The Lesson of Her Death

nose. “—but I already wrote that story. I could write, a story about Mrs. Drake Duck … , No, no, no! I’m going to write a story about Mrs. Beiderbug.”
    “Sarah. Don’t make fun of people’s names.”
    “It’s going to be a good story.” Sarah dropped the recorder in her Barbie backpack.
    Jamie appeared in the doorway. He was eating a sandwich and carrying a glass of milk. From the way he was looking at Sarah, Diane knew he wanted to talk about something out of the girl’s presence. He turned and walked back into the kitchen. She heard the refrigerator door opening and the shuffle as he pulled out a plastic gallon jug of milk.
    Diane stood up and walked into the kitchen. She took a package of chicken from the freezer and set it on a pad of paper towels, taking her time as she cut away the plastic wrapper. Jamie sat at the table and silently stared at his glass of milk, which he then gulped down. He stood, filled the glass again and returned to his chair. She thought it was odd that though Sarah had problems with language, speaking with Jamie was often far more difficult.
    She asked, “Practice today?”
    “Yeah. Later.”
    “Then you have weight training?”
    “Not today.”
    There was nothing more she could do with the chicken and she decided to boil potatoes, because that would give her an excuse to stay in the kitchen for as long as he wanted her to be there. She began peeling. The silence was thick as oil smoke. Finally she said, “We know you didn’t have anything to do with it, Jamie.”
    The prosecutor hadn’t presented the boy to the grand jury but he had warned the Cordes sternly that he would have to testify at Philip’s trial. And that there was a chance new evidence might arise implicating him further.
    Jamie drank the milk like a man on a bender. He stood and she prayed he was just going to the refrigerator, not leaving the room. He poured another glass and sat down again. He asked, “Did Dad like look through my room or anything?”
    “Did he what?”
    When he didn’t repeat the question she said, “Yourfather wouldn’t do that. If there was something bothering him he’d talk to you.”
    “Uh-huh.” Her son sat with his head tilted, studying the glass. Diane wanted to tell him how much she loved him, how proud they were of him, how the incident at the pond—whatever had happened—was one of those ambiguous glitches in the complicated history of families that don’t touch the core of its love. Yet she was afraid to. She believed that if she did, the words would turn his heart as thick as his sculpted muscles and he would move further away from her.
    Jamie—
    Sarah appeared in the doorway. “He’s here, Mommy! Dr. Breck!”
    Diane looked toward the living room and saw a car parked in the driveway. “Okay, I’ll be there in a minute.”
    Sarah left and Diane said to her son, “Your father loves you.” She stood and ran a hand through his hair, feeling his neck muscles tense at this. He said nothing.

A suspect had been arrested but Tom the pink-cheeked deputy was still taking his job seriously.
    Nobody had relieved him of his command yet. Besides, he was hugely aware that somebody had gotten past him at least once and that Sarah had hightailed it into the woods right under his nose; he wasn’t letting Ben Breck put a foot on the front porch until he had the Queen’s okay.
    Diane nodded. “It’s all right. He’s expected.” She turned to the man standing on the concrete walk. “Dr. Breck?”
    “Call me Ben, please.” He walked past the deputy into the house.
    Breck was over six feet tall, with dark, unruly hair laced with gray. Forty-one, she remembered Dr. Parker had said. He had boyish qualities—his voice and face, for instance—and you could see exactly what he hadlooked like when he was twelve. He seemed to be in good shape but he was pale and this gave him the deceptive appearance of weakness. His eyes were dark. He wore black jeans and a tweed sports coat over a dark blue shirt. His hands were small and his fingers almost delicate. He slouched. Diane, accustomed to her husband’s military posture, was put off by this initially. Almost immediately though this aversion flipflopped and became pleasantly quirky. He carried a battered briefcase.
    Diane motioned him to the couch. He glanced out the window. “Is there, uhm, something wrong?”
    “Oh, the deputy? No, my husband’s a detective. He’s involved in the case where those girls were