And he turned to leave.

'Tracy,' said Chief Gallagher, 'I'm warning you, if you walk out that door, don't bother coming back. I'm telling you. That'll be it.'

Spencer turned around long enough to say to Will and Gallagher, 'And furthermore, don't call me Tracy. I hate that fucking name.'

Spencer walked out into the cold night air, and stopped right outside the front door. He knew he could still come back. They needed him, he knew that. He hadn't told them yet about Nathan Sinclair.

But what would that change? he thought. So they would know. They wouldn't give a damn. But once the truth was out, Conni Tobias would know it. And Jim Shaw would know it. Conni would think only that her life had been ruined for nothing, and Spencer didn't want to make Conni feel even more hopeless. She needed hope to sustain her. Spencer felt some empathy for Conni. He didn't want to destroy her.

And Jim Shaw? He would become embroiled in a scandal that could wreck his potential public service. His countrymen would always come back to the time when he was young and involved in a vicious, incestuous quadrangle. As Ted Kennedy had never been able to live down Chappaquiddick, so Jim Shaw would never be able to live down Kristina and Nathan Sinclair. Spencer didn't want to drive the last nail into Jim's career coffin.

Slowly Spencer became aware of white flashing lights, of a hundred people, shouting, shoving black sponge balls into his face, bulbs going off. It looked like daylight. Fake daylight. But it was night, and cold. Once again, Spencer pushed past the swarm of reporters with nothing to say except in answer to the question 'Are you the detective in charge of this case?' 'Not anymore,' replied Spencer.

He drove to Hanover and did not look back at the tall and foreboding pines on the golf course near the police headquarters where he had passed five years of his life.

At home on Allen Street, he packed. It didn't take long; he had brought little with him and accumulated only a few things during his years in Hanover. Why didn't I grow roots here? he thought. Was it because I always knew I would leave? No, he had loved Hanover. He just hadn't gotten around to growing roots. He had been too busy surviving to be bothered with living.

Spencer haphazardly threw his stuff into suitcases. His mind was elsewhere. Oddly, he wasn't thinking about the job as detective-sergeant he just quit, or about what he was going to do next, or even about going home, a place he hadn't been to in years.

Spencer was thinking about the four friends, about the sleaziness, the trailer-trash vulgarity, of their relationship. The bad feelings kept washing over him like rain.

Jim Shaw. Conni Tobias. Nathan Sinclair. Kristina Sinclair.

Jim Shaw. Something barreled in loud and clear into Spencer's consciousness. Jim Shaw.

Why hadn't he reported seeing Kristina's black boots when he walked into them last Wednesday? He had said he was scared, but Spencer didn't buy it.

Rather, scared for whom?

Could Jim Shaw have known about the incident that Frankie had witnessed a year ago? Could they all have known about it, maybe even laughed about it during the low-minded games they played with one another when cards would no longer do?

Spencer threw on his parka and left the room. Disgusted with Hanover, he looked at nothing but his own feet as he walked to Hinman Hall.

Jim answered the door. He looked worn out and older than the student Spencer had met four days ago. He was unshaven and his hair was unbrushed. Spencer knew Jim had not been studying. Jim looked stricken. Spencer thought it was by the impending funeral, but Jim said, 'Conni ... she's been arrested.'

'Yes, I know,' said Spencer, nodding.

'It's horrible for her, horrible.'

'Yes,' said Spencer, wanting to say that it was horrible for Kristina, too.

'What do you think will happen to her?'

'To Conni? She'll get herself the most expensive lawyer her father can buy, and hope for the best.'

'What do you think? Is there a way out?'

Spencer came in and sat down in the lounge chair. He looked around Jim's room.

'Jim, I know how you feel, but Conni was on the bridge and her blood was on Kristina.'

Shaking his head and covering his face, Jim said, 'No, no. I don't believe it. It can't be.'

'Jim, she did it to herself. I know it's hard to deal with.'

'She didn't do it, she didn't,' Jim said. 'I just don't believe it.'

'You don't?' Spencer said. 'Who, then?'

'I don't know,' Jim said. 'Someone else.'

'Like you?'

Jim shook his head.

'Like Albert?' When Jim didn't respond, Spencer said, 'Is there something you know?'

'I'm not saying it was him. I'm just saying ...'

Spencer nodded. 'What about last Wednesday? When you saw your girlfriend in the snow? Did you think Conni killed her then?

Shaking his head defiantly, Jim said, 'I don't know what you're talking about.'

'No?'

Jim lowered his gaze. Spencer nodded and stood up. 'I thought so.'

'What did you come here for?' Jim exclaimed. 'Did you come here to torture me?'

'I came here to tell you that when you testify, you should muster enough courage to tell the court the truth.'

'The truth?'

'Yes, the truth. You should tell them, to save your good name, that you ran away from your ex-girlfriend's dead body because you were afraid the girl you loved had killed her. That's correct, isn't it?'

'I don't know what you mean,' Jim said loftily. 'I told you I was afraid.'

'Yes, but not for yourself, for her.' Spencer said. 'You knew about the incident on the bridge, didn't you? Last year? Conni could've killed her then, you know. She wanted to.'

Jim lowered his eyes. Spencer nodded and walked toward the door. 'Think about what I've asked you.' And turning around, Spencer said to Jim, 'Good luck.'

Very quietly, Jim said, 'Sending Conni to prison will not bring Kristina back.'

'Of course not. It never does bring the victims back.' Spencer shook his head and backed away through the open door. 'You're allowing your feelings for Conni to cloud your judgment. The guilty have to be brought to justice.' Spencer paused. 'What's wrong with you? Kristina's life is over forever. And Kristina didn't ask to be killed.'

Jim lifted his eyes. 'No?' he said.

Spencer walked back into the room and moved close to Jim. 'What the hell are you saying?'

Jim backed away. 'God will forgive Conni,' he said. 'God should be the one to punish her, too.'

'And God will,' said Spencer. 'Eventually. But here on earth, men enforce God's rules. And his first is thou shalt not kill.'

Jim stared hard at Spencer and then said harshly, 'How does it feel, detective? To just come in and ruin people's days hell, their lives? Does it feel good?'

Looking down at Jim, Spencer said through gritted teeth, 'You just have no idea. If I wanted to ruin your day, I'd ruin it good and proper. Hell, I'd ruin your Christmas vacation.'

Spencer was nearly going to tell him about Nathan Sinclair, but in the end didn't want to waste one more breath on this kid.

On Tuesday morning, Spencer moved out of his apartment and got a room at the Hanover Inn, where Howard was arranging details for Wednesday's after-funeral buffet at the Daniel Webster Room.

Spencer was going to stay through the funeral and then drive back to Long Island. It was somehow fitting that Spencer should stay at the Inn on his last day in Hanover. After all, he had stayed at the hotel on his first day.

The hotel room had more furniture than his entire apartment. Through two Georgian windows, he overlooked the Baker bell tower and Dartmouth Hall. After eating lunch at the Ivy Grill, Spencer took an afternoon nap, under the covers of a king-size bed with a macrame canopy. He woke up exactly at three to the sound of the bell tower playing 'Let It Snow, Let It Snow, Let It Snow.'

He looked outside. It wasn't snowing.

It was cold but sunny when Spencer went outside. He could see Dartmouth Hall, its black shutters, its white paint, and felt a tremor of regret run through him. What had he done?

But the snow-covered common square, the Baker Library, with its white clock tower, and the students milling about Dartmouth Hall didn't give him the feeling of affection for Hanover he had once had. As he walked along Main Street under the green awnings, Spencer was aware of his own disenchantment. Hanover seemed to him like a straying mistress. She had once been beautiful, but now as he looked into her betraying face he felt only drab anger and saw none of the loveliness. The hell with it all.

He got into his Impala; the first thing he saw was the police radio and the siren on the seat next to him. One day he'd have to return those.

He drove to Red Leaves House. On the way Spencer thought about Kristina almost dying in a ditch near the reservoir, and he slowed down to a crawl at the spot where the accident had occurred. Someone behind him started to honk, so he moved on, trying to ignore the knot in his stomach.

Spencer drove through Lebanon and made a right onto a quiet street. He'd been to Red Leaves House twice before, both times to bring runaway pregnant teens to a place where they would not be judged. There was only one such place in the Upper Valley region. No wonder Kristina loved Red Leaves.

He got outside, walked past the establishment plaque, which was nailed to a post cemented into the sidewalk, and knocked on the door. A woman answered, led him to another woman, and another. The owner of Red Leaves wasn't here today, he was informed, but could anybody else help him?

When the counselors and the teenagers found out who he was, they gathered around him like churchgoers. They clucked solicitously, stuffed a cup of tea into his hand, put some tea biscuits in front of him, sat him down, and crowded around him.

A few of the women sobbed openly. They shook their heads, asked him to tell them what really happened, and kept interrupting him with exclamations, how unbelievable, how could it have happened, this sort of thing never happened in their part of the country. Spencer wanted to tell them that this sort of thing happened everywhere.

He wanted to explain to them how much Red Leaves had meant to Kristina, but he didn't have the words. The women, however, with their tears and kind words, clearly showed Spencer how much Kristina Kim had meant to them.

They would have claimed her body, Spencer thought. All of them, collectively, would have come in and rescued her from the anonymity of the metal gurney. They would have claimed her.

Spencer explained that it was probably a crime of passion, that the girl who the police department thought had killed her went temporarily crazy, that she had been crazy with jealousy for several years. One woman acknowledged that Kristina was a beautiful girl, there was a lot to be jealous over. Spencer half-heartedly agreed. He was being unexpectedly treated to an alive Kristina. It comforted him.

He asked them if they were coming to the funeral tomorrow. Then he asked if they had received news of the money coming to them. The assistant to the proprietor stepped forward and dabbing her eyes said, 'Yes. She was extraordinary, wasn't she? Just extraordinary. To have thought of us, to have remembered us. It's really too much.'

She told Spencer that after the local paper wrote on Sunday that Kristina's fortune was going to Red Leaves House, they'd had a remarkable response. Today they must have gotten five hundred cards with checks in them. One of the counselors brought over three mail bags to show Spencer. He was impressed. Kristina had left a mark on this earth. Her good had begat good. Actually, it was Albert's no, Nathan's good that had begat good, but Spencer wasn't about to give that bastard a gram of recognition for anything.

Spencer sat for a while listening to them, nodding politely. The armchair was comfortable, he was warm, the last of the day's sunlight was coming in from the side windows and making him sleepy. He actually closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, his insides ached for home. Wherever that home was, he knew it wasn't in Hanover.

After Spencer bid them all good-bye and walked out to his car, it occurred to him that until today he had never drunk tea in his adult life.

Spencer treated himself to an expensive dinner at the Daniel Webster Room. He knew this would be the last night of his life in Hanover.

The consequences of quitting the only job he'd ever loved hadn't hit him yet. Would the chief give him a reference, or was Spencer planning to be a security guard for the rest of his life?

Will had been a good friend through the years; Spencer was sorry he hadn't made a better departure. Maybe Will could've thrown him a party.

He thought of going back to the headquarters to say a proper good-bye to his old partner and to drop off the last of his police gear, but didn't want to come close to Conni Tobias sitting in her jail cell.

Spencer didn't want to face Conni. Too often he would close his eyes and see Kristina, naked, nearly out of time, standing on the bridge while a fully dressed ranting young woman thrust her hands forward.

What kind of denial did Kristina have to live through twelve months continually facing a girl she knew had tried to kill her?

Kristina had lived too close to death for too long, thought Spencer, trying to work up an appetite for the braised duck he had ordered. Mostly he drank. He drank alone at the table, and when his glass was empty he would motion for another. He sat quietly without disturbing a soul and drank to dull the pain, drank to forget. By two in the morning, Spencer had drunk enough whiskey to forget pretty much anything, and mostly he had.

Except he couldn't forget Katherine Morgan Sinclair.

CHAPTER EIGHT.

Once Upon a Time in Greenwich,

Connecticut

The memory of Katherine Sinclair tugged at Spencer's whiskey-laden heart.

Spencer saw Katherine Sinclair for the first time sitting calmly in her wheelchair near a white-framed window.

She probably had been a beautiful and stylish woman. Now there was only a glimmer of a life long gone, a life once well lived and well loved but now past. Katherine's hair was untended. He imagined how it had looked when there was color to it and a brush ran through it, and shampoo and conditioner every day; when the hair was set in curlers or left loose, blond and wavy around the shoulders. Katherine Morgan Sinclair. Her name still had glamour. It didn't matter where Katherine was now, it didn't matter what she looked like or what she wore, or how she talked. What mattered was that her name still said everything.

I am Katherine Morgan Sinclair, it said. And I once had a life.

It was a miracle he had found her. He had spent two and a half hours on Sunday morning calling every hospital in Connecticut until he found a Katherine Sinclair at Norwalk State Hospital. The director was protective of Katherine and her fragile health and was extremely reluctant to let Spencer in to see her, badge or no badge. Spencer had to threaten Katherine with a subpoena before he was allowed in.

When he came to see her, he didn't know what to expect. 'I'm much better now,' Katherine had told him. 'I could leave anytime, really, but it's comfortable here, and they take good care of me.' She had agreed immediately to see Spencer without knowing who he was or what he had come to tell her, and now sat there stoically, regally, her back firmly against the wheelchair. She occasionally turned toward the window, outside which was a park, a meadow, a lake.

Katherine was blind. She sat there quietly, her white cane propped behind her wheelchair. Spencer guessed the white cane was redundant. The nurses probably brought it because she asked for it, but it looked as if Katherine Sinclair never rose from her wheelchair. Her body had the weak look of long atrophy. Her limbs were loose beneath her skin.