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that’s what you’re going to tell us, and hoping it might make us hold off looking for him for a few weeks. Or maybe he’s in rehab because of a guilty conscience.”
    I opened my mouth to tell him that he was wrong, that I knew he was wrong. I started to say that I had Kurt’s earthly possessions in my storage barn if he wanted to see them, then he could just look through them and be done with it. “I’ve got …” The words shrunk back inside me and I didn’t make an effort to retrieve them. Not because of doubt, really. I knew Kurt hadn’t killed anyone. But perhaps because the protective maternal instinct had been so extreme over the last few weeks, I just couldn’t say it.
    “You’ve got what?”
    “To, uh, turn off my stove before my dinner burns.”
    “Sorry to disturb you. I’ll be off.” He started down the front porch stairs, then turned as if he’d had an afterthought. Somehow, I knew it was more than that. “Do me a favor. When Kurt checks in next, give me a call with the name of the rehab center. I’m sure it would do us both good if I close his file.”
    “Sure.” I watched Detective Thompson walk to his car, having no idea whether he believed me or was just waiting for me to slip up.

Seven
    Between worrying about Kurt, caring for Caroline, praying over the book I’d been asked to think through, and just the day-to-day stress of work, my commutes to and from the church were the only quiet moments I’d had in recent weeks. And most of the time my brain just shifted into autopilot. I’d even managed to pull into my driveway before realizing a truck had been following me for the last few minutes and had pulled up right behind me. For a worrying second I thought it might be the detective again, but then Kevin Marshall stepped out of his car, offering an uncomfortable smile.
    “Uh, hi. I was passing through town today, and Chris asked me to bring something by.”
    He ducked back quickly into his car and reappeared with a small grocery sack. He walked toward me holding it out, and even from a few feet away I noticed his blue eyes—the kind they write romance novels about.
    “Chris was, uh, cleaning out some files the other day, and, uh, he found several photos of Nick. We thought you would want to have them.” His face turned red, and I realized that right about then he was doubting the wisdom of that decision.
    “I’d love to have them.” Our hands touched as I reached out and took the bag from him. For just a moment we looked each other in the eye, a lifetime’s worth of sorrow communicating between us. “Do you want to come in for some coffee?”
    “Thanks, but I’ve got to get back.”
    I also thought his eyes held just a hint of guilt. Was it because he had the son who survived? Or maybe it wasn’t guilt at all. Maybe it was my own envy I saw reflected. I pulled the bag away, careful not to look at the contents. “How is Chris coming along?”
    “Oh, he’s doing fine. Still limps, of course—will for the rest of his life—but he’s able to get around and do all the things he needs to do.”
    “I’m glad.” And I was. I’d only met Chris on a few occasions before the tragedy, but he’d been one of Nick’s best friends at USC, and one of the two surviving members of the Mardi Gras attack. I wanted him to live the life that Nick was no longer able to.
    Kevin nodded and turned. I followed him toward his truck and swung the bag. “Thank Chris for me.”
    “I will.” He cleared his throat. “Just to warn you, I think there are a few pictures from New Orleans in there. We spent a while talking about whether or not we should get rid of those, but Sheila argued that a mother would want to have pictures taken of her son the day before he died. I don’t know, but I figured women understood these things better than Chris or I.”
    “She’s right.” And she was, but I wondered how I would ever get the courage to open this bag and look into it.
    He nodded toward my Ford