This is a few months later, the middle of winter. Layers of old snow sit beneath a layer of new snow, covering up what became pocked and riddled with road grime and dirt.
This is Chris at Paul’s hearing in a small courtroom, where she sits with her head bowed and a welcome bit of sun coming in through the windows, almost brightly enough to make her feel hopeful. Paul is looking uncomfortable at having to answer all of the questions about his affair with Bobby Chantal, and when asked why he never went to the police afterward with the information about the car he saw in the parking lot, he tells the court honestly that he thought the focus of the case would be shifted to him, and that it would prevent the real killer from being caught. And also, of course, he was afraid he would be implicated and found guilty of a murder he never committed. After the first hearing, Chris and Paul walk arm in arm out to the car to drive back home. “I’m sorry to put you through all of that,” he says. “I should have gone to the police years ago, but I didn’t want you to know about it then. I thought you’d hate me. I don’t know what the courts will decide, but already I feel it was the right thing to do.”
When they drive up to the house they can hear the phone ringing and Paul rushes in to answer it, his boots on the lawn sending up powdery snow behind him in an arc. It’s his lawyer.
“Looks like you’ll be getting off the hook,” his lawyer says.
“What? Already?”
“Yep, you don’t even have to testify, because they found the guy.”
“You’re kidding. Who did they find?”
“The murderer. He’s some guy who worked at a school all these years. He was found dead not long ago, shot dead. It was a cold case until someone sent in an anonymous tip saying he was the man, not you. Sure enough, they were able to match some carpet fibers found on his clothes to the fibers on the clothes of the last two victims, and they found the same fiber match on Bobby Chantal’s body. Guy lived in the same apartment for years. Results just came in. You can sleep easy tonight, buddy.”
This is the night, the air frosty and clean. The clouds sailing by, revealing stars so bright one could see by them to walk a wooded trail, and Paul thinking he’s the luckiest man in the world. He turns over and settles against Chris, matching his body up to hers, his mouth at her neck, planting kisses in a row.
This is Chris the next day in her studio with one of her biggest buyers from Connecticut. He has been here over an hour, having had tea with her and having admired all of her work, except one that he hasn’t seen. It’s covered with a cloth. Chatting with her, almost ready to leave after having chosen three paintings he would like to buy, he points to the covered painting. “May I?” he says, wanting to reveal it. Before Chris can say no, the cloth is off, and the face of the killer is staring at them. “Oh, God. Isn’t that the face of that serial murderer who was found dead up here?” the buyer says. Chris nods. “I’m sorry, it’s not for sale. In fact”—Chris says as she takes her X-Acto knife and rips through the canvas—“pretend like you never even saw it.” Later, Chris takes the canvas she ripped out of the frame and burns it in the woodstove, feeling relieved that she’ll never have to see the face again. She thinks about Beatrice, how she wishes the killer being caught could somehow have reversed what was done to Beatrice all those years ago, but she knows now nothing can change that. She’ll just have to be content with the fact the killer is now dead, and that, she thinks, is something to be very happy about. If they ever found out who killed him, she’s going to go up to the person who did it and personally thank them.