Chapter 12: Friday

I was in the back of his driver's car in four minutes, with my coat over a T-shirt and no socks.

The Chestnut Hill house had every light on.

Gerald's study door was open, and I heard his voice before I reached it.

"Sit down, Nathaniel. You're making a scene in my house."

"It's my mother's house," Nathaniel said.

I stopped in the doorway.

Nathaniel stood in the middle of the carpet in yesterday's shirt with the stapled report in his fist.

Gerald sat behind his desk in a silk robe, with a glass of brandy at his elbow and a gold watch on the blotter.

He looked up at me and did not seem surprised.

"Imogen. You've come to see the end of it."

"I came to take my husband home."

"Home." Gerald smiled. "He's been telling me for ten minutes that he was in the back seat."

"I was," Nathaniel said.

"You were concussed. You were drunk. You remember what a man in that condition remembers."

"You told me I was driving."

"I told you what the officer told me."

"The officer's signature is on this page."

Nathaniel held it up.

"He retired to Florida that same month, with a house I'm told you helped him buy."

For the first time, Gerald's hand moved toward his glass.

He picked it up and drank.

"You're a grieving man looking for someone to blame," he said. "I understand it. I've forgiven you for four years."

"Forgiven me."

"Don't take that tone."

I walked into the room.

"Who was driving, Gerald?" I asked.

He turned his eyes on me, and they were perfectly flat.

"Her name is Bethany Quill. She sold your voice to the press and took your husband to bed."

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