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checked out,” says Richard.
    â€œNo,” says Adele.
    â€œNot now. At some point …” says Nash.
    â€œShould I call Kathleen at work?” asks Richard. “She’ll kill me if I don’t. I know she’d want to come home early.”
    The suggestion annoys Adele, and thereby restores her: “What the hell will Kathleen do? Besides bawl all over her silk underwear?”
    Nash is also revived. Kathleen? he wonders. Which one is Kathleen?

R ichard drives, and Nash sits in the back seat, trying to minister to Adele, who is having none of it. She leans against the window, as far away as she can slide from Nash, who reaches over paternally, and locks the door. “Don’t want you falling out,” he says with a wink.
    â€œOf all the hotels in Boston …?” She closes her eyes. “On one hand it’s unbelievable. On the other hand, classic.”
    â€œWhat happened to the Holiday Inn, by the way?” asks Richard.
    Nash considers where he’d like to lead this conversation, and chooses unwisely. “Something drew me to the Copley Plaza. I know that now. On some unconscious level I must have wanted to go back and fix things.”
    â€œPlease,” says Adele. “Whom do you think you’re talking to?”
    Nash says to Richard, “I understand how she feels. I really do. A Heimlich maneuver can only fix so much.”
    â€œShe’s tough,” says Richard. “Probably the toughest.”
    â€œOf the girls, you mean?”
    â€œWomen,”
Adele snaps.
    Nash settles back, belatedly buckles his seat belt, and sighs. “How about you?” he asks Richard. “What are you up to these days?”
    â€œI work for the Sheriff’s Department,” he says. “Suffolk County.”
    â€œHe delivers subpoenas,” Adele says, in a tone that tells Richard she resents his easy conspiracy with the enemy.
    â€œNo kidding? Full-time?”
    â€œLots of cases, and lots of asshole witnesses out there,” he says.
    â€œHow does someone get into that line of work?”
    â€œBy accident.”
    Adele clicks her tongue in annoyance.
    â€œWhat?” says Richard. “Am I being too nice to him? Maybe a little too grateful for saving my sister’s life?”
    Nash asks humbly, “Is my going back to the house out of the question?”
    â€œYou
are
going back to the house,” says Richard.
    â€œNo, he’s not.”
    â€œEver see anyone bounce back from death as fast as this one?” asks Richard.
    â€œI’m in pain,” says Adele. “I’m in no mood to be teased.”
    â€œWhat kind of pain?” asks Nash.
    â€œAre you having trouble breathing?” says Richard.
    Adele is looking out the window, refusing to answer. She touches her midsection and Nash notices.
    â€œIt’s sore?” She nods.
    â€œSore like it’s bruised from the punching, or like I broke something?”
    Adele shrugs.
    Richard asks what she said.
    Adele snaps, “Just sore. I’m not a doctor.”
    â€œWe’ll call him when we get home. Maybe he should see you.”
    Adele is feeling under her ribs. Something hurts, but she doesn’t speculate aloud on what. “I should go back to work,” she says.
    The X-ray shows a broken rib, which the doctor says can, on the rare occasion, result from a misapplied Heimlich. But still, he points out, Adele is a lucky woman. Go home and have a glass of wine and count your blessings; if you cough or sneeze, splint your side with your hand.
    Richard and Nash are waiting in molded blue chairs, sharing a package of peanut-butter crackers. Nash spots her first.
    â€œI’m fine,” says Adele. “One broken rib—an ‘undisplaced fracture.’ ”
    â€œDid I do that?” asks Nash.
    â€œA small price to pay,” says Richard.
    â€œDoes it hurt like hell?” asks Nash.
    Richard says, “Only when she