“Shit. Did you send her into the human system?”

“She refused to go.” Butch picked up his glass and took a sip from the empty, proof positive that addictions were part biochemical, part muscle memory from habit. “I took her to her home. You know, to make sure she got there.”

As images of all those cuts and bruises played through his mind, he winced. “I’m sure she’s fine.”

“You’re not sure, at all.”

As wild, paranoid conclusions jumped around his skull, Butch threw them all out, one by one. Or tried to. “I think I’m just exhausted.”

“Nah, come on, you look like you’ve been on a tropical vacation for a month. If you glowed from health any more than you do right now, you’d be a fucking night-light.”

Butch let that dig go.

“I’m not seeing her again.” He cleared his throat. “I’m just going to forget about her. Besides, she promised she wouldn’t tell Joyce she ran into me. It’s a non-issue.”

“If it’s a non-issue, why haven’t you told Marissa?”

Butch stared over at the suits hanging from the racks and wondered exactly why he needed so many variations on the color dark blue in his life. “I’m thinking about giving my wardrobe away.”

V cursed under his breath. “Did that woman hit you on the head with a brick or something? What the fuck.”

“I like the clothes, but I’m using them as camouflage.”

“ ’Cuz you’re hiding what? Other than your meat and two veg.”

Butch shot his roommate a flat look. “I’m trying to camo the fact that I’m a piece of shit unworthy of the female who shares my bed every night. I put the good threads on my body and hope she doesn’t look any further than the surface of ’em. That’s what I’m doing with them.”

“You are not.”

“Yeah, I am. And I didn’t realize it until I was at Mel’s place tonight. She does the exact same thing. Maybe it was something in the water in Southie—you know, from when we were growing up.” Butch shook his head. “I haven’t talked to Marissa about it yet, not because of Mel. But because of me.”

He rubbed his eyes. The back of his neck. His shoulder.

“And there was something else,” he heard himself say.

Stop talking, a voice inside his head countered.

Abruptly, his roommate sat up straight. “What else, cop.”

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

Well, Josephine. This is a real surprise. Sit down, will you?”

The breakfast room in her parents’ house was an ancillary of the dining room, a circular offshoot decorated with a garden mural that was cheerful as a spring day. The glass table in the center was set upon a pedestal of white iron curlicues, and there were eight white wicker chairs around its beveled edge. A bank of diamond-paned windows, that overlooked the pool and the actual garden, let so much light in, Jo had to blink.

The table was set with only one place, the sterling silver fork and knife as yet unlifted from the folded damask napkin, the New York Times and the Washington Post still in their mille-feuille arrangement on the right-hand side. The plate in the center of the sterling silver charger was monogrammed, and there was half of a sectioned ruby grapefruit on it. A soft-boiled egg in a cup was next to where the coffee had been poured.

“Josephine?”

She shook herself back to attention and pulled out one of the vacant chairs. As she sat down and put her backpack in her lap, she made sure her knees were together and her ankles crossed under her chair.

“Would you care to have something to eat?” her father inquired. “I will have Maria prepare whatever you like.”

Thus far, Jo had not looked at the man, even when he himself had pulled open the great, well-oiled door at the front entrance. His voice had therefore been that of a ghost. Except he was really there.

“No, thank you. I’m not hungry.”

“Well.” He pulled his own chair out on the short-napped, green-and-yellow rug that had been custom-made to fit the space. “I must confess, this is a surprise.”

“Yes. I’m sorry. I should have called. Where is Mother?”

“She is away with Constance Franck and Virginia Sterling. They’re on a vacation to Bermuda for a week. Did you know that Virginia and her husband just bought a house there? Your mother was very impatient to check it out. They’ll be back on Sunday. Are you sure I can’t get you something?”

As if this were a hotel with a restaurant.

“No. Thank you.”

Jo was unaware of falling quiet, except then her father cleared his throat. “So,” he prompted.

“I don’t need money,” she said. “I just have to talk to you.”

“About what? You know, this all seems rather ominous.”

Taking a deep breath… she looked up.

Her first thought was that Randolph Chance Early III had aged. The full head of salt-and-pepper gray hair was now far more salt than pepper, and there were new wrinkles around his watery blue eyes. Other than that, the physical impression he made was all as she remembered. The lips were still thin, testimony to the man’s predilection for self-control, order, and the absolute denial of any passion, anywhere, and the clothes were the same, the navy-blue blazer, gray wool slacks, white button-down, and club tie the kind of thing he surely had come out of the womb wearing.

Her second thought was that her father was less scary than she had always made him out to be. It was amazing how being financially independent made her feel taller than the five-year-old she reverted to every time she set foot in this house. Not that she was rich, by any means. But she was surviving, on her own, and no amount of disinterest or disapproval from him or anyone else could diminish that.

Unzipping her backpack, she took out the manila folder she’d taken from her kitchen drawer. Opening the front cover, she slid free the black-and-white photograph of Dr. Manuel Manello and placed it on the glass.

“Do you know this man?” she asked as she spun the image around and pushed it across the smooth surface.

Her father dabbed his lips even though he hadn’t taken a sip of coffee or a spoonful of grapefruit or any of that egg. Then he leaned in, holding his tie in place though there was nothing for it to brush into.

On the far side of the flap door that the servants used, subtle sounds of a kitchen in full swing percolated, filling the silence. And as Jo’s anxiety rose, she clung to the soft voices. The chopping. The occasional scrape of metal on metal, a pan dragged across the sixteen-burner stovetop.

“No, I do not.” Her father looked up. “What’s this about?”

Jo tried to find a perfect combination of words to explain herself, but realized that there really wasn’t one. Besides, what exactly was she protecting him from?

Maybe it was more like she was looking for the combination to unlock her past in the syllables she could shift around.

“He’s supposedly my brother.”

Chance Early frowned. “That’s impossible. Your mother and I only adopted you.”

Jo opened her mouth. Closed it. Took a deep breath. “No, he’s supposedly related to me by blood.”

“Oh.” Her father straightened in his chair. “Well, I’m sorry, but I wouldn’t know anything about that. Your adoption was a closed one. We have no records on the woman who birthed you.”