"Believe it or not, ma'am, I've not come to rape and pillage," he replied stiffly in a British accent. "I only want a word with you."

Immediately, Betsy reddened, ashamed that she had leaped to exactly that prejudiced conclusion at the sight of him. But the manhadtaken her by surprise. She wasn't about to apologize for being startled, for heaven's sake. "I'm not accustomed to being accosted in my garden. You might have just rung the doorbell, like any other visitor. My husband is in the house."

"I don't want to see your husband. I've tried to talk to your husband, but he insisted he can't help me. I was hoping to find you a bit more sympathetic."

Betsy clutched the bag of birdseed to her narrow chest and eyed the man with a mixture of curiosity and lingering fear. "Sympathetic about what?" she asked. "If you're selling something, I can tell you right now-"

"My name is Julian Graham," he interrupted. "My mother is Veronica Fairchild."

Betsy gasped. "Veronica? My . . . daughter-in-law?"

"That's right," he said, enjoying her dismay. "Didn't she tell you about me?"

Betsy shook her head.

"There's a surprise. Yeah, she was my mum, all right. Left me and my dad when I was about a year old and ran off to the States. I'm told she married your son."

"My son is dead," Betsy said dully.

The young man frowned. "So I've heard. It's a pity, ma'am. But it's my mother I'm looking for."

"Veronica. Are you sure? Maybe you're mistaken."

"No mistake," he said angrily.

"Well, I'm sorry. We never knew you existed. Veronica never breathed a word about you to us. Or to my son either, I'm sure. Well, she wouldn't, would she?" The young's man eyes flashed, and Betsy noticed. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean that the way it sounded." Then she frowned. "It's just that she wasn't . . . I never trusted her. Even before she . . ." Betsy's mind started to drift, but then she forced her attention back to the man in front of her. "Veronica is a very cruel woman. Very cold. I wonder . . . was she . . . did she ever divorce your father?"

"They were never married," he said, raising his chin defiantly.

Betsy nodded and shook her head. "Hmmm . . . why am I not surprised?" she said. "Veronica." She heaved a sigh and then looked up and studied the exotic-looking young man in front of her. "Well, you won't find her here. She left here years ago. Ran off to Las Vegas with some . . . married man. One with money, of course," Betsy added tartly.

Julian Graham sighed. "Do you have her address?"

Betsy shook her head. "I don't know where she is, and I don't care. I'm sorry to say this, young man, but you may be better off not finding her. I can't imagine it would bring you anything but heartache."

"That's for me to decide, ma'am," Julian said coolly. "I just want the information."

"Well, I'm afraid that after she broke my son's heart and ruined his life, we didn't keep in touch," said Betsy in a frosty tone. Then, reminding herself that none of it was this young man's fault, her tone softened. "I'd help you if I could. But it was years ago. She didn't want anything more to do with us. I asked her for her phone number and her address when she called. Personally, I would have been glad to wash my hands of her, but Prentice . . ." Her voice faltered. Then she squared her shoulders. "He tried to follow her. He went out there, to the address she gave us, and it turned out to be phony. Can you imagine how my son felt . . .?" And then, seeing the hurt in the young man's eyes, she realized how well he probably could imagine. "I've nothing against you personally, you understand. We were all her victims."

"I'm n.o.body's victim," the young man corrected her.

"No, of course not," said Betsy. "How do you happen to be here, anyway?"

"I'm come to the States from Britain on tour, actually, with a band," he said.

"Well, that's wonderful," Betsy murmured. "Though I'm sure I don't know the music you young people like anymore. Would you like to come in? Have a . . . cup of tea?" Her voice brightened at the very idea of offering an Englishman the solace of a cup of tea.

Julian sighed. He gazed up at the imposing house, then shook his head. But his tone was less rueful. "No, thanks. I've got to be off."

"I'm . . . sorry. I hope I haven't been rude. I just can't help you . . ."

"Never mind," he said.

"Good luck . . . Julian . . ." Betsy said, her voice trailing away. She watched him go, then slowly she made her way back to the house, her mind ruminating furiously on the young man's unexpected visit. Why hadn't Lucas mentioned Julian Graham to her before? They never keptsecrets. Surely he'd have realized she would want to know. And then she sighed, thinking of all the terrible memories it reawakened. Prentice's grief. The way he blamed them. Accused them of driving Veronica away, making her feel unwelcome. For months after he'd returned from Las Vegas without her, he hadn't even spoken to them, had refused their efforts to comfort him. Taken comfort in the bottle. Betsy clutched the sack of seed against the front of her quilted jacket as if it were a baby.

When she walked in the door, she saw Lucas setting the phone back into its cradle. He turned and looked at her. His face was as white as paste, and his eyes were wide and frightened. Lucas rarely looked frightened.

Betsy dumped the seed bag on the table and rushed to him. "Darling, what is it?" she cried. "You look awful."

"That was Keely," he whispered.

Betsy frowned. "At this hour? What did she want?"

"She just got home from the hospital. Been there all night. Dylan . . . tried to kill himself."

Betsy stared at him, shaking her head. "No, that's not possible." She grabbed Lucas's hand. It was cold and clammy. "There must be some mistake."

"Last night. When she got home from here, she found him. He'd cut his throat."

Betsy groaned. "Oh, Lucas. Oh no . . ."

He nodded, his lips pressed together grimly. "I'm afraid so."

"Will he . . . is he going to live?"

Lucas nodded. "Yes. Thank G.o.d."

"How is she? How is Keely?" Betsy asked.

Lucas shook his head. "Holding up, somehow."

"Oh, poor thing," Betsy wailed. "Here, sit down. You look terrible."

"Such a shock," he muttered as she helped him to a chair, then sat down beside him. They sat there, hands clasped, all too familiar with the despair that Keely was now feeling.

"She told me that he was depressed," said Betsy.

Lucas shook his head. "I should have known . . ."

"How could you know?" Betsy chided him gently. "You hardly know the boy."

"You know what I mean," Lucas insisted. "The pressure on him. The police . . . Maureen Chase. Especially Maureen. And Keely has no idea what was going on . . ."

"You don't think she knows?" Betsy asked worriedly.

"I'm sure she doesn't," said Lucas grimly. "And I don't want to be the one to tell her."

"No. No. But it's not up to you. You've done everything you can to protect her," Betsy reminded him gently. "And we'll keep on doing all we can. We will. Honestly, when I think of Mark . . . it makes me sick . . ."

"How well can we really know anyone?" Lucas said glumly. They sat silently, clinging to one another.

Betsy sighed. "Lucas," she said. "Speaking of how well we know someone . . ."

Lucas frowned at her.

"I had a visitor just now. In the garden. A young man named Julian Graham."

"He was here?"

Betsy nodded. "He said he'd spoken to you."

Lucas avoided her gaze. "It's true. He came by the office."

"And you didn't tell me?"

"I'm sorry, darling . . . I should have told you. I didn't want to bring it all back."

"Didn't you think I'd want to know? Since when do you make up my mind for me?"

"I know. It was wrong not to tell you. But you've had to cope with so much lately. I was trying to protect you. It's a habit."

Betsy sighed and nodded. "I know. I know. . . ."

"I told him to try Las Vegas. Although there's no telling where she's got to by now. That was years ago . . ."

Betsy frowned, squeezing Lucas's hand in her lap. "I never liked her. I admit it. It was no secret that I wasn't happy with Prentice's choice of a wife. Still, I wish . . ."

"I know," said Lucas. "I wish the same thing."

"He always thought we were glad she left him," Betsy cried.

"Why would we be glad? It wasn't our choice to make," Lucas said. "Remember your parents? They weren't happy when you chose me. That didn't matter to us."

"No, it didn't," Betsy agreed, smiling in spite of herself. She knew he was right. There was no use in going over it again and again. They had been over it a million times through the years. Nothing could change the past. Immediately, Betsy's thoughts reverted back to Keely and Dylan Bennett. "Children don't realize . . . when they suffer, we suffer . . ."

"You're thinking of Keely," he said, reading her mind.

Tears came to her eyes, spilled down her cheeks. "How can she bear it?"

"She's strong," said Lucas.

Betsy shook her head. "No one's that strong."

"Really, she was extraordinary," Lucas said. "On the phone just now, she was asking my advice about the police, asking me about Mark's clients."

"Why?" Betsy asked. "How can she be thinking of anything but Dylan?"

"Well, she is thinking of Dylan. She feels that this investigation into Mark's death is what drove Dylan to . . . such despair. Her whole focus now is on trying to exonerate Dylan of any blame in Mark's death."

"But it was an accident," said Betsy. "It's not a question of blame."

"I know that," said Lucas. "But there's no reasoning with her."

"Well, I can understand it," said Betsy. "She's fighting for Dylan's life."

KEELYCRADLEDABBYin one arm and held the phone to her ear with her free hand. She'd come home only to change and have a few minutes with Abby. She wanted to get back to the hospital as soon as possible. She glanced at the clock on Mark's desk and whispered, "Come on, hurry up," as she worked her way through a long sequence of push b.u.t.ton options to try to reach a human being at the phone company.Finally, she got a service representative on the line. The man's eager offer to help his customer flattened when he heard what Keely wanted.

"Sir, what I need is a list of all the incoming and outgoing calls to my home on this date," Keely said, reciting the date of her husband's death.

"Your long-distance calls will appear on your bill," he said.

"No. You don't understand. I want to know about all the calls, local and long distance, that were made to and from my phone on a particular night."

"I'm sorry, ma'am. We don't have a record of that," he said.

"I know you do, because you were able to tell the police that my husband was online that night."

"Ma'am, that's something different. The online server has that information, for billing purposes. With local calls, we don't keep a record unless the customer has contacted the police beforehand and requested that the line be monitored."

"I don't believe you," Keely said. "You have all the long-distance calls on record. Why not the local calls?"

"No," the man replied patiently. "We don't have that information. I'm sorry."

"Look, is there some kind of court order or subpoena or something that I need to get?"

"I'm sorry, ma'am. This is not like you see it in cop shows on TV. I'm telling you the truth. We don't have a record. It doesn't exist. Now, is there any other way I can be of service?"

"No, thanks," Keely muttered, banging the receiver back into the cradle.

Abby let out a cry and Keely cuddled her. "It's all right," she said. "It's all right." As she murmured into the baby's ear, she riffled through his household accounts file in Mark's desk and pulled out the most recent bill from the cell phone company. She had rarely seen Mark use his cell phone at home, but it wasn't out of the question, and at least the cell phone bills listed both incoming and outgoing calls. As she scanned the blur of numbers for the date, she saw that the night of Mark's death was too recent to be on the bill. With a sigh, she dialed the servicenumber. Once again, she worked her way through recordings to a living being and explained her needs.

"You'll receive that information in your next month's bill," said the service representative.

"I . . . I realize that," said Keely. "It's just that . . . I need the information now."

"I'm sorry, ma'am, but I can't help you with that."

"You've probably got it right in front of you on your computer screen," said Keely. "Can you just read to me the calls from that one particular night?"

The woman hesitated. "No, I cannot give you that information over the phone."

"Can you print it out and send to me?" Keely pleaded. "This is . . . this is a matter of life and death."

The woman giggled nervously. "Oh come on, now."

"Do you have children?" Keely asked. "Wouldn't you do anything to help them if they were in trouble? I need to know who called this phone that night."

The woman was silent for a minute. Then she said softly, "Our policy-"