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off in a huff.” She wiped her eyes. “Jellyfish. You believe it?”
    “Did you talk about adoption?”
    “He wasn’t interested. The thing is that we had other problems. Things weren’t right between us … I was thinking of leaving him.”
    “Maybe we should change the subject.”
    “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. It’s just if he doesn’t make it, I never get to say I’m sorry.”
    “He’s going to make it. And when he does, you can say you’re sorry all you want.”
    She looked at Vince and nodded, struggling against dark sensations roiling just beneath the surface—sensations that she wanted so much to get out. But she couldn’t. Nor could she find the right words. And she hated herself. Besides, how could Vince understand when she herself didn’t—that when the doctors told her that Jack might not make it, her immediate reaction was relief?

5
    IT WAS A LITTLE AFTER EIGHT on Saturday morning when the drilling ring of the doorbell startled René awake. Silky, her black-and-white cat, curled around her feet as René padded to the window. In her driveway was a Cobbsville, N.H., police car.
    She threw on a bathrobe, made a fast gargle of mouthwash, and went down to the front door. A large man of about forty smiled and introduced himself as Officer Steven Menard of the Manchester P.D., Homicide Division. He was dressed in a navy blue sportcoat over a blue work shirt and chinos. “René Ballard?”
    “Yes.”
    He flashed his badge. “Sorry to bother you, but we’re investigating the murder of Edward Zuchowsky at the CVS yesterday. Are you familiar with the case?”
    “No. What’s the name?”
    “Edward Zuchowsky.”
    “I’m sorry, but I’ve never heard of him.”
    “Okay, but I’m wondering if I can come in to ask you a few questions.”
    “Oh, of course.” René opened the door and Silky dashed out as the officer entered. She led him into the living room, where Menard settled on the couch.
    From a folder he handed her an enlarged photograph of a man smiling and holding a pool stick in what looked like a basement rec room. “Edward Zuchowsky. He was assistant manager of the Cobbsville CVS.”
    René studied the picture and shook her head. “Sorry, but I don’t recognize him.”
    The officer nodded and returned the photo to the folder. “Okay, then does the name Clara Devine mean anything to you?”
    “Clara Devine?” For the last two months René had been working as a consulting pharmacist who monitored the medication of nearly six hundred nursing home patients in facilities throughout southern New Hamsphire and eastern Massachusetts. At the present time most were still names attached to
folders. The officer showed her the woman’s photograph—a wide-faced elderly woman with flat dark eyes.
    He checked his clipboard. “She was living at the Broadview Nursing Home.”
    “That’s one of my homes.” Clara Devine. The name did not register in René’s memory. “I’ll have to check my records. I’m still new at this.” She made a nervous smile, embarrassed that she couldn’t place a patient’s name. “Is there a problem?”
    “She’s been arrested for Mr. Zuchowsky’s murder.”
    “What?”
    “She stabbed him in the neck with a pair of scissors at the CVS on Everett.”
    “My God, that’s terrible. Are you sure it’s the same woman? I mean, nearly all of my patients are elderly and suffering from dementia.”
    “There were several witnesses, plus, she was caught on security cameras.”
    “That’s incredible.” René got up and got her laptop from the other room. In it were the medical records, bios, and pharmaceutical charts on her patients. She set the machine up on a table and began a search. “I’m very sorry about the young man, but I find it hard to believe that someone like her could have done this.” She scrolled her files.
    “You’re not alone. So what’s your professional connection to Broadview?”
    “I’m a consultant pharmacist for