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while she finishes in the bathroom. He says he'll wait in the car. He pretends not to hear her sigh.
    When she climbs into the passenger seat, snowflakes sprinkle her black hair.
    The hair is now dry, and warm from the blow dryer, he imagines. In an instant, the flakes melt and disappear.
    He drives. He knows her eyes are on him, but neither of them speaks. He prays for restraint.

    He drives north on 61. He considers stopping in Bowling Green, but no, he wants to be even farther away. He remembers a little café in Hannibal, next to the river, and feels sure it will be empty on a day like today.
    "Jack," she says, trying to begin, but he cuts her off with a shake of the head. Not yet.

    His cell phone rings and as he pulls it from the front breast pocket of his coat, she turns to face the window. Giving him some privacy.

    "Hey," he says into the phone. There's no way he won't answer. There's no way he's going to send the message to the woman in the car that the woman on the phone comes second.
    "Hey," Claire says back. "Sorry to bother you. I just got off the phone with Mom and she wants to know if we're coming for Christmas. I didn't want to answer without checking with you."
    His mother-in-law, like his wife, has forgiven him. His father-in-law never will, but he puts up with his presence
    nevertheless. He'd have a gun at his head if he knew where he was just then, the bullet already on its way.
    "Sure. I think the kids would like that, too." Well, at least Jamie will. Michael, at sixteen, doesn't like anything. Least of all, his father.
    "You got a lot going on today?"
    "Yeah, a few meetings out of the office." He swallows.
    The lies aren't what he says; they're what he doesn't say.

    "Claire?" she asks after he's said his goodbye and hit disconnect.
    Without taking his eyes from the road, he nods slightly.
    She turns to the window again.

    In Hannibal, the snow is sticking. An inch, maybe an inch and a half, has already accumulated. He pulls into the gravel lot of the café. After parking, he walks to her side of the car and opens the door. She knows him so well. She knows he'll do this, despite everything, and so she has waited. She meets his eye as she steps out, and mouths a polite "thank you." Again, he simply nods.
    Last night, lying in bed and unable to sleep, he considered whether meeting in public, even so far away, is best. He decided, without much debate, it is.

    He glances at the river. A large tree has fallen over and juts into the water from the bank. The exposed roots are white from the snow. The brown water bubbles and swells before finding its way to the other side.

    He asks the waitress for a booth near the window in the back. This way he can see who comes, who goes. They both order coffee as they take off their coats and hang them on the chrome coat hook that stands between each booth. He sneaks a look when her back is turned. She's wearing slim jeans, a white knit
    turtleneck, boots. When the waitress leaves, he lowers himself into the booth.
    Leaning back, he rests one arm along the back ledge and scans the restaurant, looking at everything except the woman across from him. He knows it's forced nonchalance, so he drops the arm and props both elbows on the table. While the waitress pours the coffee, the two women engage in meaningless banter and he finally allows himself a long look at her face.
    She hasn't changed. Not much. Her dark skin is still smooth and flawless; her thick hair still falls to mid-back in a straight, sleek curtain. She's lost a few pounds she didn't need to lose, and when she smiles, the corners of her eyes reveal a few wrinkles he doesn't remember, but these details feel organic and therefore don't diminish her beauty. He wishes they did.
    The waitress leaves and he busies himself with fixing his coffee. Hers remains untouched.
    "Jack," she tries again, but he cuts her off.
    "Am I sitting across from a murderer?
    Did you kill Maxine Shepard?"
    For a long time they stare at each