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guy, Shelly—we’re not talking about someone who’s just gonna punch you in the face.” His expression straightened out. “Anyway, I didn’t know it, but Ronnie went to him and said it was him, not me, in the car.”
    “Hm. Nice guy. What happened to him?”
    “Well, he didn’t get killed,” said Alex. “We’ll leave it at that.”
    “You’re Shelly,” Ronnie said.
    “Yes.”
    He gawked at her. It wasn’t the first time she’d been the object of stares, especially from a teenager, but like Alex, this boy seemed more fascinated than admiring. He sized her up and stuffed his hands in his jeans, narrowed his eyes. “They’re saying he killed a cop?”
    “Yes, they are. Can I come in?”
    “Oh. Yeah.”
    He led Shelly into a humbly furnished living room. It was her first time actually stepping into Alex’s home. The furniture was decent but old and mismatched, yellow-brown fabric couches, a black leather chair, off-white carpeting. The walls were almost empty of photos or artwork, a muted green color in need of another coat.
    “Is your mother here?” she asked. She was referring to Elaine Masters, or Laney, as Alex always called her. It sounded like Laney spent many nights away from home, so she wasn’t surprised when Ronnie answered in the negative. She helped herself to a seat on the couch.
    Not sure of what to do, Ronnie took a seat as well, on the opposite couch. Shelly looked over Ronnie’s head and saw a black-and-white photo of a man, woman, and infant. The photo would have been about sixteen years old and it looked every day of it.
    “Alex’s folks,” Ronnie confirmed.
    The man was dressed in a shirt and tie, the mother in a simple dress as she held the baby. Alex’s father had died seven years ago, his mother three. Looking at this photo, it made sense. The parents looked to be midforties at his birth. Late in life to start a family. That sounded like Shelly’s mother talking.
    “He moved in with you after his parents died,” Shelly said.
    “Right.”
    “He was lucky to have you to turn to,” she said.
    “Look what good it’s done him.” Ronnie rubbed his hands together. He was despairing, Shelly could see, fidgeting in his chair, wanting to do something but understanding that there was little he
could
do. To listen to Alex, Ronnie was the epitome of all things virtuous. Intelligent, ambitious, compassionate, courageous. It was always interesting to meet someone after such a buildup. But the young man certainly wasn’t in top form at the moment.
    “Tell me what they’re saying,” he asked.
    She answered clinically, as a lawyer, to defuse the heartache she knew both of them were experiencing. “They said he was carrying a weapon and drugs. The police tried to stop him on the street, he ran, and there was a shooting.”
    “Bullshit. He wouldn’t walk around with drugs like that.” Ronnie looked away in anger. “No way.”
    An interesting response. Denying the drugs but not mentioning the weapon. Shelly had had the same response about the drugs, though. It didn’t fit. She wondered how much Ronnie knew. Was he aware, for instance, that Alex had been arrested by the F.B.I.? She assumed so, but she hadn’t even spoken with Alex yet on the subject.
    “Just”—Ronnie shook his hands—“just tell me what to say. I’ll say anything.”
    She ignored the offer for the moment. She certainly would not take him up on it. “I thought he was going to stop, Ronnie,” she said, not hiding her disapproval, as if Ronnie were to blame for Alex’s transgressions. “I thought he was going to find another way to make some money.”
    Ronnie struggled in the chair. “That was the plan. Didn’t seem to work out. Your guess is as good as mine.” Ronnie was acknowledging the same feeling that Shelly had experienced of late with Alex—he was keeping his friends at a distance.
    “What in the world was Alex doing with a gun?” she asked.
    Ronnie opened his hands. He appeared to be