Some of their neighbors were already phoning Jenny at work, leaving outraged messages. How dare he drag everyone into his mess by publicly displaying the address? Hadn’t he any sense at all? Will’s interview was the reason Bill Hampton, Jenny’s boss, called her into his office; considering the publicity and the squeamishness of the bank’s trustees, it might be best if she left her position, Hampton informed her, with two weeks’ pay, of course, and another two weeks’ vacation.

“They fired me,” Jenny announced when she got home. “Just like that. After twelve years.”

Will had the TV on and was already deeply engaged in Oprah; by now, he’d already had his second drink of the day. He was keeping count of his alcohol intake now, at least until he got to the fifth drink. Hearing Jenny’s news, he was quick to be outraged. “We’ll sue. They can’t just fire you for no reason.”

“No reason?” Jenny laughed, but the sound was brittle. “You’re the reason. Why would you let yourself be photographed right in front of our building?”

“I had to take a more positive stand against the false claims that had been made against me. Didn’t I? That’s what any self-respecting innocent man would do.”

“No, that’s what an idiot would do, Will. Did you ever stop to think that whoever did murder that poor woman now knows where we live?”

“Shit.” All at once Will seemed crushed. There were other people in the world, he’d forgotten about that. His daughter, for instance. His ex-wife. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Yeah, well it’s a little late for second thoughts.”

Jenny sat down next to him on the couch. She felt exhausted.

“They’re doing makeovers,” Will said of the Oprah show. “It’ll take your mind off the Globe article.”

Will’s psyche worked that way; just cover up the facts and everything would be fine. Overlook what’s right in front of you, hope for the best, enjoy yourself, and don’t waste a moment worrying about what’s out there, lying in wait. But how could Jenny ignore the fact that with their address made public, they were now prey to all sorts: thrill-seekers, murder buffs, and, of course, the person responsible for such a cruel and heartless crime. Even if Jenny were able to find a school willing to take Stella at this point in the term, bringing her back to this apartment was clearly out of the question. No, Stella would remain in Elinor Sparrow’s care, but the least Jenny could do was to be there as well.

She packed that night, taking only what was necessary, and the next day Will had the decency to help her carry her luggage out to the cab.

“Don’t worry about me,” he told her.

“It’s the apartment I’m worried about. Don’t forget to turn off the oven. Put out your cigarettes. None of your women in my bed.”

“I’m not going to cook and I’m about to quit smoking, so stop worrying.” Jenny noticed he didn’t mention anything about other women. “It’s good you’re going. You can counteract the old witch’s influence. Keep an eye on Stell.”

“My mother always said you were the wrong man for me. That’s why you hate her.”

“She was probably right about that,” Will admitted. “I’m a waste.”

The magnolia in front of their building was about to open. The photo in the Boston Globe had been black and white; it hadn’t shown how rosy the buds on the tree were, how the air itself seemed diffused with pink light. Jenny got into the taxi, headed for the noon train at South Station. She could see the pink light all the way down the street. It sifted through the bars of the wrought-iron gates; it caught in the window glass, making it difficult to see straight.

Jenny dozed on the train, and was surprised by how short the trip was. Her hometown always seemed a million miles away, but here it was, so very close. People used to city life were always surprised by how quiet Unity was, especially once the noon train pulled away from the station in a rush of smoke and noise. There was a drizzly rain falling and the birds were attacking the hundreds of worms that had wriggled to the surface of the new grass. Jenny remembered that her mother had invented dozens of names for the varieties of rain that fell at this time of year. The air was filled with birdsong and a cloudy mist. What sort of rain was this? Jenny could hardly remember. She had forgotten what the rain was called, just as she had forgotten there were no taxi stands at the station. People who needed a ride to the airport had to call a limo service in Hamilton; locally there was only Eli Hathaway, who offered the one livery service in town. Jenny spied a station wagon idling at the curb, but she remembered Eli was old and strange even back when she was a girl. Given the choice of getting into his famously smoky car or calling her mother and swallowing her pride, asking to be picked up as though she were still a child, Jenny decided to walk in spite of the rain.