THE HOUSE WAS PEACEFULwhen she arrived back. Once she had locked and bolted the doors and checked on Abby, Keely called softly up the stairs. Dylan grumbled in reply. Satisfied, Keely went into the kitchen and made herself a cup of tea. She was delaying going up to Dylan's room. She thought perhaps, if she waited long enough, he would be asleep. He needed his rest, she told herself. But she knew that, most of all, she didn't want to have to explain to him what had happened. Maybe by the morning he would forget to even ask her. Or if he asked her, she could satisfy him with some vague reply. He didn't need extra worry at this point in his life. He didn't need fear. She sipped and dawdled over her tea until it was cold in the cup. She could still feel the sickening sensation of the other car b.u.mping her vehicle; the tires slipping, and the car starting to spin. Try as she might, she could recall nothing about that other car-another good reason not to call the police. She hadn't paid any attention to it until it was a.s.saulting her with the high beams. By then, it was impossible to see it. All she could see was a blinding light. She got up and dumped the contents of her teacup into the sink. Then, having stalled as long as she could, she tiptoed up the stairs and down the hall to the door of Dylan's room. She saw that it was standing open a few inches. Inside the room was dark and silent.

She pushed the door open. In the darkness, she could see the outline of his head on the pillow and discern the shape of his body in his T-shirt and sweatpants sprawled on the bed, his feet sticking out from beneath an afghan Ingrid had made for him.Oh, good,she thought with a sigh.He's sleeping.

"Mom?"

Keely started. "Hi, sweetie," she whispered. "I'm sorry I disturbed you."

"It's all right," he said. "I wasn't asleep."

Keely hesitated in the doorway. "Do you need anything? Are you hungry or anything?"

The figure on the bed was silent.

She came into the room. "Dylan?" she said.

"I don't need anything," he said irritably.

She hated that note of impatience in his voice, as if everything she did was aggravating to him. It was as if they had made no progress at all, were no closer than they had been . . . before.

"What's the matter, Dylan?" she asked. "What's wrong?"

"What took you so long tonight?" he asked.

Immediately, she started to formulate a lie. But then she realized she was doing it again, the very thing she had vowed not to do-treating him as if she couldn't trust him with the truth. As if he were too young to understand.

"Well, I . . . I did stay there a long while and wait for the man to show up," she said. "When he didn't come back, I left and started driving home. There was a driver following me. I . . . we nearly got into an accident. The Bronco went off the road. I had to call a tow truck."

He sat up in his bed. "What happened? You stopped short?"

Keely chewed on her lower lip, considering how much she shouldsay.

"What happened, Mom?" he demanded.

"I don't want you to get upset, Dylan. You just got home and you're-"

"Tell me," he insisted.

"The other car . . . ran me off the road," she said.

He was silent. She could not see his face in the darkness of the room. "I don't know what I did to provoke this guy," she said, trying to sound casual. "I must have done something, because one minute, I was driving along, and the next minute, he was rear-ending my car with his. The road was wet, and before I knew it-"

"He could have killed you," he said flatly.

"Oh, now, none of that, honey. It wasn't that serious."

"But it could have been," he said.

"Well, it wasn't," she said firmly.

He was silent for a minute. Then he said coldly, "What if you did die?"

"Oh, don't be silly," she said. "I'm not going to die."

"Why is it silly? Dad did."

She noticed that he did not mention Mark. "I didn't mean silly," she said carefully. "It's not silly. It's probably only natural, after all you've experienced, that you might worry. But Dylan, you know very well that Dad . . . took his own life."

Dylan reached automatically for the bandage that was still on his neck. Keely thought about Dr. Stover's words. That Dylan had a lot of pain about Richard's death that he hadn't expressed.This isn't a good time,she thought immediately. And then she had to admit to herself that she was just trying to spare herself a difficult conversation. Whenwouldbe a good time? She walked over to the edge of his bed and sat down.

"We've never really talked about Dad's death all that much," she said.

"We talked about it," he said defensively.

"You were such a little boy when it happened. Finding him like that-it was terrible for you, I know. I probably should have gotten someone to talk with you about it. Someone professional who could have helped you through it. I tried to help you, but obviously I didn't do a very good job."

"I don't want to discuss this," he said, through gritted teeth. "Why are you stirring this up again?"

"I just want to be sure that you understand, Dylan. Dad's death-it didn't have anything to do with you. He loved you so much. He didn't want to leave you. Or me. It was just the headaches. He was suffering so."

There was a tomblike silence from where he sat on the bed.

"You probably don't remember all of this, but his life had become a torment to him. He went to every doctor, he tried every kind of treatment.Nothing helped. The headaches were coming closer and closer together. There was no relief. He just couldn't keep going on that way," she said. "I don't know if I ever really explained this to you-"

"You don't know anything," he said in a strangled voice.

She was startled by his accusation. "Dylan!"

"Sorry," he mumbled. "Forget it."

"I'm afraid I can't," she said. "Why did you say that?"

There was silence again from the bed. She waited.

"I shouldn't have said that . . ." he muttered.

"But you did."

"I just don't want to talk about this," he said.

"Well, I'm sorry, but not talking about it has only led us to grief. Now, if you have something to say to me, why don't you just say it? If you blame me, just go ahead and say so. I won't be mad at you. I promise."

There was another long silence. When he spoke, his words were completely unexpected. "I've been keeping a secret from you," he said."About Dad."

The hair stood up on the back of her neck. "Really?" she asked, trying to sound calm.

Dylan sighed. "You're going to be p.i.s.sed at me."

Keely shook her head, though her heart was beating a cadence in her ears. She tried to make her voice sound unruffled.

"Try me," she said.

"It happened . . . It's about when . . . Dad died."

Oh my G.o.d,she thought. "What about it?" she asked.

Dylan shifted around, as if the afghan were scratching him, as if what he was trying to say was making him physically uncomfortable. Keely forced herself to wait, not to nudge him. There was something that he needed to say, even if she didn't want to hear it.

"You're going to kill me," he said.

Keely forced herself to remain calm. "I don't think I'll kill you," she said, trying to sound offhanded. "I just got you home." Her attempt at insouciance failed. She could hear the tremor in her own voice. "But I'm not going to let you off the hook now. Too much at stake."

Dylan hesitated. "He left a note," he said flatly.

Keely stared at him. "A note?"

"A . . . suicide note. On the computer. I erased it."

Keely felt tears rush to her eyes. The day of Richard's suicide came back to her, vivid as if it had been yesterday. "Dylan," she said. She looked at him in disbelief.

"I knew you'd go crazy if I told you this."

Don't,she warned herself.Don't punish him for telling you the truth. This is the burden he had to let go of.But she could not help but blurt out, "Why did you do that?"

"Because I'm bad, all right? I'm bad, bad, bad."

"Dylan, don't you say that. You're not bad. You were never bad. I don't want to hear that from you ever again," she said sharply. "I'm glad you told me. I just don't understand. Why did you do it? What did it say?"

He closed his eyes and shook his head. "I don't know. I don't know." Then he sighed. "Yes, I do."

She waited, watching him closely.

"It's what you were saying . . . I was afraid-"

"Afraid?" she cried. "Afraid of what?"

"I didn't want you to know. I thought you would be mad at him," he said in a small voice.

"Mad at him? Are you serious? He shot himself, for G.o.d's sake."

"See? I knew I shouldn't tell you."

Keely raised her hands as if in surrender. "Sorry," she said, taking a deep breath. "I'm sorry."

"I didn't know what to do. I was nine years old," he cried.

She nodded. "I understand. I'm sorry. Dylan, what did it say?"

"I don't remember everything," he said miserably.

"Tell me what you do remember," she demanded.

"I knew you'd be p.i.s.sed."

"I have to know," she said. "Was it about the headaches?"

"It wasn't the headaches," he cried. "That's what I meant."

Keely stared at him. "Then what? Please, honey. I'm not mad. Just tell me . . ."

"He killed someone," Dylan said bluntly.

"Dylan, my G.o.d!" she exclaimed.

"I'm not lying, Mom. The note was on the monitor screen when I found him. I read it only once, but I'll never forget that part. He and some friend of his did it. And he felt guilty. He couldn't live with how guilty he felt anymore. That's what it said."

"I just can't . . . I don't . . ." Keely shook her head.

Dylan leaned toward her. She could see his eyes now, wide and haunted. "I don't know, Mom. I was nine years old. I came in the room. I saw him there on the floor. I read what he wrote. It was on the screen. Some of the words I didn't even know. I was only in fourth grade. I couldn't even figure out what parts of it said. He said he'd killed someone. I know that. He and a friend of his. And he couldn't live with himself any more. I didn't know . . . I didn't want you to see it. So I erased it. I'm sorry, Mom."

Keely pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes. "Oh my G.o.d," she said.

"I know I shouldn't have. I was just afraid to tell you."

She gazed up at her son with tears in her eyes. She could still picture him at nine years old, small and k.n.o.bby-kneed. Still halfway believing in Santa and the tooth fairy. Confronting a reality that no one-certainly no child-should ever have to face. Thinking, despite the horror of it all, that he would try to shield his mother somehow. The image was devastating-a heartbroken little boy deciding to protect her. "Oh, Dylan, you were just a little child. How could you know? You thought you were doing the right thing."

"You're not mad at me?" he asked.

Keely shook her head. "No, of course not, darling. How were you to know? Nothing could ever have prepared you for that moment."

Dylan let out a deep sigh. "Wow. You're really not mad?"

"No," she said, shaking her head. "Of course not. You were trying to spare me. But who? Who did he kill? And why? It's impossible. He would have told me. And who was the friend? Did it say?"

"I don't remember," Dylan admitted miserably. "But lately I've been wondering . . ."

They stared at one another in the dimness. Keely's eyes widened."Mark?" she whispered.

Dylan gazed back at her. "That's what I was wondering."

"Oh G.o.d, what did he mean?" she cried. "Not to know-it's just . . .so frustrating. Never to know . . ."

"Actually, I've been thinking about that," Dylan said. Throwing off the afghan, he drew his knees up to his chin and wrapped his arms around the legs of his sweatpants, resting his chin on his kneecaps.

She looked over at him, surprised.

"I've been thinking. There might be a way . . ."

She rested her hands limply in her lap and stared at him. "What?" she said. "What are you saying?"