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plane sliced through cloud cover over Chicago and remembered how desperately—and how suddenly—he had wanted to find out. Leslie had shone a bright light into his life the first time he had met her, compelling him to assess his motives. She’d called him on his principles. He hadn’t even known her name and she had changed everything with a chance two-minute conversation.
    Icy rain enveloped the aircraft as they descended, turning the world below to grey as it pounded on the wings. But Matt was lost in the past. He had turned to Leslie as the Laforini verdict was pronounced the day before, turned to her with a smile of triumph. He’d been sure that she would see that the truth had prevailed, that he had ensured justice had been served, that they were still fighting the good fight together. He had been sure that she would be proud of him and that whatever obstacles had erupted between them recently would be swept aside.
    But Leslie had caught her breath and averted her gaze, her disappointment in him as cutting as a knife. How could she have forgotten the first lesson she ever taught him? How could she have lost the value of the first gift she had ever shared?
    He decided that it was time he found out.
    He decided that the least he could do after eighteen years of marriage was to remind her of the valuable gift she’d given him that first day.
    * * *
    Leslie was late for her staff meeting, which shouldn’t have surprised her and, given the circumstances, shouldn’t have bothered her as much as it did. Annette had slouched down to the kitchen so impossibly late that Leslie had had to drive her to school, and had been forced to tell her about her grandfather while doing so.
    After all, people at school might well have read the paper and figured out the connection.
    She wasn’t sure that ultimately she did any better a job than the newspaper might have done. Annette didn’t respond, just stared straight out the windshield as if she hadn’t heard Leslie at all.
    She didn’t talk about Matt any more than they already had.
    For once, Leslie didn’t fight for some sign of life from her daughter. She was tired of trying to find the elusive right answer, of trying to discern whether Annette was having a mood or a nervous breakdown. She told herself that it was because she was too late, but the truth was that she was afraid of what Annette might ask. She’d never lied to her daughter and didn’t want to start now.
    At work, she took five minutes in her office to call and leave a condolence message for her mother-in-law. She wasn’t really surprised to get Beverly’s answering machine instead of Beverly live, and left a standard polite message of the “if there’s anything I can do” variety. She didn’t expect Beverly to be more than shocked by Robert’s demise: the couple was estranged, after all, and their divorce had taken a nasty turn at Robert’s instigation.
    Still, there were things you had to do, and leaving messages of condolence was one of them.
    Even if they did make you even more late.
    Leslie charged into the departmental meeting, aware that she had never been less than prompt before. She was probably out of breath for the first time ever, too. Dr. Dinkelmann granted her a glare, clearly disappointed that one of his stars was slipping, then looked pointedly at his watch. Leslie forced a smile of apology, sat down, and noticed the murmur of her fellows.
    She took a deep breath, felt the under wire press against her ribs and was reassured.
    Dinkelmann cleared his throat portentously. “As I was saying...”
    Leslie had never been able to pinpoint what had made her despise Dr. William Dinkelmann, the new department head, on sight. She had felt an instinctive dislike of him the very first time he offered his sweaty little hand to her—but why?
    He was clever, but that’s not so special in a group of historical scholars. He was passionate about his opinions, which also wasn’t much of a surprise, but