Death Before Facebook

of our lives?”
    “Steve, I told you it wasn’t a good time and it isn’t. I’m in the middle of a case and I’ve been up all night. Every time I turn around, the whole thing blows up in my face. I can’t think straight because I’m tired, and I certainly can’t think about this.”
    “I shouldn’t have come.”
    “I could have told you that.”
    “Good-bye, Skip,” he said, and walked out.
    That’s it? That’s what he came two thousand miles for?
    She couldn’t believe he was gone, couldn’t fathom the disintegration of their relationship, could never in a thousand years have imagined they’d speak that way to each other.
    Her throat closed, and she couldn’t stop the tears. She pulled any old bill out of her purse—a ten, she was pretty sure—and left it, just wanting to get out. Once outside, a cold wind whipping, the sky gray and unforgiving, she felt at last the sadness at Steve’s loss. She’d used Darryl and the case to keep it at bay, and she couldn’t do it anymore. Sobbing, hardly able to see, hoping she didn’t trip, she hurried to her car.
    Lines from a poem came to her and wouldn’t go away:
     
    There is a singer everyone has heard,
    Loud, a midsummer and mid-wood bird…
    The question that he frames in all but words
    Is what to make of a diminished thing.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
     
    SHE SAT IN the car a long time, pulling herself together, trying to breathe deeply, to calm down. Her body wanted none of it, wanted to cry until there was no salt left in her.
    If only he hadn’t come in the middle of all this.
    But that was no good and she knew it. True, she was too tired and too tightly focused on her case to deal with it; true, she was interested in Darryl. But Steve had spent a lot of money and come a long way. How could you interpret that as something other than interest in keeping the relationship together?
    I know how—he screwed up and he’s backpedaling.
    Yes, but he still cares—he wouldn’t have come if he didn’t care.
    He made a unilateral decision.
    On the other hand, he’s right—we aren’t married.
    For the first time, it occurred to Skip to turn the tables: What if I were the one with the great career opportunity?
    The answer came in a nanosecond:
I’d take it. And without asking Steve.
    So how could I ask him to do something I wouldn’t
?
    She had that stomach-turning feeling you get when you’ve made a truly terrible mistake. But at the same time, she felt calmer, her breathing came less raggedly. The conflict inside her was resolving.
    My life might be ruined, but at least I have peace of mind.
    Someone tapped on her car window:
Are you all right?
    She tried to smile. The passerby went on.
    To hell with this, I have to talk to Butsy.
    She had his phone number back at the office, had noticed it in Lenore’s address book. She went back, picked up the book, and saw that he lived quite near Cole and Marguerite.
    All the easier to commit a murder, she thought, her heart giving an extra little thud. Geoff she could see—but his own daughter? Did people really kill their own kids?
    Butsy met her at the door with Caitlin in hand. That made sense; he was her grandfather and nearest relative. Of course she’d been turned over to him.
    “Hey, Caitlin,” she said, absently touching the baby’s cheek.
    She introduced herself and said she was sorry about Lenore.
    “You knew Lenore? You know Caitlin?”
    “I haven’t known them long.”
    “Lord help this poor child.”
    “May I come in?”
    He looked surprised, as if he’d forgotten her presence. “Oh. Of course.”
    His old raised cottage looked as if he didn’t know how to keep house and couldn’t afford a housekeeper. Old-fashioned Venetian blinds—not even mini blinds—were closed against what little sun there was. No lights had been turned on, which made for a depressing room, but might have been a good thing—even in the semidark, Skip could see dust.
    The furniture was Naugahyde, an old sofa and an old recliner. An ancient carpet covered the floor.
    He let Caitlin down: “I think she’s wet.”
    Suddenly Skip realized that what had happened to Jimmy Dee had just happened to Butsy in spades. At least Jimmy Dee was prepared (though of course Butsy should have been if he’d knocked off Lenore). And at least his kids were out of diapers.
    “Do you have Pampers?” Skip said.
    “Pampers?”
    “Disposable diapers.”
    “I don’t have anything,” he said miserably. “Lenore had a friend,