Crimstein.

"Where are you?" Hester snapped.

"I assume you're in contact with Bonnie Haid," he said.

Pause. Then: "Oh Christ, Myron, what did you do?"

"They aren't telling you everything, Hester. In fact, I bet Esperanza barely told you anything."

"Where are you, dammit?"

"I'll be in your office in three hours. Have Bonnie there."

His final call was to Sophie Mayor. When she answered, he said three words: "I found Lucy."
Chapter 37
Myron tried to drive like Win, but that was beyond his capabilities. He sped, but he still hit construction on Route 95. You always hit construction on Route 95. It was a Connecticut state law. He listened to the radio. He made phone calls. He felt frightened.

Hester Crimstein was a senior partner in a high-rise, higher-bill, mega New York law firm. The attractive receptionist had clearly been expecting him. She led him down a hallway lined with what looked like mahogany wallpaper and into a conference room. There was a rectangular table big enough to seat twenty, pens and legal pads in front of each chair, billable no doubt to some unsuspecting client at wildly inflated prices. Hester Crimstein sat next to Bonnie Haid, their backs to the window. They started to rise when he entered.

"Don't bother," he said.

Both women stopped.

"What's this all about?" Hester asked.

Myron ignored her and looked at Bonnie. "You almost told me, didn't you, Bonnie? When I first came back. You said you wondered if we did Clu a disservice by helping him. You wondered if our sheltering him and protecting him had eventually led to his death. I said you were wrong. The only person to blame is the person who shot him. But I didn't know everything, did I?"

"What the hell are you talking about?" Hester said.

"I want to tell you a story," he said.

"What?"

"Just listen, Hester. Y(ou might find out what you've gotten yourself involved in."

Hester closed her mouth. Bonnie kept silent.

"Twelve years ago," Myron said, "Clu Haid and Billy Lee Palms were minor-league players for a team called the New England Bisons. They were both young and reckless in the way athletes tend to be. The world was their oyster, they thought they were the cat's pajamas, you know the fairy tale. I won't insult you by going into details."

Both women slid back into their seats. Myron sat across from them and continued.

"One day Clu Haid drove drunk-well, he probably drove drunk more than once, but on this occasion he wrapped his car around a tree. Bonnie"-he gestured to her with his chin-"was injured in the accident. She suffered a bad concussion and spent several days in the hospital. Clu was unhurt. Billy Lee broke a finger. When∗ it happened, Clu panicked. A drunk driving charge could ruin a young athlete, even as little as twelve years ago. I had just signed him to several profitable endorsement deals. He was going to move up to the majors in a matter of months. So he did what