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again.
    “He refused.” Kyle lowered his eyes, looking at the paperite place mat with the current month’s chicken promotion illustrated on it. He looked up again and sought Heather’s eyes. “I could do the same thing for you,” he said. “I could prove my innocence.”
    Heather opened her mouth, but immediately closed it.
    It was a turning point, a crux. Kyle knew it, and he was sure Heather knew it, too. The future depended on what would happen next.
    She had to be thinking it all through . . .
    If he was innocent—
    If he was innocent, she must know he’d never be able to forgive her for demanding proof, for her lack of faith. If he was innocent, then surely their marriage should survive this crisis. They’d both thought they would get back together again, sooner or later. If not by the beginning of the coming school year, surely by its end.
    If he was innocent, the marriage should survive, but if Heather had doubt, and admitted it, admitted the possibility, would he ever be able to hold her again, to love her again? When he’d needed her most, had she believed in him?
    “No,” she said, closing her eyes. “No, that won’t be necessary.” She looked at him. “I know you didn’t do anything.” Kyle kept his expression neutral; he knew she must be searching his face for any sign that he thought the words might be insincere.
    “Thank you,” he said softly.
    The server returned with their drinks. They ordered: a grilled chicken breast and plain baked potato for Kyle; the quarter barbecue chicken dinner with fries for Heather.
    “Did anything else happen with Zack?” asked Heather.
    Kyle took a sip of his wine. “He told me that Becky is in therapy.”
    Heather nodded. “Yes.”
    “You knew that?”
    “She started seeing someone after Mary died.”
    “It was the same therapist Mary had been going to,” said Kyle. “Zack told me that.”
    “Mary was in therapy, too? Good God, I didn’t know that.”
    “I was shocked, too,” said Kyle.
    “You’d think she’d have told me.”
    “Or me,” said Kyle, forcefully.
    “Of course,” said Heather. “Of course.” She paused. “I wonder if it had anything to do with Rachel?”
    “Who?”
    “Rachel Cohen. Remember? Mary’s friend—she died of leukemia when Mary was eighteen.”
    “Oh, yes. Poor girl.”
    “Mary had been quite distraught about that. Maybe she started seeing a therapist over it—a little grief counseling, you know?”
    “Why wouldn’t she have come to you?” asked Kyle.
    “Well, I’m hardly a clinician. Besides, no girl wants her mother for a therapist—and I suspect she wouldn’t have wanted anyone I might have recommended, either.”
    “So how would Mary find a therapist?” asked Kyle.
    “I don’t know,” said Heather. “Maybe Dr. Redmond recommended somebody.” Lloyd Redmond had been Kyle’s physician, and later, the whole family’s physician, for nearly thirty years. “I’ll call him in the morning and see what I can find out.”
    Their meals arrived. They ate mostly in silence, and afterward went to their separate homes.
     
    The phone rang in Kyle’s lab at 10:30 Tuesday morning. A couple of grad students were present, working quietly inside Cheetah’s console; the console’s faceplate, including Cheetah’s eyes, had been removed and was leaning now against the curving outer wall.
    The Caller ID showed it was Heather, calling from her office in Sidney Smith Hall on the west side of St. George Street, a block farther south.
    “I was right,” said Heather. “Dr. Redmond did recommend a therapist to Mary several months before she died.”
    “What’s the therapist’s name?
    “Lydia Gurdjieff.” She spelled the unusual last name.
    “Ever heard of her?”
    “No. I’ve checked the online directory for the OPA; she’s not listed.”
    “I’m going to go see her,” said Kyle.
    “No,” said Heather. “I think I should go—alone.”
    Kyle opened his mouth to object, but then realized his wife