Chapter Four

 

 

 

Evan was sure of two things after she woke up in her hotel room on Wednesday morning.

One: she’d never spend the night in Erie again, even if it meant hiring a dogsled to mush her way out.

And two: she was going to rip Dan a new asshole for giving out her Signal address.

At least, she assumed it had been Dan, after she checked her phone and saw that she had an encoded message from an unknown sender.

Of the finite number of people who even knew she had a Signal account, Dan was the only one she knew who would be so damn careless. He had an annoying lack of respect for communication protocols, and always had. They’d argued countless times about this very thing over the years. But he remained an unrepentant Luddite who’d rather fax documents instead of sharing them through encrypted channels. In fact, Dan was one of the only people she knew who even still had a fax machine.

Right now, however, she had to decide whether to allow the message to load, or not.

Before doing anything, she shot a quick text off to Ben Rush, who promptly told her he had no fucking clue, and suggested she ask Ping.

Okay. Fair enough.

Hey, Ping? she texted. How can an anonymous person be sending me a Signal message?

That’s easy, Ping wrote back. If you don’t have that option blocked in your preferences, anybody can send you messages.

Evan checked her account preferences. Shit. “Block anonymous messages” was unchecked.

Okay, she texted back. How’d they find my address?

They can’t find it, Ping responded. They have to KNOW it. Your Signal address is the same as your account phone number.

So anyone with my cell phone number can send me Signal messages? Evan texted.

Pretty much, Ping answered. Anybody who has the phone number you used to open the account can send you messages, anonymous or not. That’s the main reason why so many people open their accounts with burn phones.

Burn phones? God. What a world.

Good to know. Thanks, Ping.

Is this billable time? she asked.

Evan laughed. Yeah. Go for it.

Evan navigated back to her Signal app.

Okay. So maybe she had been too quick to blame Dan. Especially since it seemed that anyone who had her cell phone number could send her Signal messages. Assuming, of course, that she had used her cell phone to set up her account—which she had. And the list of people with her cell phone number was pretty endless. That meant this message probably came from someone she knew—or someone who knew someone else who had it.

But if that were the case, why send it anonymously?

She looked at the notification again. It simply read “New Message From Anonymous Sender.”

What the hell? She opened it. When the message displayed, it identified the sender as someone named “Moxie.”

Moxie? Who the hell is that?

The message was short. And it had an attachment.

Since we’re playing in the same pond, I thought it would be useful to divide and conquer. You might find the attached helpful in your research.

Evan was in a quandary. Who the hell was this person? And how did they know what she was working on?

She clicked on the link to display the attachment. It was another photograph of Cawley. This one was plainly several years older than the previous image she’d received from Dan. For one thing, Cawley was sporting a tad more hair. He was posing with a priest and a group of boys inside a church. The kids were all wearing basketball uniforms with Wildcats stenciled on their jerseys. Cawley was handing the priest a check. They were all smiles. Evan enlarged the photo as much as she could on her iPhone to try and examine the background more closely. Something about the setting looked familiar to her. Then she saw him.

Holy shit.

Tim.

Tim was one of the kids. She was certain of it. That mop of untamed red hair was unmistakable. He’d been on the basketball team at St. Rita’s when they were kids. Sheila used to drag her to services there on random holidays, usually Christmas and Easter, when she thought it was meaningful to be seen. Evan never paid much attention to anything during those outings, except dropping Atomic Fire Balls into the curiously long-handled offering baskets that were thrust past them about twenty times during every Mass. She also remembered being creeped out by the hideous carvings on the base of the baptismal font, partially visible in the background of this photo. Its tangled maze of bodies always reminded her of that Rubens painting included in the fat book on art masterpieces that some previous tenant had left behind in the row home they rented. The Rape of the Sabine Women.

The irony of that one never escaped her.

She was pretty sure the smiling priest accepting the check from Cawley also appeared in the newer image with Miller—only in that photo, he was wearing more elaborate vestments.

What the hell?

She’d have to wait until she got home to see if any of the other faces showed up in this older photo, as well. But that might be hard to determine. Most of the kids shown here would’ve been quite a bit more mature in 1995.

Who the hell was this “Moxie” person? And why send this photo to her? Apart from the obvious clue that someone else was looking into Cawley’s background, too. If so, why the cloak and dagger bullshit? And what did Moxie mean by suggesting they were “playing in the same pond”? Evan found that to be an interesting choice of words, especially since her job was simply to find out if there was anything new to discover.

Guess we can check that one off the list . . .

The rest would have to wait until she got back to Chadds Ford.

 

◊   ◊   ◊

 

Julia had a ninety-minute layover in Atlanta, which ended up being a good thing, because she had to schlep her bag halfway to Marietta to reach her connecting gate. The good news was that her flight to Philadelphia was scheduled for an on-time departure. For once. With luck, she’d be back at the townhouse in plenty of time for dinner—with Evan.

She resisted the temptation to stop at the Café Intermezzo on Concourse B for an espresso doppio. She knew herself well enough to understand that giving in to a simple indulgence like this would result in a sleepless night.

Not that she was at all opposed to the idea of a sleepless night—under other, more welcome circumstances.

Once she got settled at her gate, she had most of thirty minutes to kill before the boarding process began. She made use of the time to respond to a few emails. There were several from her assistant, updating her on meetings and the machinations she’d gone through to shift Julia’s schedule around to accommodate the Boston trip. And there were two messages marked “high priority” from her father’s estate attorney. She read both of those. It seemed there were several specific bequest documents that required her sign-off as trustee. He apologized for the short notice, but asked if she would be able to visit his office before the 15th of the month.

That meant tomorrow or Friday.

Well, that was not happening.

She wrote a quick response to him, explaining that she’d be in Boston on Thursday and Friday, and asked if he could send the documents to her via courier. Otherwise, it would be the first of the week before she could meet with him.

Another message intrigued her and made her smile. It was from Evan’s daughter, Stevie. They’d exchanged email addresses when Stevie was home during the summer, and Julia heard from her once in a while—usually about something quirky happening at school or, lately, with questions about some Christmas gift ideas she had for Evan or Dan. Julia never ceased to marvel at how well Evan, Stevie and Dan managed to navigate the terrain of their curious family troika. Dan was Stevie’s father—a relationship circumstance that derived from a drunken one-night stand in college. Instead of terminating her surprise pregnancy, Evan had stubbornly determined to go forward with it, and Stevie became the happy result of a youthful indiscretion.

Stevie had grown into a wonderfully tumbled amalgamation of the best of both of her parents. She was fresh, open and unapologetic. Julia adored her.

She opened the message.

 

Hey, J! Mom told me you were coming for dinner on Friday, and I just wanted to send you a note to say I’m really happy you’ll be there. Mom was growing a tumor about asking me if I was okay with it. No matter how much I tell her I’m happy you guys are together, she keeps thinking I’m gonna freak out or something. I thought maybe you could talk to her about this? And maybe see if she’ll cut Kayla some slack? She seriously needs to get over that. Anyway..... Maybe we bring it up after she’s had a bottle of wine? You know how much easier she gets. I’m gonna ask Tim to help out, too. If we gang up on her it could be like one of those intervention things, only nobody has to go to rehab. Mom can be stubborn sometimes, but I know we both love her. If I’m butting in where I don’t belong, just tell me. Okay? See you on Friday.

Love, Stevie

 

God, this kid was incredible. It never ceased to amaze Julia that Stevie was so often the only adult in the room. And she was dead-on about Evan and her skittishness about relationships.

But that didn’t make Evan unique . . .

They both had been running in place for a while now. Julia was overcautious about pushing Evan into something she might not be ready for. And Evan was too timid to press her on just about anything. Maybe resolving to confront all of this head-on really was the best way for them to move forward.

Maybe she should think about doing that?

She smiled at the idea.

Maybe tonight would be a good time to start?

She clicked the reply button, and wrote back to Stevie.

 

◊   ◊   ◊

 

Back in Chadds Ford, Evan brewed a big pot of coffee before sitting down at her grandfather’s ancient desk to call Dan and give him a summary report about the trip to see Miller, and receiving the second photo from the anonymous Moxie person. After shutting down Dan’s reflexive tirade about the expense of her overnight trip to Erie, she reminded him of his collapsed timetable, sent him a scan of the new image, and hung up.

She scrolled though a couple of messages from Ben. He’d managed to track down the address of the law firm that had set up the pro-Cawley PAC. He said their main office was located in one of the older Center City buildings on 8th Street that also housed street-level retail space. Ben figured that all the noise and pedestrian traffic from crazed Christmas shoppers would make their after-hours visit a lot less risky than it might have been at another time of year. Ben said he was planning to scope the site out during regular business hours so he could get a sense of the layout and what kind of security system they’d be dealing with. Unless he ran into something insurmountable, which he doubted, he said they should plan to stage their little after-hours tour on Saturday night, between 7 and 9 p.m.

She wrote back to tell him she’d be ready, and settled in with her mug of tepid coffee-water to spend more time comparing both of the Cawley photographs in greater detail.

The coffee tasted like ass.

Her Proctor Silex had been on the fritz for about six months. Small wonder. The thing was a relic that came with the house. Her grandfather’s coffee had always pretty much sucked, too. She guessed that was because her grandfather mostly drank Frank’s Black Cherry Wishniak.

She stared down into her chipped mug—another castoff from her grandfather. She could see little flecks of . . . something floating in it. And there appeared to be some kind of oil slick forming on the top.

She frowned at the sketchy liquid before resolving to drink it anyway. Time was money, and she needed to get to work.

Evan took another look at the photograph Dan sent her. It didn’t take much examination to figure out that the piece of artwork hanging over the fireplace was the same one depicted in the jigsaw puzzle Miller had been working. She was certain of it.

She recognized the picture, too. Something by Winslow Homer . . .

Yet another art masterpiece contained in that monster book she grew up with.

What was the name of that damn painting?

She did a quick Google image search. It only took a few seconds to find it. There it was. Snap the Whip. It depicted a bunch of boys playing the childhood game in a field outside their red schoolhouse. It was part of the permanent collection in the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City.

She studied the photograph again. The painting looked too elaborately framed to be a reproduction. If there were any chance it had been the original, maybe its presence in this image would allow her to figure out where the photo had been taken?

She shot off a note to Ping.

Hey. Got another little mystery for you to run down. Could you look into any exhibits that included the 1872 Winslow Homer painting called Snap the Whip? It’s in the permanent collection at the Met Museum in New York. See if you can find out if it was on loan or traveled anyplace in or around 1995? And if so, where? Thanks!

God bless Ping. She didn’t just keep Evan plied with savory dessert concoctions—and life coaching—she also made research a helluva lot easier.

While she waited to hear back, she spent some time examining all of the blank expressions on the faces of the kids in the new photo sent to her by the Moxie character, and trying to determine if any of them looked like they could be the same young men in the first photo from Dan. It became clear in short order that this was a waste of time. The only thing she was sure of was that the robed cleric who appeared in Dan’s image was the same priest shown accepting the check from Cawley in the older photo taken at St. Rita’s.

She thought his name should be pretty easy to run down. Since Tim was also in the earlier photo, he’d be sure to recognize the priest and could give Evan a starting place. Hell. This guy could still be at St. Rita’s. A lot of priests hung around the same parishes forever. There was even a slim chance Tim might remember this occasion.

Probably not very likely. Civic groups in the area were always making gifts to the parish in support of sports teams. Since the kids in this photo were all wearing Wildcat uniforms, Evan assumed this check was intended to underwrite some kind of CYO initiative.

She shot Tim a text message and asked if he had time to meet her around four that afternoon for a drink before dinner. She told him she was heading into the city to connect with Julia later on.

Tim wrote back almost immediately, and said he was free. He suggested meeting at The Twisted Tail on South 2nd Street, because it would be a straight shot on Lombard Street from there to Julia’s townhouse on Delancey Place.

Of course, Evan thought. Tim was a total bourbon snob, and he loved this joint. In fact, Tim loved anyplace that served twenty-dollar cocktails.

Evan told him she’d be there. It also occurred to her that she could ask him about Stevie and that whole “Catholic” debt thing . . .

Her phone rang. It was Ping.

That was sure fast.

“Hey,” Evan said.

“Hey. I’ve got some information for you about that picture.”

Evan grabbed a notepad. “Shoot.”

“Okay. So. For starters, that Met painting wasn’t on loan anyplace in 1995. It was part of a centennial show in Philadelphia in 1876, but that’s the only time it ever visited the city.”

“Well. Shit.”

“Hold your horses.” Ping wasn’t finished with her report. “I did some other research, and found out that the Met copy of the painting isn’t the only version Homer painted.”

Evan was surprised. “No kidding?”

“No kidding. He painted several of them. The Met picture is actually one of the practice pieces he painted before creating the final painting. There are some little differences between the two if you look at ’em side by side. For starters, the final one is a lot bigger. And it has a mountain scene in the background, instead of a valley with other buildings in it. They’re both dated 1872 and signed by Homer.”

“Ping, you’re a genius.”

“Thank you. That’s why Ben pays me the big bucks.”

“I thought that was only so you wouldn’t kick his sorry ass to the curb.”

“That, too. Somebody’s gotta take pity on his daughters.” Ping chuckled. “But here’s the best part of the story. The bigger painting isn’t in the Met collection at all. It’s at a place called the Butler Institute in Youngstown, Ohio.”

“And?” Evan prompted.

“And when I called them, they told me that their version of the painting had been loaned out in 1995, to some big-money donor who wanted to use it at a private fundraising event.”

“No shit? Did they say where?”

“One guess.”

“Philadelphia?”

“You go it, sister.”

Bingo. Now they were getting someplace. “Did they have the name of the patron?” Evan asked.

“Not at first. So, I sweet-talked her by asking about Youngstown . . . said I used to live there right after I got married and worked in one of the old steel mills. Said I heard it closed down and asked if she knew what happened to the man who owned it. Told her he was always real nice to work for.”

“She fell for that?”

“Honey, white women always fall for my thick, Georgia accent—especially when it telegraphs that I’m respectfully black. Once I started filling her ears with stories about how much I just loved my ol’ white overseers, we were practically sorority sisters. So, after our little love fest, when I asked her about the name of the person who borrowed the picture, she trotted it right out. Are you ready to copy?”

“Yep.”

“Okay,” Ping began. “His name was J.A. Lippincott. L-I-P-P-I-N-C-O-T-T.”

“Seriously?” Evan asked. “As in the publishing Lippincotts?”

“I have no earthly clue.”

“Was there any information about the physical location for the loan?”

“Miss Scarlett didn’t have one. She said that probably meant it was lent out to Lippincott personally, meaning it likely went to his residence. She did say that wherever it went, it would have to have been to a location with adequate security. Insurance and all that.”

“If this J.A. Lippincott belonged to the Main Line Lippincotts, security probably wasn’t an issue.”

“That’s what I thought, too.”

“How do you feel about trying to run him down and see if you can get a better trace on this—and where the fundraiser was held?”

“Already started,” Ping said.

“I owe you, Ping.”

Ping laughed. “Not as much as you’re gonna.” She disconnected.

Well, hot damn. Evan looked at the photograph again. Well, well, Mr. Miller. Maybe you were trying to tell me something, after all.

 

◊   ◊   ◊

 

Tim arrived at The Twisted Tail about fifteen minutes early. That wasn’t by design; he’d just lucked out, and all the traffic seemed to be headed in the opposite direction.

It was early enough that he was able to snag a small table near the front entrance. That way, he could watch for Evan through one of the windows that fronted on 2nd Street. He figured she’d probably have to park at least a block away, and from this vantage point he’d be sure to see her walking in.

He didn’t know why that mattered to him. But it had always been that way. Evan was like an anchor in his life. She kept him grounded and never missed a chance to point out, usually in very colorful language, whenever he had his head up his own ass. The whole reason he went to see her on the night of the aurora was so he could tell the truth about his situation. But when push came to shove, he couldn’t get the words out.

Not all of them anyway.

Now he found himself foundering in this unhappy middle ground of half-truths. One foot in. One foot out. It was like being stuck in a twisted dance—a Hokey Pokey of not quite confessing.

He laughed at his unwitting choice of venue for the meeting with Evan.

Talk about your Twisted Tails . . .

Back at seminary, Father O’Shaughnessy had often warned his class of aspiring priests to pay attention to the choices they made. “We do nothing by accident,” he cautioned. “Therefore, it is wise to understand your motivations to act—or to react. Always consider your responses and ask if they truly derive from God.”

In this instance, it was inaction Tim was guilty of. And that, he was persuaded, certainly did not derive from God. He was finding that he no longer could acquit himself of his great sin of keeping silent. The Church was changing. At least, it was attempting to change, however slow and clumsy its progress. There were systems in place now to deal with these things—flawed systems, but at least the Church was being forced to have the conversation. Perpetrators were beginning to be held to account.

At least, some perpetrators were being held to account.

Sadly, when it came to the Church hierarchy, Orwell was right: some pigs were still more equal than others. And that unhappy truth made his quandary even murkier. The whole thing was a supersized miasma of toxicity. Come and vape at the oasis of the Church’s own demise . . . .

He ordered a double WhistlePig and sat back to savor it while he waited for Evan to join him. The small-batch rye was one of his favorites. Having an excuse to splurge on it was always a welcome indulgence.

Probably a wicked one . . .

It had been one hell of a ride the last few days. He’d been shaken to his core by the revelation in the confessional this week. So far, the young man had not tried to contact him again—and if he were completely honest, he wasn’t sure if he felt more gratitude or concern about that.

What the hell am I going to do?

He’d asked himself that question so many times, the words had now lost most of their meaning. 

The truth of it all was simple. He was guilty. As guilty as the priests who’d committed these unpardonable acts. The only question that remained was what he’d choose to do about it.

Choose wasn’t even the right word anymore. There was no longer a choice. There was only a responsibility. One he no longer could shirk or deny. He’d come forward with his testimony. Then he would resign from the priesthood and seek dispensation from his clerical obligations. It was that simple.

Simple. Right.

It was anything but simple. He’d lived the majority of his life in the shelter of St. Rita’s. To no longer be part of that—or of any—sacred community, terrified him.

But Evan and Julia would help him—once Evan got over the shock and finished ripping him a new butthole for keeping silent all these years. He knew she would offer him safe harbor until he could figure out the rest of his life. And that would start with how he’d make a living once he left the church.

Left the church . . . .

Evan would say that was “fucked up.”

She’d be right, too.

He took another cautious sip of the rye. Damn, this stuff was good.

Something caught his eye. A flash of color moving past the front window. Blaze orange.

Evan.

You had to give her credit: she never worried about exploding into a room.

He waved at her when she entered and started looking around the bar. The place wasn’t too busy yet. In another forty-five minutes, it would be standing room only. It was slow enough right now that you could actually hear the music. Bill Evans. Nice.

Evan joined him at the table.

“How long have you been waiting?” She was carrying a beat-up, distressed leather messenger bag that was bulging at the seams. He doubted it was stuffed with just paperwork. Likely, she had a change of clothes stuffed inside it, since she was heading to Julia’s townhouse after their meeting. He was happy about that. Julia was good for Evan. They were good for each other. He wondered for the hundredth time why she didn’t just leave some clothes over there.

“Not long,” he told her. He lifted his rocks glass. “I’ve hardly made a dent in this.”

“What’re you drinking?”

“WhistlePig.”

“Of course.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re seriously asking me this question?”

“I guess not.” He wrinkled his nose. “I know I’m kind of a snob.”

Evan laughed. “Kind of?”

“Okay.” He shrugged. “I’m totally a snob.” He made eye contact with the bartender, who was looking their way. “What do you want to drink?”

Evan settled back into her chair. “Surprise me.”

Tim held his glass aloft and pointed at Evan. The bartender nodded.

“This is gonna change your life,” he promised.

“You promise? I could use that.”

“You? I don’t think so. You’ve got just about everything.”

“Maybe. But having ‘everything,’ as you say, and still doubting it all carries its own load of baggage.”

“That’s always been true for you.”

Evan raised an eyebrow. “Having everything?”

“No. Doubting what you do have.”

Evan rolled her left shoulder. The gesture was becoming a familiar one. Tim knew it was mostly due to the lingering effects of being shot, and her refusal to have the surgery to finish repairs to her damaged clavicle. But he also thought the gesture now functioned like a bad gambler’s tell. Her joint seemed to stiffen up whenever she felt uncomfortable.

Like right now.

The bartender showed up and deposited Evan’s drink. “You folks let me know when you’re ready for another round.”

“Thanks,” Tim said “We will.” He raised his glass and held it out toward Evan. “Here’s to you, and to having everything.”

Evan looked dubious, but clinked rims with him anyway. She took a careful sip of the rye.

“This is . . . interesting.”

“Good interesting, or bad interesting?” Tim asked.

Evan sniffed it. “I’m not sure.”

“It’s more fiery than bourbon. Not as sweet on the palate.”

“I get that.” She sniffed at the rye. “Bet it makes a good Manhattan.”

“So I’m told.”

“You don’t know?”

“To quote Barry Fitzgerald, ‘When I drink whiskey, I drink whiskey.’”

“Do you only quote other Irishmen?”

“No,” Tim said. “If you pay attention, you’ll notice that I also tend to quote a few ancient Hebrews . . . and the occasional Greek.”

“Very funny.”

“So.” He set his glass down. “Is there a reason for this visit?”

“What makes you ask that?”

“It’s 4:15 on a weekday. You penciled me in between appointments. There must be a reason beyond camaraderie and sampling strange brews.”

Evan looked amused. “I hardly penciled you in.”

“No? What would you call it?”

“I’d call it meeting for cocktails.” Evan held up her glass. “But if you’d prefer more mystery, I could always show up outside your window at St. Rita’s in the dead of night . . . because I happened to be in the neighborhood.”

“I wouldn’t suggest that anyone show up in my neighborhood in the dead of night.”

“True. The last time I stopped by late in the evening, I lost a set of hubcaps.”

“Kids these days . . .”

“Apropos of that…” Evan tugged her messenger bag closer and opened an outside flap. “Would you take a look at this relic from your past and tell me what, if anything, you remember about it?”

She passed a photograph across the table. Tim was intrigued about what “relic” from his past she had, and why. Until he looked at it, and his blood ran cold.

“Where’d you get this?” It came out sounding like an accusation, and he regretted his tone immediately. “Sorry . . . I’m just surprised.”

He could tell Evan smelled a rat.

“What is it?” she asked. “Is this part of what you came to tell me?”

Tim didn’t fault her for her maddening intuition. It simply was knee-jerk, pure instinct. Always had been. This quality of hers was part of what made her so good at her job. She always knew how to pick up a scent that had gone cold.

“There goes that intuition of yours again,” he said nervously.

“I told you I was born with an incredible shit magnet.”

“Lucky you.” He meant it to sound ironic.

Evan reached across the table and touched his hand. “Not always. Not right now.”

Tim could feel his eyes filling with tears. It was mortifying. He tried to blink them away.

Evan squeezed the top of his hand. “Tell me.”

He took a deep breath, followed by a sip of the rye. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For being so weak.”

“Believe me. You don’t have a premium on weakness.”

“No? It sure feels like it.”

“Tim?” He looked at her. “Tell me.”

Why not tell her? It was part of what he intended to do—if not today, then soon.

“I remember this. Well, maybe not exactly this—but events just like this.”

“Events?” Evan asked.

He nodded. “When donors would show up and present checks to the team. It was always a command performance. We’d have to put on our uniforms and line up for the camera.”

“Do you recognize anyone in this photo?”

Tim fought the sting of tears again. He nodded.

“The priest?” she asked.

“Yeah.” He cleared his throat. “That’s Father Szymanski—now Bishop Szymanski. He was at St. Rita’s for about twelve years.”

“Do you recognize the other man?”

Tim nodded again. “But I don’t remember his name. He was around a lot in those days—always seemed to be dropping off donations for things. I think he was some kind of city official?”

“Close,” Evan said. “He was a judge.” Tim looked up at her. “That’s J. Meyer Cawley.”

“Cawley?” Tim peered more closely at the image. “The Supreme Court nominee?”

“In the unholy flesh, so to speak.”

Tim felt another surge of panic at her words. “What makes you say that?”

“I dunno. I was thinking maybe you could tell me.”

Tim closed his eyes. He felt half sick. It was the same way he had felt in the confessional the other day. He always knew this moment would come. Time’s winged chariot. It had finally caught up to him.

“Yes.” He laid his hand on top of the photo. More than anything, he wished he could will himself out of the image—leave nothing but a vacuum in the spot he once occupied. A vacuum that could match the gaping hole in his conscience—and his heart. But he couldn’t. Not anymore. “To answer your question, yes—this is part of what I wanted to tell you.”

Evan didn’t say anything. Tim knew she wouldn’t pressure him now.

“I knew what was happening,” he continued. “I knew and I didn’t tell anyone. I didn’t do anything. I just looked the other way and didn’t try to stop it.” He covered his eyes with his hand. “I didn’t do anything . . .”

Evan took hold of his free hand. She waited while he wiped at his eyes.

“The boys?” she asked.

He nodded.

“Father Szymanski?”

“Yeah.” Tim sniffed. “And . . . others. I think.”

“Were you . . .?”

Tim cut her off. “No. Not me. I don’t know why. Maybe I was already too . . . worldly.” He made a futile gesture with his hand. “Once, he . . . Father Szymanski . . . he did something that made me feel . . . uncomfortable. Scared, even. I avoided being alone with him after that. And I convinced my parents to let me quit the basketball team.” He met Evan’s eyes. “That’s how I ended up taking damn piano lessons for five years.” He stared at the drink in his hands. “I never understood everything that was happening. Not really. Not until a lot later, when things started coming out. By then, I was too ashamed to come forward with what I suspected.” He hesitated. “I still am.”

“Tim?” Evan waited until he looked up at her again. “You were a child. What could you have done?”

“I haven’t been a child for decades, Evan. We all know what was going on. Nothing about this is a mystery any longer. You’ve read the reports.”

“I have.”

“Then you must know that Bishop Szymanski was named in one of the reparation complaints filed with the diocese.”

“No. I didn’t know that.” Evan said. “Were any of those offenses alleged to have happened at St. Rita’s?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you know if any boys at St. Rita’s could have made complaints against him?”

“Yes.”

“Would you be willing to tell me if any of those boys are in this photo?”

He stared at her for a moment before examining the picture again.

“Yes. Three that I know of.”

“Meaning?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Meaning that I don’t know everyone who might have reason to come forward.”

“Okay,” Evan said. “Could I show you another photo and ask if you recognize anyone in it?”

Tim thought about her request. It seemed like a small enough thing to do. Maybe it was a first step toward making restitution for his long-held sin of omission? A small step, to be sure. But it was something. A place to start.

“Okay,” he told her.

Evan pulled the other photo out of her bag and handed it to him. He recognized Szymanski right away. It was clear this photo had been taken years later, because he was wearing a bishop’s cassock. “That’s Szymanski.” He pointed him out. “When was this taken?”

“In 2005. I have no idea where. But that’s Cawley in the foreground.”

Tim nodded. “If this was taken in 2005, that was years after Father Szymanski became a Bishop. He’d be close to mandatory retirement age now.”

“What’s that?” Evan asked.

“Seventy-five. Even with a complaint against him, the Church will probably just push him into leaving active service because he’s so close to retirement, anyway.”

Evan was disgusted by that. “Canonical beat the clock, huh?”

“Unfortunately. It happens more than it should. Especially for people at his level.”

“Tim? Do you recognize anyone else in the photo? Any of the younger men or boys?”

He looked at the image more closely. “Yeah . . . I think so.” He pointed out one of the two older-looking boys, wearing a loose-fitting suit coat. He was standing in the background, near the massive stone fireplace. “I think that’s Joey Mazzetta—from our neighborhood. He’s in that first photo, too.” Tim compared the two images. “Yeah. Right there.” He pointed him out to Evan. In the older photo, he looked a lot younger, but Tim still recognized him. “That red hair is impossible to miss. Joey and I were the only two players who had it, and we got razzed about it all the time—especially when we were on the JV team. They called us The Mallories—you know . . . the copper top batteries.”

“Do you know what happened to him?”

“I used to see him once in a while at services during the holidays. But that was years ago. I think he still lives with his mother on South Bouvier Street.”

“Any idea if he’s filed any complaints with the reparations committee?”

“None. There’s no way to know who the complainants are.” He absently rocked his glass. “There’ve been dozens of cases in Philadelphia alone—more than a thousand statewide. It’s an epidemic. A plague. I honestly don’t know if the Church can survive it.” He lowered his voice. “I’m sure I won’t.”

“Hey.” Evan reached across the table and squeezed his hand again. “One step at a time, okay?”

“I don’t even know what that means anymore.”

“Don’t you? I know where we can find a couple of twelve-step meetings that could help out with that—and ply you with some really shitty coffee in the process.”

“Evan . . .”

“Save your breath, dude. Who drug my sorry ass to about fifty of those—and hung out there with me—when I was thinking about dropping out of college because every relationship of mine had turned to shit? Give up? Lemme give you some clues. Big guy with no fashion sense? Red hair that could double as a shower loofah? Loves to guzzle high-priced hooch he really can’t afford? Loses twenty-dollar bets with my kid? I’m not sure, but I think he used to go by the name Mallory?” She let that sink in. “Ring any bells?”

He gave her a sad smile. “You never give up, do you?”

“Not usually, no. And, Tim?”

“What?”

“Neither should you.”

He didn’t reply. There wasn’t anything more to say. Not then.

He drained his WhistlePig and signaled the bartender to bring them another round.

 

◊   ◊   ◊

 

Julia met her at the door.

Evan usually parked at the back of the townhouse, where there was a small driveway adjacent to the alley that ran behind Delancey Place. Julia had taken care to park her Audi close to the brick wall of the townhouse’s small patio, to be sure she left enough room for Evan to squeeze her car in, too.

Evan looked surprised when Julia opened the door. She stood on the steps, juggling her messenger bag and a green DiBruno Brothers satchel. Her free hand held an oversized brass key that had been aimed at the door lock.

“Were you waiting on me?” Evan asked.

Julia nearly quipped, “For most of my life,” but opted instead to grab Evan by the arm and haul her across the threshold. She took her time demonstrating how happy she was to be back at home.

“Wow.” Evan’s bulging messenger bag slipped to the floor with a thunk. “You sure know how to make a girl feel welcome.”

“It’s the DiBruno bag.”

“Of course, it is. Thank god I remembered how easy it is to turn your head. Wave a pound of fresh bucatini in your face and pffft! You melt like cheap mascara.”

That piqued Julia’s interest. “Not that I’m less than overjoyed to see you—but do you really have fresh pasta in that bag?” She tried to peer down into it, which was difficult because she still had her arms wrapped around Evan’s neck.

“Yeah. I thought you wanted me to cook?”

“Oh, I do.” Julia kissed her on the ear. “Eventually.”

Julia felt the way she always felt when she was this close to Evan. Safe. Happy. Like everything was possible.

Her stomach rumbled.

And hungry. She felt hungry, too. It had been a long time since that complimentary packet of peanuts on the flight from Atlanta. She unwound her arms and smiled shyly.

“Did you say you bought bucatini?”

“I can always rely on you to cut to the chase.”

“Which, translated, means?”

Evan lifted the bag. “Which means I knew you’d be starving, so I bought an entire pound.”

“Dare I hope there’s a bottle of wine in there, too?”

“Do you really need to ask?”

“I’ll get the opener.” Julia led the way to her grandmother’s lavishly appointed kitchen.

Evan followed her and began to unload items from the bag. She had hunks of Pecorino and Grana Padano cheeses and a tin of four-color peppercorns. She also had a half pound of Licini pancetta, a bundle of fresh asparagus, and two bottles of Renieri Brunello di Montalcino. She handed one of the bottles to Julia, who stared at it with wide eyes.

“Are we celebrating?”

“You tell me.”

Julia held up the wine opener. “Let’s see. We’re finally in the same time zone—together. You’re cooking. Judging by the way your messenger bag is bulging at the seams, I’m going to go out on a limb and assume that you’re staying the night.” She waited for Evan to give her a nod. “So, yes. I’d say we’re celebrating.”

“In that case,” Evan handed her the second bottle. “Open them both.”

“I love how you think. I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

Julia commenced opening the wine. “What are you cooking for me?”

“Cacio e pepe. I thought we could crisp up some of this pancetta and grill the asparagus, too. I know how much you love it when your pee smells like grass.”

“You do love your quirky torments.”

“I consider it a prized, yet little understood perk of our relationship.”

Julia poured them each a generous glass of the wine. She handed one to Evan. “I’ll drink to that.”

They clinked rims.

“This is lovely.” Julia took another sip.

Evan had shed her coat and was already hauling pans out of a lower cabinet. “Yeah. It’s generally better after it’s allowed to breathe for a while—but what the hell?”

“‘History is now and England,’” Julia quoted.

“Yes. T.S. Eliot. Precisely. That’s just what I was thinking.”

Julia smirked at her. “You got the inference.”

“I’d say my mother didn’t raise no idiot, but that wouldn’t really be true.”

“However imperfect her performance was, you’re making up for it with your own daughter.”

Evan fought not to smile at her observation. She was still rooting around in a lower cabinet, looking for something. “Where’s that cast-iron skillet?”

Julia walked over to where she knelt, and peered over her shoulder. “Is that the awful black one you’re so partial to?”

Even looked up at her. “Yes. The awful one. What’d you do with it?”

“I washed it.”

“You what?”

Julia shrugged. “It was disgusting. It practically had barnacles.”

Evan stood up. “Honey . . .”

“Don’t start.” Julia held up a palm. “I have no desire to eat incinerated meat that’s probably older than this house.”

Evan gave up. “Where is it?”

Julia pointed at the elaborate pot rack, hanging over a kitchen island the size of a billiard table. “Over there.”

“Oh, this’ll be good.” Evan walked over to retrieve the skillet. She lifted it down from its hook and examined it.

“Well?” Julia asked.

“I certainly have to admire your industry. I’ve never seen a Lodge skillet this smooth.” Evan examined the skillet from all sides. “You practically scrubbed the black finish off.”

“I soaked it overnight in bleach.”

Evan closed her eyes. “Baby cakes . . .”

“Was that bad?” She gestured at the spotless pan. “Look how clean it is now.”

“That depends. How hungry did you say you were?”

“I’m ravenous. Why?”

“Because,” Evan returned the pan to its hook, “it’ll take an hour to reseason this.”

“Oh, please.” Julia sipped her wine. “Cannot you compromise? Just this one time?”

Evan drummed her fingers against the quartz countertop.

“Well?” Julia insisted.

“I’m thinking about it, okay?”

“Seriously? Using a different pot is that complicated?”

“No. Compromising is.”

Julia laughed. “I have missed you.”

“I hope so.”

“Do you doubt that?”

“No.”

“Good. That’ll make our next discussion a lot easier.”

Evan narrowed her eyes. “Why do I suddenly smell a rat?”

Julia handed Evan her glass. “Drink up, sweetheart.”

 

◊   ◊   ◊

 

Marlene Mazzetta looked surprised, but appeared genuinely thrilled to see Tim when she opened the door to her row home. The Mazzettas lived on one of the street’s more transitional blocks. Several of the sagging structures bordering their place had either been torn down or completely upfitted. Real estate in this part of South Philly was beginning to command premium prices.

“Father Donovan,” she gushed. “Please come in.”

“I apologize for just showing up like this,” Tim said. “But I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d stop by.” His lie was so bad that he had to fight a grimace as he got the words out. But Mrs. Mazzetta seemed not to notice, or care about the reason for his visit.

“Come in, come in.” She ushered him inside and closed the heavy door behind them. The air inside the place was slightly stale, and he detected the scent of something frying. Scrapple maybe? Some kind of hash with onions? “Are you hungry? I’m just fixing dinner.”

“Oh, no. Thank you so much. I really just wanted to duck in and say hello. I’ve missed seeing you at Mass. Joey, too.”

Mrs. Mazzetta dropped her eyes. Tim felt like a cad.

“I’ve been sick,” she apologized. “It’s harder and harder for me to get out, my arthritis is so bad. This damp weather we’ve been having makes it flare up something fierce. And you know how Joey is. He just doesn’t make time for things that matter.”

Tim followed her back toward the kitchen at the rear of the house. Most of the interior rooms were dark, since the place only had windows at the front and back. He could hear a TV blaring from someplace upstairs. It sounded like a sitcom. The canned laugh track was pretty unmistakable.

“How is Joey?” he asked.

Mrs. Mazzetta lifted a bony hand lined with bulging blue veins and smoothed her hair. “He’s okay. Out of work right now. His Kmart store closed and all fifty-two of their employees got laid off.” She walked over to the stove and gave the contents of a large frying pan a stir. “That was in November. He hasn’t been able to find anything else yet. Nothing that pays enough or has insurance.”

“I’m sorry about that. I can imagine the strain that puts on you.”

“Sit down, Father.” She indicated the small kitchen table. It was littered with unopened mail and prescription bottles. “I’ll make us some tea.”

Tim felt like a jerk for not visiting here before now. The truth was that his parish probably had hundreds of households just like this one—filled with hardscrabble people who were barely getting by. He felt ashamed and indicted by his lack of consideration and by how isolated he stayed inside his own small world of privilege. “Maybe Joey could visit the parish school? They might have something temporary for him.”

Mrs. Mazzetta’s watery blue eyes seemed to brighten a bit. “Do you think so? Would you talk with him? He won’t go if I ask.”

Tim nodded. “Sure. Is he here?”

She nodded. “Let me call him.” She walked to the doorway of the kitchen and shouted up the stairs.

“Joey! Father Donovan is here. Come down and say hello to him.”

It took a few seconds before Tim heard the sound of feet hitting the floor and creaking their way down the thinly carpeted stairs. When Joey appeared in the doorway, Tim was shocked by the change in his appearance. True, he hadn’t taken much notice the last time he’d seen him, about three years ago at Christmas. But even with that, Joey had aged—a lot. He’d lost most of his hair, and what little he had left was stringy and tinged with white. He’d also lost a ton of weight—so much that Tim thought he might be sick.

Tim stood up and extended his hand. “Hi, Joey. It’s good to see you.”

Joey took Tim’s hand, belatedly, and gave it a faint squeeze before shoving his own hand back into the front pocket of his baggy jeans. He didn’t say anything.

“Why don’t you two go sit down in the living room and chat while I make us some tea?”

Joey glowered at his mother. “I don’t want any tea.” He walked over to the refrigerator and took out a can of Genesee. “Want one?” he asked Tim magnanimously.

“Thanks.” Tim said. “I’m going to make a couple more calls tonight so I’d better not.”

Joey snapped open his beer. “Suit yourself.”

“How about we go sit down,” Tim suggested, “while your mom makes that tea?”

Joey shrugged. “Sure.” He led the way to the dim living room and dropped into a worn armchair. They were near the stairs, and the distant TV was still blaring.

Tim sat down on the stiff cushion of a faded velour sofa. It was remarkably uncomfortable. He guessed no one ever used it. It had tatted lace doilies carefully draped over the arms and along the back.

“How’ve you been, Joey?” he asked. “We haven’t talked in a long time.”

“Okay,” Joey said. “Not much new around here.”

“Your mom said your Kmart closed.”

“It happens. They’re closing a lot of stores. Not just around here.”

Tim nodded. “I heard that. It’s sad.”

“It’s all the cheap crap from China. It’s everyplace now.”

“Yeah,” Tim said. “It’s not like the old days, for sure.” He gestured toward the front of the house. “Driving over here, I remembered how a bunch of us used to shoot hoops out front.”

“Can’t do that now.” Joey took a big swig of his beer. “You’d get run over by somebody’s Mercedes.”

Tim nodded. “Everything’s changing.”

The telephone rang. Tim heard Marlene pick it up and begin speaking in animated tones to the caller.

Joey jerked his head toward the kitchen. “I keep telling Ma she needs to sell this place. Take the money and move out to Overbrook. But she won’t budge.”

“I guess I understand that,” Tim said. “It’d be hard for me to leave, too. I never strayed very far from the old neighborhood, either.”

Joey looked at him but didn’t say anything.

“I was going through some old photos recently,” Tim continued. “Ancient ones, taken way back when we both were on the basketball team. I think that’s what made me think about coming here tonight.” He noticed the subtle change in Joey’s expression. It was unmistakable—a tightening of the slack muscles in his face. That gave Tim a sick feeling. He knew asking about this was contemptible, but he was going to do it, anyway. “Do you ever think much about that time, Joey?”

Joey abruptly got to his feet. “I need another beer.” He turned toward the kitchen.

“Wait.” Tim didn’t mean for it to come out so forcefully. Joey stopped and looked down at him. “I want to . . . I need to ask you about something, Joey. Something I’ve never talked about with anyone.” He hesitated and dropped his gaze to the old carpet that was covered with faded cabbage roses. “It’s hard to talk about.”

“Father Szymanski?”

Tim was shocked. He didn’t expect Joey to come right out with it.

“Well . . . yeah. I mean . . .”

“Save your breath,” Joey hissed. “If you’re here to talk me out of turning his ass in, you’re too late.”

“No,” Tim said quickly. “That’s not what I . . .”

“I already tried—as soon as they announced that whole reparations thing. I went to the website and downloaded my stack of forms. The whole thing’s a fucking joke. They say they care and want to make things right. It’s nothing but a con. They don’t give two fucks about what happened to us. All they want to do is pay us off so we’ll shut up and go away,” He wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand. “And they even lied about that. The only way they’ll even talk to you is if you have witnesses who can back you up—or you can prove you told people about it while it was going on. Like that ever happens. What a bunch of bullshit. Right, Father?”

“Joey . . . believe me. I’m not here to protect the Church or to tell you to keep quiet. I want to help you.”

“Really? It’s a little late for that, isn’t it?”

“I hope not.”

“Fuck you, Tim—you and all the other sellouts. Fuck all of you who still want to look the other fucking way.” He hurled his empty beer can across the room. It clattered against the wall and rolled behind an old console TV. “You and that bitch that came by here. You can both go to hell.”

Bitch? Tim’s mind was racing. “Who else came by?”

“That slick bitch.” Joey clenched a hand in frustration. “Some foreign chick working for the diocese. She offered me twenty-five-hundred bucks to keep quiet. Twenty-five-hundred bucks. In cash. Are you kidding me? That’s all my fucking life is worth to the Church? Self-righteous cunt. I threw the money in her face and told her to go get her nails done. Szymanski can rot in hell. Fuck the Church. Fuck all of you.”

He stormed out of the room and up the stairs with so much force it caused pictures on the walls to rattle and tilt.

Tim got up belatedly and followed him into the hallway. “Joey?” He called up the stairs. “Joey, please. That’s not why I’m here.”

There was no response. The volume on the upstairs TV got louder. Amplified sounds of laughter and applause made a surreal soundtrack for the twisted drama that had just played out.

The peculiar irony of this was impossible to miss. Tim had spent his entire adult life learning exactly how to respond to any situation. The Church had sacraments for everything . . . birth, sickness, death—and everything in between. But there were no rituals for something like this. He stood immobilized in the dim hallway. Useless—like a hunk of castoff furniture.

It took him a few seconds to realize that Joey’s mom was in the doorway to the kitchen, holding the telephone handset against her ear. She remained rooted in place like a statue, staring back at Tim with a look of anguish on her face.

He had a feeling this wasn’t the first time a conversation with her son had ended this way.

“I’m sorry,” he mouthed. “I’m so sorry.”

He backed toward the front door and let himself out.

Then he vomited in the street.

 

◊   ◊   ◊

 

Evan and Julia were sitting together on a large sofa in front of the fireplace, enjoying what remained of the second bottle of wine. The weather had been deteriorating all day and the sky was now spitting snow. The hot fire felt wonderful. The fireplace in this room had an immense Federal-style carved stone mantel and was outfitted with gas logs that clearly had been patterned after sequoia limbs. Relaxing like this was wonderful. Dinner had been a success—a testament to Evan’s ability to muddle through without the cast-iron skillet. She was doing her best to concentrate on how great it felt just to be here with Julia—and not to dwell on the disturbing revelations from earlier.

Julia had put some music on. Soft jazz. Probably Brubeck. It was nice—gentle and sweetly dissonant in just the right measure.

During dinner, she’d filled Julia in on her progress with the Cawley project, stopping short of sharing too much detail about Tim and his tangential connection to a potentially dark offshoot of her research. Tim’s revelations about Joey Mazzetta and what he suspected had been happening at St. Rita’s all those years ago was stunning to Evan. But she couldn’t help him come to terms with it. He had to do that on his own. She would do what she could to pull any threads that might be connected to Judge Cawley—which probably would prove to be tenuous at best. But Tim needed to be the one to share information about his own past experiences. Evan supposed he would, in time. And even though he hadn’t asked her for secrecy, she felt honor-bound to observe it until he chose, if ever, to disclose his history more broadly. And that included sharing any details with Julia or Stevie.

“You seem pensive.” Julia’s voice was soft and low, like a suburb of the music.

“Do I?” Evan looked at her. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. What’s on your mind?”

Evan reflexively hitched her left shoulder and regretted the gesture immediately. The odds Julia would overlook it were about as great as discovering that the frayed Powerball ticket in her back pocket contained the winning set of numbers.

Julia sat up and turned to face her. “Do you need some ice for that?”

And we have a winner . . .

“No. It’s okay. Really.” Evan tugged her back against the sofa cushion. “It’s just a reflex. I promise.”

“Evan . . .”

“I promise.”

Julia looked dubious, but she resumed her former posture, leaning back against Evan.

“Okay,” Julia continued. “So, you were saying?”

“I don’t recall saying anything. You, on the other hand, hinted earlier that you were going to tell me something you were persuaded I wouldn’t like.”

“I don’t think I said that, did I?”

“Well,” Evan demurred. “Words to that effect.”

Julia shifted her posture slightly so she could face Evan. “I called my mother while I was in Albuquerque, and we had a conversation about . . . things.”

“Things?”

“Yes.”

“Such as?”

“For starters,” Julia indicated their surroundings, “I told her we needed to have a conversation about business matters. I chose not to elaborate, but those matters will include selling this place—and the New York apartment.”

Evan was surprised. “Really? You don’t like living here?”

“Well, once I’ve bleached all the cookware, there’ll be no more worlds to conquer.”

Evan nudged her. “Be serious?”

“All right. To answer your oddly curious question, no. I don’t like living here. It’s . . . absurd and needlessly extravagant. And it’s not responsible to continue to carry these properties on the company books. That goes for the London flat, too, although I can’t see my mother ever agreeing to part with it.”

“Why now?”

Julia shrugged. “Why not now? I have no intention ever to live in Manhattan again, and I certainly no longer require lodging in Philadelphia on this ridiculous scale.”

Evan felt a tiny surge of panic, which she tried valiantly to suppress. She prayed this wasn’t a prelude to Julia telling her she was moving the company headquarters to Boston. After Andy’s death, that had been a real possibility. She only opted to come to Philadelphia because . . . well . . . because of them. And, to be fair, her father had spent a fair amount of time during his tenure at the helm of Donne & Hale, running operations from the smaller Philadelphia office. So, there was some kind of precedent for the move.

Something in her expression must’ve tipped Julia off.

“I’m not leaving,” she insisted with determination. “I’m just selling this townhouse.”

Evan gave her a guilty look. “I guess I’m pretty transparent, aren’t I?”

Julia sat forward again. “If you didn’t already have a bad shoulder, I’d slug you.”

That response surprised Evan. “Why?”

“Why? Tell me this: what in my demeanor or behavior toward you has ever suggested that I’d think about leaving here?”

Evan couldn’t come up with anything but a jumble of confused feelings.

“I’m waiting.”

“Nothing,” Evan finally said. “There’s nothing that would suggest you’d want to leave.”

“Do you truly believe that?”

Evan nodded. She did believe it, too. She just couldn’t always stifle the knee-jerk responses of her inner Eeyore. “But where will you live?”

Julia raised an eyebrow.

For once, Evan was pretty quick on the uptake. “Oh. Um . . .”

“I see this possibility hasn’t occurred to you?”

“No,” Evan said hurriedly. “That’s not it. Of course, it has. I’m just . . .”

“Surprised?” Julia suggested.

Evan nodded. “Yeah. But in a good way.”

“What if I promised to stay fifty feet away from your disgusting cookware?”

“We might consider that a condition.”

“Do I get to have conditions, as well?”

“Of course.” Evan narrowed her eyes. “Why do I get the sense you’ve had time to make a list?”

“I don’t recall suggesting I had a list.”

“No. But you’ve got that ‘I’ve got a list’ gleam in your eyes. I recognize it.”

“Oh, please . . .”

“Ha! See? There it is again. You have a list.”

“Evan.”

“Julia.”

“Okay,” Julia conceded. “Maybe I do have a list . . . a short one.”

Evan made no effort to conceal her smug reaction to this admission. “Let’s hear it.”

“For starters, we need to ask Stevie what she thinks. That’s the most important consideration.”

Evan was moved that this was important to Julia. During the times she’d allowed herself to consider the possibility of Julia moving in with them—which had been increasing lately—this was the one consideration that always stopped her cold. Stevie.

What Stevie wanted mattered more to Evan than what she wanted for herself. She never wanted to do anything that would make Stevie feel like an afterthought or some kind of bystander. That was even more true now that her daughter was starting to think about college. Evan had observed firsthand how many parents couldn’t wait for their kids to move out so they could coopt their spaces and redesign them as “offices” or workout rooms.

To be sure, their house in Chadds Ford was small, but Evan resolved that if she ever felt the need for more space, she’d add on rather than erase Stevie’s footprint from the only home she’d ever known. Inviting a third person to share the already close quarters with them—even though it was less likely that Stevie would ever live there full time again—made this decision a big one. For all of them. Julia’s sensitivity to that spoke volumes about how well she understood and respected this relationship dynamic.

“Thank you for thinking about Stevie,” Evan said.

“Don’t thank me yet. You haven’t heard the rest of my list.”

“True. What else you got?”

“Just two other things. First, we’re getting a new coffeemaker. That item is nonnegotiable.”

Evan rolled her eyes.

“And, I’m going to need office space of my own. I do have some thoughts about how best to accomplish that. It will entail adding on to the house. But if you’re amenable, I think we can accomplish that with minimal disruption and in an unobtrusive manner consistent with the existing architecture—and I will pay for it. Entirely. No arguments.”

“Okaaayyy.” Evan considered Julia’s suggestion. “I don’t suppose you’ve got any sketches worked up?”

“Are you asking hypothetically?”

“Of course.”

“Then hypothetically speaking, and you may not hold me to this—I might have considered committing a few ideas to paper . . . possibly.”

Evan considered Julia’s response. “Do you want to show me these sketches that may or may not exist now, or after we’ve talked with Stevie?”

“After we’ve talked with Stevie? Don’t you want to have that conversation with her by yourself?”

“No. Why would I do that?”

“Um. Maybe because it would be easier for Stevie to speak freely if I weren’t present?”

Evan laughed. “You have met this kid, right?”

“Obviously . . .”

“Then I shouldn’t have to tell you that Stevie has no problem speaking freely, even in circumstances when she should keep her mouth shut.” Evan smiled. “Especially when she should keep her mouth shut. I credit the Cohen end of the gene pool for this charming characteristic.” She took hold of Julia’s hand. “All this is to say that you never need to worry about knowing what my daughter thinks.”

“That is among her more enviable traits.”

“You think? It’s always bugged the piss outta me.”

“Trust me.” Julia squeezed her hand. “The alternative is much worse. I should know. I was never able to be truthful—or be myself—with either of my parents.”

“But you’ve committed to change that,” Evan reminded her. “And you have been changing it. That takes real strength of character.”

“Do you really think so?”

“I do.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” Julia continued, “because selling this place wasn’t the only topic I discussed with my mother.”

“Why do I think my name came up?”

“Probably, because in addition to being a persistent naysayer, you’re also an uncommonly accomplished prognosticator.”

“Those are among my more endearing qualities.”

“I won’t disagree with you.”

Evan tugged on her hand. “So. Are you gonna tell me about your conversation?”

“In typical fashion, my mother lost no time trying to entangle me romantically with one of the hapless offspring of her blue-blooded expatriates in Paris.”

“She did?”

“She always does,” Julia replied. “It’s what she has in lieu of a hobby. I think her exact words were, ‘It’s been two years since the incident with Andy.’”

“Incident?”

“Yes. And, apparently, that means it’s time for me to emerge from my cocoon of self-imposed, virginal solitude.”

Evan was more than a little curious. “Did she have someone in mind?”

“Of course, she did. I have to travel to Paris, anyway, to get her to co-sign some estate documents. Mother thought I should time my visit to coincide with the annual New Year’s Eve celebration. Apparently, the Lippincotts are planning to be there, too—along with their hapless son, Gerald, a former classmate of mine at Exeter.”

“Lippincott? As in the publishing Lippincotts?”

“Oh, yes.” Julia nodded. “Albert and my father were always fast friends. At one time, they even talked about merging the two companies, but since Albert was only a distant cousin, no agreement ever developed. J.B. Lippincott eventually merged with Harper & Row in the late ’70s, but Albert’s branch of the family always remained close. Gerald’s parents more or less adopted my mother after Dad died . . . thank god.”

“Know if they’re art lovers?” Evan asked.

“The Lippincotts?” Julia looked perplexed. “I have no idea. Probably. I think Binkie used to be on the board at the Barnes Foundation. Why do you ask?”

“No reason. It was just a whim . . . something random in this case.” Evan squinted at Julia. “Binkie?”

Julia laughed. “Welcome to my world.”

“So.” Evan stretched her legs out and rested her feet on the edge of the coffee table. “Wanna tell me more about this Gerald guy? Does he work out? Am I gonna have to arm wrestle him for you?”

“I don’t think so. And I told my mother much the same thing.”

“Excuse me?” Evan wasn’t sure she’d heard Julia correctly.

“You didn’t misunderstand. I told her about you. About us.”

“Holy shit.” It was Evan’s turn to sit up straighter. “What’d she say?”

“She asked if you were related to the Radnor Reeds.” Julia batted her eyes. “Are you?”

Evan laughed. “I once did some second-story work there. Does that count?”

“Probably not. The upshot of our discussion was her complete refusal to entertain the prospect of me being in a relationship with another woman. So, she did what she always does, and resolved to pretend the conversation never happened.”

Evan took hold of her hand and gave it a warm squeeze. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I’m not.”

“Are you sure?”

“About us?”

Evan nodded.

Julia leaned forward and kissed her gently. “Yes. I’m sure.”

Evan smiled at her. Maybe that lottery card in her pocket would turn out to be a winner after all.

“Me, too.”

Julia tugged her closer. They spent the next few minutes in a focused exploration of how “sure” they both were. How far things certainly would have progressed was interrupted by the intrusion of Evan’s cell phone.

“Is that you?” Julia muttered against Evan’s neck.

“Is what me?” Evan was multitasking at the time and wasn’t exactly sure which part Julia was referring to.

“That buzzing.”

Buzzing? Evan drew back and blinked up at her. “What buzzing?”

Julia ran her hand up along Evan’s side until she made contact with the hiding place of the offending object. She pulled it out of the inside pocket of Evan’s jacket. “This buzzing.” She held it up so Evan could see it.

Shit. Evan thought she’d turned the damn thing off. She took it from Julia and read the screen.

“It’s Dan.” She tossed the phone down on one of the discarded sofa pillows. “He can leave a message.” She pulled Julia back down on top of her.

“Works for me . . .”

Exactly ninety seconds later, Julia’s cell phone rang.

Julia pushed up and rested her weight on an elbow. “One guess who that is.” She rolled into a sitting position and reached out to grab her phone off the coffee table.  “Hello, Dan.”

Evan groaned, and sat up, too.

“I’m fine,” Julia was saying. “Is Stevie okay?” She gave Evan a thumbs-up. “Yes, she’s here. Of course, you can talk with her. Hang on.”

Julia suppressed a smirk as she passed her phone to Evan. “It’s Dan.”

Evan scowled and took the phone from her. “What the hell do you want?”

“What crawled up your ass?” Dan barked. “Did I cause a little coitus interruptus?”

“Fuck you. I’m not gonna satisfy your voyeuristic tendencies. This better be important.”

“You tell me. I just got a call from a reporter at The Hill. Miller is dead.”

“What?” Evan was stunned. “When?”

“The call?” Dan asked. “About twenty minutes ago. They knew I worked on his senate campaign.”

“No. When did he die? How?”

“I don’t have many details. The reporter said that hospital staff found him this morning. Apparently, he swallowed something that shredded his insides. He bled to death in his room over-night.”

Jesus Christ. Evan was having trouble taking in what Dan was saying. Swallowed something? What the hell?

“Are you still there?” Dan asked impatiently.

“Yeah,” Evan said belatedly. “I’m just taking it in.”

“Well, if they called me, they’re likely gonna sniff you out, too—especially since you were just up there to see him. I didn’t want you getting caught off guard.”

“Thanks.”

“What are you gonna cite as your reason to go see him? I don’t want us to wave any red flags about Cawley.”

“I’ll come up with something plausible. Don’t worry.”

“Did you get any hint that he was this unstable?”

“Dan . . . he was living in an asylum. What do you think?”

“Hell if I know. Your report didn’t suggest that he was suicidal.”

“That’s because he wasn’t regarded as suicidal by the hospital—not because of any assessment I made.”

“Does that mean you thought he might do something like this?”

“I don’t know what I thought. I need time to think about it all in a different context.”

Dan knew her pretty well, and his next question did not surprise her. “So, that means you think it’s possible he didn’t commit suicide?”

“I’m not prepared to say that.”

“Well, let me know when the hell you are prepared to say something—and soon. By my calculation, we’ve got another week at best to wrap this shit up. If there’s nothing to report that we don’t already know about this asshole, he’s gonna sail right through the committee.”

“I know that.”

“Okay if I come see Stevie on Saturday?” It was like Dan to speak in non sequiturs.

“Sure. She’d like that.” She thought about her conversation with Stevie and forced herself to issue an invitation. “Maybe you and Kayla can stop by for drinks?”

It was Dan’s turn to be silent.

“Dan?” Evan asked.

“I’m here. I’m just surprised.”

“Why?”

“Well, to put it bluntly, you’re not usually so open to spending time with Kayla. I’m wondering if I should start looking around for giant seed pods.”

“Very funny, asshole. How about two o’clock?”

“That’ll work. We’ll bring some wine. See you then.”

“Right. Thanks for the information.”

Dan hung up and Evan passed Julia’s phone back to her.

“What was that all about?” Julia asked.

“Edwin Miller.” Earlier that evening, Evan had filled Julia in on the visit to the asylum. “They found him dead this morning.”

“Dear god . . . how awful. What happened?”

“An apparent suicide. He swallowed something and died from internal bleeding.”

“But you’re not convinced?”

“Convinced?” Evan asked her. “Convinced of what?”

“That he killed himself.”

Evan sagged back against the sofa. “Right now, I don’t know what I am.”

“Fair enough.” Julia stood up and reached for her hand. “You may be unsure about what you think, but I have no confusion about what you need.”

“And that is?”

“A good night’s sleep.”

Evan reached for her hand. “Right behind you.”