Jenny gave me the death stare. I didn't care. I was the odd man out, the third wheel in this scenario. Me, the husband. This was bulls.h.i.t.

"I should be going," Stephen said.

"Yeah, why don't you do that, Stephen." I stressed his name, which was a stupid name for guy. Your parents saddle you with that one, you go with Steve. n.o.body called him "Stephen McQueen."

The b.a.s.t.a.r.d locked on eyes with me. Not long, fleeting. But long enough to issue the challenge. Consider the gauntlet thrown down, f.u.c.ker.

Then, right there in front of me, the sonofab.i.t.c.h had the nerve to take my wife's hand. "I had a nice time today." He gazed back at me with manufactured civility. "Nice meeting you, Jay." But the nail? He called over Aiden, my son, who didn't know better. Crouching down eye level with him, Stephen said, "Next time we'll work on keeping your eye on the ball, slugger." Then he tousled his hair. Put his f.u.c.king hand right on my kid's head.

I've never been good at regulating emotions in the heat of the moment. Especially where other men were concerned. Once that lizard switch gets tripped, there's no going back.

Wedging by my wife, I took Stephen by his fancy-boy collar and shoved him against the wall.

"Jay!" Jenny shouted.

I got in his face. "Listen, a.s.shole. You stay the h.e.l.l away from my family."

Stephen held up his hands. "Hey. Whoa. I think there's been a-"

"Don't play that bulls.h.i.t with me."

"Aiden, come with Grandma in the kitchen," Lynne said, like she hadn't orchestrated this entire scene. My boy stared up at me, eyes widened in confusion, as my mother-in-law dragged him away from his lunatic father.

I drew back my clenched fist, ready to break Stephen's jaw. Maybe I'd have only punched the wall by the side of his head to scare him. I don't know. Probably the first one. But Jenny grabbed my c.o.c.ked fist and pulled me off before we had the chance to find out.

"I'm going to go," Stephen mumbled, fumbling for the k.n.o.b, squeaking outside.

"Yeah, you do that, a.s.shole." I panted, overheating, a bull.

When I turned around and saw the mix of horror and disgust on my wife's face, I knew I'd f.u.c.ked up.

Jenny didn't need to say it. But she did anyway.

"Jay, you need to leave. Now. I'll call you when I'm ready to talk to you again. Until then, I don't want to hear your voice. I don't want to see your face. Stay away from me."

CHAPTER SEVEN.

I SPED ALONG the winding, tortuous route east as light snow began to fall. A dusting coated the roads, sweeping small pirouettes across the empty lanes. I lit a cigarette and punched the wheel, back tires fishtailing with the blow. I accelerated around a hairpin, tempting fate. What the f.u.c.k was I doing? When you're standing on thin ice, you don't jump up and down.

Even though I knew Stephen, if given half the chance, would try to sleep with my wife-because he was a guy and that's what guys do-my opinion on the subject didn't matter. You can see whatever you want to see-if n.o.body else sees it, what good does it do you? Invisible trees get chopped down in the forest all day long.

Out the window, Douglas firs and evergreen tips bowed with the wind. The spare change in my cup quaked as the earth shook. I couldn't tell if a storm was brewing or I was driving way faster than I should. My big Chevy block thrummed, rattled. I checked my speedometer, needle pushing fifty around tight curves intended for twenty-five. I saw a call come in on my cell in the center console. I glanced down and ignored it. If Jenny wasn't on the line, I didn't give a s.h.i.t.

Donna Olisky had badgered me all afternoon, ringing every hour on the hour, forcing me to put the phone on vibrate. I knew keeping her in the dark was lousy, and that I'd have to talk to her sooner or later. But you can't report back on what you don't know.

My botched afternoon in Burlington wasn't Donna's fault, but favors still cost extra-you don't get to look out for someone else's well-being until you've taken care of your own.

Didn't help that my defense was inadmissible. As sure as every winter up here promises misery, I knew Lynne had manipulated that whole charade. A plan had been set in motion months ago: wait for a vulnerable moment to unleash the young, urban professional upstairs, whose pump Lynne had surely been priming since the day she moved in. And I'd played right into the trap. But you can't prove intent, and lunch is still lunch. I couldn't accuse Jenny of anything other than being hungry.

Coming up on the 302 split, I fought temptation to flip a b.i.t.c.h and bull my way back to Lake Champlain. Stand my ground until Jenny heard me out. If given enough time, I could usually stumble across the right words. If the extra rope didn't hang me first. Saner instincts prevailed, and I stayed the course.

Even though my wife had thrown me out of her mother's house, I still had faith I could repair the damage. Jenny was good about accepting apologies. When she calmed down. I needed to stay away for a while, bite my tongue, wait till she returned from enemy soil.

What p.i.s.sed me off most, I hadn't been able to give Jenny the good news about my promotion. Which had been the whole point of going up to Burlington in the first place. My mother-in-law had bowled my legs from under me, shortchanging my big score, and leaving me no choice but to split, a loser.

My cigarette died out. I lit another. My phone buzzed again. I picked up the cell and saw the name on the screen. But it wasn't Donna, and it wasn't my wife. Sometimes I wondered if the universe delighted in s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g with me. I put it to my ear.

"Hey," said the cool female voice. "It's Nicki."

I didn't respond right way, molars powdering enamel to keep from screaming.

"From the courthouse?"

"Yeah. I remember."

"So, you free to grab that drink now?"

I had to end this now. Nothing good could come of it. I'm a happily married father. I don't screw around.

"Listen," I said, attempting tack. "You seem like a nice girl, Nicki. But I'm married-"

"Yeah. I know, I saw the ring. Sorry about that." She laughed. Well, less a laugh and more a mocking jeer. "It was s.h.i.tty of me."

"Sorry?"

"Y'know, how I was with you earlier, playing. I thought interning at a courthouse would be fun. Or at least a good experience. Get course credit, walk away with a few stories to tell. But it's so boring. All I do is sit in that little box, filing paperwork. All. Day. Long. Can't even check Facebook on my phone. The only way I can pa.s.s the time is. .h.i.tting on old married guys. Lame, I know. But it's entertaining watching how nervous they get."

Old? I'm not old. Since when is thirty-one old?

"Not that you're old," she added.

Talk about a b.i.t.c.h slap. I'd gone from worrying about how to let her down easy to getting batted around like a wounded mouse for the amus.e.m.e.nt of a house cat. I could practically hear her licking the blood from her claws, satisfied with another kill.

"I want to show you something," she said. When I didn't respond right away, she added, "We can meet in a well-lit, public place if you're worried."

"I'm not worried. I'm busy."

"I have information about your friend, Brian."

"Where is he?" My self-worth had taken enough of a hit for one day. I wanted back in front of my TV, sweats and a tee, beer in hand. Pop in a DVD and forget this whole rotten day. Mocked by yuppies and college girls. Does it get any worse?

"Place called the North River Inst.i.tute."

"North River?"

"Listen," Nicki said, "it's too complicated to explain over the phone. So here's what I'm going to do. I am stopping for a drink at the Chop Shop. It's a steakhouse slash c.o.c.ktail bar a few blocks from the courthouse. Corner of Main and Laramie. If you want my help, I'll be there for the next hour. Or until I find something better to do. If not, nice meeting you, Jay."

Nicki sat at a small table by the bar, twirling the tiny umbrella between her fingers. Being allowed in the bar meant she had to be at least twenty-one, not that Longmont County cared any more than the rest of New Hampshire when it came to following the letter of the law. But if she was working at the courthouse, I couldn't see her using a fake ID. She might be brazen, but that con was short-lived. She spied me and took another sip of her fizzy pink c.o.c.ktail. A tall, untouched pint sat across from her. I wondered if I was interrupting something. The rest of the bar was empty.

"You strike me as a beer guy." She slid over the gla.s.s. "Crowd will pick up in about fifteen when the courthouse closes for the day. Good luck getting a drink then."

I stared down at the beer, then at her, still deciding whether I wanted to sit with this girl.

"Truce," she said, nudging forward the frothy pint.

"I didn't realize we knew each other well enough to be fighting."

Nicki c.o.c.ked her head. "Not yet," she cooed, before biting a lip. "Sorry. Force of habit."

A giant picture of a dissected cow hung on the wall behind her, ill.u.s.trating the various cuts of beef.

"Have a seat. I won't bite, promise."

For the first time I detected the accent. "Where are you from?" I pulled the stool out.

"Took you long enough. The City."

"Concord?"

Nicki laughed. "Is that what you call 'the city' up here? No. I mean, the City. New York." She flicked her nose ring. When I didn't react, she peeled her shirtsleeve, revealing the rest of the sunburst flare, a brilliant kaleidoscopic supernova wrapping around her biceps, comet tail shooting up her shoulder.

"People are inked up here, too."

"Yeah," she said. "Except people with tattoos don't say 'inked' or 'tatted.' That's TV talk."

"Okay, Nicki. I get it. You're cool. I'm not. I don't care. You said you wanted to show me something? Show me. I have better things to do than sit around and get insulted by a girl half my age majoring in women's studies at White Mountain Community."

"Actually, I'm twenty-two, and it's criminal justice at Keene State. Just taking a break while I am stuck living with my uncle in Ma and Pa Kettle Country."

"Terrific. But I still don't care."

"Drink your beer," she said through a pursed smirk. She hoisted a handbag to the table, rooting around, extracting a folded sheet of paper.

"What's that?"

"The new address where your pal Brian is staying."

"I wouldn't call him a pal."

"I know. You work for NorthEastern Insurance. I made some phone calls."

I checked the address. North River Inst.i.tute. "What is this?"

"A diversion program."

"Diversion from what?"

"A life of crime. Rough crowds. Gangs."

I couldn't help but laugh.

"What's so funny?"

"If you met this kid, you'd know. He's a string bean. A tadpole. A nerd."

"Nerd is the new cool."

"Good to know. But the only gang Brian Olisky is in danger of joining is the Doofus Patrol."

"If he was such a square bear, he wouldn't have been brought before Judge Roberts. North River is no joke. It's a juvie. A hardcore rehab. Seen a lot of troubled kids getting sent there lately."

"Brian Olisky is not troubled. He lied on an insurance form."

Nicki pointed down at the rest of the paper I had yet to read. "Says the cops found drugs in the car."

"Bulls.h.i.t."

"Read."

Below the handwritten address for North River, an official summary of charges spelled it out. "A joint? How long are these diversion programs?"

"Depends. The courts work out sentencing with parents beforehand. A joint decision. But incarceration is open ended and can last for years, if there's enough financing."

Brian's mother never would have signed off on anything like that. She'd been a nervous wreck last time we'd spoke.

"You could've told me all this on the phone," I said to Nicki, folding the police report and address.

"I know. But . . ." She glanced around the room as a couple suits stepped in from the cold.

"But what?"

"I told you. I don't know anyone up here. You seem like a nice guy-"

I held up my ring finger.

"Get over yourself, Jay. I mean, I could use a cool guy to talk to, grab a beer once in a while. Y'know, a friend."

I returned an incredulous stare.