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her improvisational skills. And she was just coming to this conclusion when she felt a presence skulk up behind her.
    â€œDon’t fight it, just let it happen,” a voice purred into her nape. Maura felt arms slinking around her midriff. Her heart raced.
    She squirmed out of his grasp. “Um…you know…I’m thinking that maybe it’s just about time you finished up that little marijuana cigarette and hit the road.”
    â€œI just thought we—”
    â€œYeah, I’m sure you had all kinds of thoughts bouncing around that noggin of yours, but right now I’m thinking it would be best if you got the hell out of here.”
    The surfer dude finally gave up and made his exit in a flurry of muttered profanities.
    Afterward, Maura had felt so flustered and alone that she drank an entire bottle of pinot noir that she was saving for Ulysses’ birthday. Part of it was outrage at the gall of this kid, this snot-nosed slacker who’d had the nerve to hit on the wife of a principal player in the FBI hierarchy. But part of it was the guilty excitement, the cheap thrill of it all. What was wrong with her?
    The strangest part, though, was what had happened a month or so later. Around the dinner table one night, Grove had idly mentioned that the Bureau was having staff problems. “One kid in IT just up and left,” he marveled, morosely picking at his tabouli salad. “Big gangly surf-punk kid, name of Bard, Ben Bard, decides to just not show up for work anymore. Wrote an e-mail to his supervisor telling him to eat shit.”
    After a long moment, staring at her food, Maura said, “Punk is right.”
    â€œPardon?” Grove looked at her.
    â€œHe hit on me, Uly.”
    â€œBard?”
    She nodded. “Right here, in this very kitchen, he comes over one night—you were away—he comes over to drop off a file and he comes on to me.”
    Grove waited. “And?”
    She shrugged. “That’s it. I kicked him out. End of story.”
    After a moment’s thought, Grove wondered aloud, somewhat rhetorically, like a professor posing a Socratic question, but with an edge to his voice: “Why would you not tell me about this?”
    She didn’t have an answer. She couldn’t explain it to herself . How was she going to explain it to her husband? All the mixed emotions—the shame, the morbid curiosity, the guilty thoughts—had kept her awake at nights and made her wonder if she needed more therapy.
    Now, alone at the Geisel shiva, woozy from too much wine and worry, these thoughts swirled through Maura’s mind as she watched her husband through the window, out there in the overcast afternoon, talking about something very upsetting with one of his students.

NINE
    â€œI understand you were a PI in another life.” Grove was leading Drinkwater down a flagstone path along the edge of the Pattons’ expansive lawn. The backyard was deserted. Off to the east, a child’s swing set, long abandoned, lay in cobwebs. Along the western edge of the lawn, chicken coops bordered a split-rail fence. Nothing stirred, no sound came from within the barns or from the densely wooded Virginia farmland in the far distance.
    â€œYessir, I was.” Drinkwater seemed jumpy, apprehensive, maybe even a little defensive, as she strode along in her good heels and dark dress.
    â€œTracked down bond jumpers?”
    â€œYessir.”
    â€œAccident scenes?”
    â€œYep.”
    â€œAffidavits?”
    â€œYou bet.”
    â€œMissing persons, I’m assuming?”
    â€œYessir, um—”
    â€œWhy don’t you call me Ulysses? You still have your license?”
    Now the woman looked at him. “Last time I checked. Got my passport, too.”
    Grove sighed. “Look, I don’t mean to give you the third degree. I need to talk to you about something, and I want to make sure I’m not wasting time for either of