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regretful, or maybe just resolved.
    â€˜My husband works long hours, you see,’ she said, as if in justification. ‘And he travels to and from the west coast – he’s in television.’
    â€˜I know.’ David smiled. ‘When Tony heard you married the famous Doctor Jeff,’ he said, referring to Stephanie’s husband, the popular TV talk show psychologist Doctor Jeffrey Logan, ‘he didn’t eat for a week.’
    â€˜Or until the next eligible bachelorette came along,’ she said, and smiled.
    â€˜Fair point,’ laughed David.
    â€˜In the very least he’s. . .’
    â€˜. . .
consistent
,’ they said together – and then laughed.
    David looked at her, her long neck thrown back in that familiar joviality – her deep, enthusiastic, slightly guttural laugh filling him withmemories from not so much
happier
, but definitely
easier
times. People’s lives didn’t always end up as you expected, he thought.
    If anyone had asked him years ago who would have been the most likely of their BC graduate year to conquer the world, he would have named this bright-eyed, auburn-haired, sharp-minded woman hands down.
    But here she was before him, looking small and fragile and meek – and while David could totally understand her decision to give up her career for family, respect it even, he wondered why she, of all people, appeared so defeated by the choices she had made.
    â€˜Anyway,’ she said, taking his hand once again and this time squeezing it slightly in a gesture that told him how pleased she was to have run into him, ‘I had better find Jeffrey. Despite the fact that I am the lawyer in the family I am afraid he is the one who scored us a seat on the head table – and my absence, while perhaps not missed, will be duly noted.’
    â€˜It’s been great to see you, Stephanie,’ said David. ‘In fact, Sara and I, we would love to have you over some time to . . .’
    â€˜Catch up?’ She smiled. ‘Of course,’ she added, but her head was already shaking in the negative.
    â€˜We’ll see each other soon then,’ he said as she got up to leave. ‘We’ll keep in touch.’

PART ONE

1
    Friday 11 May
Three months later
    â€˜W ho’s in charge here?’ asked Lieutenant Joe Mannix as he lifted the yellow crime tape that cut off half of the narrow street so that he and his fellow Boston homicide detective Frank McKay could duck under and push forward towards the house.
    â€˜O’Donnell,’ shouted the rookie, a kid named Reno who was sharp and ready to please. ‘We secured the scene as soon as we could,’ he continued to yell above the din. ‘But the media picked it up on the wires. They noted the address. Were here before we could even . . .’
    â€˜
Reno
,’ yelled another cop, Reno’s partner, an older officer named Schiff. ‘The animals are encroaching,’ he said, lifting one arm to shield his eyes from the TV lights and the other to point at the barrage of five, six, maybe more ‘live transmission’ vans now blocking the well-preserved roadway and making it close to impossible for police and other ‘official’ vehicles to get either in or out.
    â€˜I need you over here. I need . . . Oh, sorry, Lieutenant,’ said Schiff, recognising Joe. ‘I didn’t see you there. These lights are enough to . . .’
    â€˜Lieutenant, Detective,’ interrupted a third police officer from behind. It was Sergeant Patrick O’Donnell, the most senior uniform on site.
    â€˜O’Donnell,’ said Joe and Frank as they all shook hands.
    â€˜We’ve secured the scene,’ said O’Donnell, now falling into step with the two detectives, turning back the way he had come. ‘The crime lab guys are already at work. Parked their vans out back.’
    â€˜There’s a back?’ asked