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crossed her arms, hugged herself. “When your friends are dying, and you feel the age coming on.”
     
 
HE LEFT, RELUCTANTLY, turning his head to watch her walk to her car. The Lincoln. Conservative, upper crust. Well-tended.
    Jesus. The last time he’d seen her . . .
    His body ran the Porsche through the gears, out to the interstate ramp, down onto I-94 toward the lights of Minneapolis, his eyes intent on the road and the traffic, his mind stuck with Catrin.
    The last time he’d seen her she’d been both angry and buck naked, just out of a hot shower, rubbing her hair with a ratty brown bath towel that he’d stolen from his mother’s linen closet. The trouble had started two weeks earlier, at a pickup hockey game on an outdoor rink. Lucas had caught a deliberate elbow in the face, and with blood pouring out of his nose, had gone after the other guy—and hadn’t stopped quite soon enough. The other guy’s friends had taken him to a local hospital for some emergency dental work.
    Then he’d caught a stick in a regular game, against Duluth. Nothing serious, just a cut and a few stitches. After the match, at an off-campus party, a hassle erupted between a couple of the players and a defensive end from the football team. The hassle had cooled quickly enough—no fight—but Lucas had been ready to jump in, Catrin clutching at him, pulling him off.
    She started getting on him: He liked to fight, he enjoyed fighting, he had to look at himself, at what he was doing. Did he think fighting was right? Why’d he hang around with all those silly fuckin’ jocks who’d be working down at the car wash as soon as their eligibility ran out? He was smarter than they were, why couldn’t he . . .
    They’d gone around a few times, and she started again as she got out of the shower. He’d finally had enough and shouted at her: Shut the fuck up. She’d flinched away—she’d thought he might hit her. That was a shock: He never would have hit her. He said so. Then she got on him again.
    He walked out of the apartment. Stayed out. Went down and got some ice time. When he came back, a sheet of notebook paper lay on his kitchen counter. She’d scribbled on it, “Fuck you.”
    When he’d tried to call, her roommate said she didn’t want to hear from him. He didn’t push it: He was practicing all the time, playing, trying to keep his head above water in school. Never went after her. But always remembered her. They’d dated from October through February of his sophomore year. He’d slept with a half-dozen women in his life, but she’d been the first one who seemed to match his interest in sex. They studied it together.
    Still remembered . . .
    He smiled at the thought—and noticed that the concrete walls of the interstate were a little too blurred. He looked down at the speedometer: one-oh-four. He backed off a bit.
    Catrin . . .
     
 
SILLY HANSON LIVED in a white-stuccoed house with an orange-tiled roof, across the street from Lake of the Isles, a rich neighborhood of professionally tended landscapes and architect-designed houses from the first half of the twentieth century. A half-dozen police vehicles were piled up at the curb outside Hanson’s house. An early-morning blader, who looked too old and bald and fat and way too rich for his skater gear, went by on the lakeside skateway, his face turned toward the cluster of cops. The word about the murder would be getting out very soon now. Lucas found a spot by a fire hydrant, parked, nodded at a cop standing by the stoop.
    “Beautiful morning,” he said.
    “Fuckin’ A,” said the cop.
    “If I get a ticket . . .”
    “You won’t get a ticket.”
    Lucas went up the steps. A sloppy, overweight homicide cop, wearing an insulated nylon baseball jacket over a white shirt and necktie, was waiting on the porch. His face was tired, but he smiled in relief when he saw Lucas. “Man, I’m glad you’re here.”
    “So what happened?” Lucas asked. Two more uniformed cops