"Lombardi. The more kids get locked up in North River, the greater the demand for a private facility. That's what you said, right? Roberts is a patsy. We need to tie these bribes back to Lombardi." I told her about my morning poking around the Internet, how the juvie would house all of New England's least desirable. "A prison like that would rake in a fortune." I left out the crazier parts about my afternoon-the Toma.s.si construction site, Fisher's wrath, my a.s.sault of a cop. "And private is nothing but profit."

"So, you want some company while you go knocking door to door?"

"Something like that."

Nicki met me at my place. We spent the next several hours driving around northern New Hampshire in my truck, visiting houses on both sides of the mountain. Most, like the Shaws, were in the middle of major renovations. Hardly anyone was home to answer questions. The few times they were, n.o.body itched to talk. One couple told us to f.u.c.k off; another that it was none of our business, they didn't appreciate being told how to parent, and then they told us to f.u.c.k off.

Clouds hung heavy as night started to fall, evening as bruised as an eggplant in the bargain bin.

"What next?" Nicki asked, as we pulled out of yet another rural driveway. "This isn't getting us anywhere. Want to check out North River? Maybe someone would be willing to talk to us. Let us tour the facility. We could say we're interested in sending our child there."

"I doubt it. You don't look quite old enough to have a teenager."

"Good point," Nicki said. "You could say you're my dad." She smirked.

"Very funny. But we wouldn't get far. I was up there the other night. They aren't looking to roll out any red carpets."

"Okay," Nicki said, brushing the black hair out of her eyes, making sure to catch mine. "I'm up for anything."

I pointed at the glove compartment. "Pull the map out of there."

Nicki held up her phone. "Ever hear of GPS?"

"Not where we're going."

"Which is?"

"Look for Saint Thomas Place, Libby Brook."

Took me a while to find the two silos and broken-down plow in the brooding countryside night. I parked next to the sparkling SUV with restored steering column and new coat of paint shimmering in the porch light. Nicki followed me up the steps to the front door. The house was a different color. Canary yellow. A happy, inviting hue.

Donna Olisky didn't greet me as warmly this time. Like her son had the other day, she tried to shut the door in my face, but I pushed back. I think Nicki was shocked that I barged inside like I did. But, f.u.c.k it, I knew there was no one else home.

"Get out of my house!" Donna screamed.

"Or what?" I said.

Donna made for her landline. I cut her off, yanking the cradle and ripping the cord out of the wall. I didn't mean to pull it so hard.

Donna Olisky gasped. So did Nicki. I knew I was coming on too strong, but I was tired of getting d.i.c.ked around.

"Sorry." I pulled my wallet. I'd withdrawn cash at the gas station, planning on buying Nicki dinner first. I didn't want to explain the credit card charges to my wife. I placed forty bucks on the table. "That should fix that. Now, I want some answers, Mrs. Olisky."

"About what?"

Out the corner of my eye, I saw the shrine to her dead son. I turned my shoulder to block the view. I needed to stay focused on the task at hand.

"I see your SUV got fixed."

"What concern is that of yours? Your company declined my policy-a policy that I paid thousands into over the years, so that when I needed it, I could make a claim. But you rejected that claim, Mr. Porter."

"Yeah. Insurance sucks. They like to take your money. Don't like to pay it out. But I don't make the laws."

"No. You just break them, busting into homes uninvited."

"How did you get the money to fix the SUV?" I pointed outside. "The house has a new paint job, too." I glanced around the interior. Holes s.p.a.ckled over, new wallpaper. The grandfather clock's pendulum swung with renewed vigor.

"Not that it is any of your business, but I applied for government a.s.sistance with home repairs. The state has programs to help people like me."

"Like you?"

"Single parent homeowners, yes. You can look it up. There are a variety of state-a.s.sistance options and programs available. I was approved."

"When?"

"Why do you care?"

"Because your son was sent to North River. And then you get money. I find the timing strange."

Donna took leave and went to a drawer, where she extracted a piece of paper, returning to shove it in my face. The official seal of New Hampshire, stamped and signed. Formal approval of the HUD request and a receipt for a ten-thousand-dollar check.

"Satisfied?" she asked.

I studied the amount. "When did you apply for this program?"

"When my husband left last year. What's it to you?"

"And the money shows up after Brian goes to North River?

After you agree to Judge Roberts' recommendation that he be sent there?"

"Brian was caught with drugs-"

"Pot."

"Drugs!" Donna started sobbing, pointing at the shrine. "I watched one boy die because of drugs. I wasn't standing by and losing another!"

"So someone called and said if you signed off on North River you'd get the money?"

"Get out of my house!"

Nicki tugged at my sleeve. "Jay, I think we should go."

Donna Olisky kept sobbing, shoulders heaving, pouring on the histrionics.

"Answer me! Did someone tell you this request would get approved if you agreed to North River? Yes. Or no."

"My son needs help!"

"Answer me! Was that the deal?"

"Yes! Someone from the State called and said to go along with the recommendation for a diversion program. I didn't do anything wrong! I love my son! He needs help! I am not losing another boy!" Donna Olisky dropped into a chair, cradling her head in her hands, weeping.

Maybe she hadn't been acting. I reached out to soothe her. Nicki caught my hand before I could do any more damage, pulling me away, toward the door, which was the right move, even if it meant leaving behind a mother brokenhearted and bawling and me feeling like a bully.

Back on the road, I checked my rearview, waiting for the cops Donna Olisky surely called once she found a working phone. There had to be another in the house, or enough spotty cell reception to report a home invasion, if someone wanted to get creative. No lights ever appeared. A mother too grief-stricken? Or too guilt-ridden? Relieved, I still felt like an a.s.shole, and, worse, I didn't care. If you're going to be the bad guy, might as well embrace it. Go big or go home.

I didn't ask Nicki inside when we got back to my house. She just followed me in. That was the reason I'd taken her along tonight. She knew it. We both did.

I went through the pretense of asking if she wanted a beer, and cracked the last pair.

Being at my house wasn't the smoothest move or smartest bet. Nicki's place made more sense. But her car was here, and if they were coming for me, they were coming for me. What could I do about it?

"You want to talk about what happened back there?" Nicki asked.

"Not really. More of what we already knew. Someone-I'm wagering Lombardi-is greasing the skids, bribing parents to sign off on these diversion programs, cooking books, running up the numbers. Maybe they push an a.s.sistance claim through. Fast-track HUD. Drop off an envelope stuffed with cash when that isn't enough. Sure as f.u.c.k have Judge Roberts in their pocket. Most of these parents are so hyped up over the drug hysteria up here, they don't need much convincing. Roberts gets his piece. The Lombardi brothers get their way. That new prison gets built, and the rich get richer."

"I mean . . ."

I put my beer down and stepped into her. She stopped talking when I pulled her to my hips and kissed her, lips soft like warm vanilla sugar. She fumbled to set her beer on the table, but the bottom clipped the edge, toppling over, suds spilling onto the floor. She reached up for my face, kissing me back violently. Twirling around, our faces still mashed together, she tried to steer us toward the bedroom, but I redirected us to the couch in the living room. We fell down together, me on top, her tongue in my mouth, breath growing hotter, groins grinding as she lifted her a.s.s off the cushion, friction pressed hard against my jeans. I didn't bother with unb.u.t.toning, just jammed my hand down the front of her pants, sliding over the smooth, tight belly. Over the silky panties, already damp with antic.i.p.ation, I wrapped a finger around the elastic, slipping slick inside her, probing as she ground her hips and moaned, bucking. Nicki let go of my face and unb.u.t.toned her own jeans, tugging them down, allowing me better access, a.s.s rising, pushing my fingers deeper.

She felt for my belt, unfastening the buckle, slipping a cool hand over my hard c.o.c.k.

"f.u.c.k me, Jay," she hushed in my ear. "I want you inside me."

"Stop."

"What?"

"I said stop." I pushed off her and stood up, trying to stuff myself away.

Nicki lay on the couch, jeans tugged halfway down her thighs, panties peeled off her a.s.s, legs parted, willing and aching, staring up at me. Her expression caught between sh.e.l.l-shocked and wounded, she didn't bother to cover herself up.

"What the h.e.l.l?"

"I'm sorry," I said. "I can't."

Nicki's eyes locked on my d.i.c.k, which wasn't going along with the change of plans.

"I'm pretty sure you can."

I left her half naked, and walked into the kitchen.

I guzzled my beer, keeping my back turned.

A few moments later, I felt Nicki glide up behind me, slipping arms around my waist, cooing in my ear. "What's going on?"

I tried to pull away.

"We both want this, Jay," she said, rubbing her hands over my abs, back down my pants. "We're not doing anything wrong."

I jerked her hand away, holding up the back of my hand and the wedding band.

"Yeah. You're married. I know that." Nicki panned around my empty home. "Where is she, huh? She moved out a week ago."

"She didn't move out. We're taking time apart. That doesn't mean I can have s.e.x with other women."

"No, just make out with and fingerbang them? Get a handy?"

"Stop. Please."

"That's why you called me today. You didn't need me to run errands with you. You wanted to f.u.c.k me. I want to f.u.c.k you. What's the problem?"

"You're the one who got this s.h.i.t started. Because you cared so much about what was happening with Roberts and his bulls.h.i.t sentences-"

"I still do care." Nicki stepped around to face me. She hadn't bothered to b.u.t.ton her jeans all the way and I could see the top of the pink panties, low cut to reveal bare pelvic bone. "Doesn't mean we can't be together."

She reached out to touch my face. I caught her by the wrists.

"You have to go," I said.

She didn't listen, letting me bind her as she moved in to kiss me again. It felt so good to be wanted like that, and Christ knows I didn't have much to feel good about lately.

I turned away, and could feel the heat of her stare intensify, desire and pa.s.sion giving way to stronger emotions like anger and hate, until she surrendered.

"Fine. Have it your way, Jay."

I let her wrists go. She b.u.t.toned up, grabbed her coat, bag, and keys. Didn't say anything else as she walked out the door, taking with her the last ally I had in my make-believe war.

I tried to get some work done, take my mind off s.e.x. Which meant beer and chain-smoking cigarettes, poking around the Internet, scanning the State's webpage again, its HUD program and a.s.sorted social services. But it's pretty hard to concentrate with blue b.a.l.l.s. My eyes gla.s.sed over the mind-numbing details-contact info for Manchester, application forms, vouchers, home equity conversion. I logged off. This is what I had turned down getting laid for.

Don't be crazy, little brother. You've never been the kind of guy to sleep around. That was never your game. Oh, shut the f.u.c.k up.

Out of beer and smokes, I grabbed my truck keys and was halfway out the door when the landline behind me rang. No one ever called with good news. No one ever called with answers. Every single phone call I'd received over the past week had been crammed with lousy news, bad results, and the promise of worse returns.

I jammed my keys in my pocket. I didn't recognize the caller on the ID. Who cared? Telemarketers be d.a.m.ned, I picked up anyway.

"Do not go outside," relayed a man's voice, cool, reserved.

"Who is this?"

"Go to your front window. Look down the block. See that car?"

Phone in hand, I walked to the window. I'd turned off my lights on the way out. I didn't turn them back on. I peeked through the shutters. A car idled down the street. Same car as the other day. I could see the shadows of two people sitting inside but little else. I let the blinds fall, and returned to my front door, shutting it softly and slipping the deadbolt.

"Who is this?" I repeated.

"Erik Fingaard. We met last year."