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the money might actually be there and asking himself what he might do with it. In the realm of the hypothetical and highly unlikely, he had resolved to give it all away to charity. He wouldn’t want the fruits of a crime—even if, as Dad had said, the man deserved to be blackmailed. But with all this green staring him in the face, the issues weren’t so black and white. Had he not dedicated his career to a low-income community, he might easily have earned this much cash in a normal-paying medical practice. Maybe this was God’s way of making him whole for a life of good deeds.
    Get over yourself, Duffy.
    He closed up the suitcase and put it back in the hole, covering it with the insulation and loose planks, just the way he had found it. He slid the heavy chest back in place. Quickly, he retraced his steps to the ladder. He’d deal with the money later. After the funeral.
    After one more talk with Dad.
    Ryan climbed down the ladder, into the hall. His shirt was dirty and soaked with sweat. He ducked into the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face. He threw his shirt in the hamper, then started toward his room for a clean one. He stopped as he passed the stairwell. It sounded like his mother sobbing in the living room. He hurried down the stairs. She was alone on the couch, shoulders slumped, still wearing her robe and slippers.
    “What is it, Mom?”
    She looked up, and he knew.
    He came to her side, took her in his arms. She’d always been petite, but never so frail.
    Her body shook, her voice was quaking. “It wasso…peaceful. His touch. His breath. His presence. It all just faded away.”
    “It’s okay, Mom.”
    “It’s like he was ready,” she said, sniffling. “As if he’d just decided it was time.”
    Ryan bristled. As if he’d rather die than face his son again.
    His mother shook harder in his arms, the tears flowing freely. He held her close, rocking gently. “Don’t worry,” he whispered, almost speaking to himself. “I’ll take care of everything.”

5
    Amy took Monday morning off, arriving at the office during the lunch hour. After six straight days of nonstop work, three thousand travel miles among the firm’s U.S. offices, and immeasurable abuse and aggravation from frantic attorneys, she felt entitled to a few hours with her daughter.
    The Boulder office of Bailey, Gaslow & Heinz was on Walnut Street, filling the top three floors of a five-story building. Boulder was the firm’s second-largest office, though with 33 lawyers it was a distant second behind Denver, which had 140. The office prided itself on doing the same quality work and generating the same billable hours per lawyer as Denver. That was the minimum standard set by the new managing-partner-in-residence, a certified workaholic who had moved from Denver to Boulder to whip the satellite office into shape.
    “Morning,” said Amy as she breezed by a coworker in the hall. She got a cup of coffee from the lounge, then headed back to her office. The thought of a week’s worth of work piled up on her desk made her dread opening the door.
    Her office was small, but she was the only non-lawyer in the firm who had a window and a view. Marilyn Gaslow had pulled strings to get it for her. Marilyn was an influential partner whoworked out of Denver. Her grandfather was the “Gaslow” in Bailey, Gaslow & Heinz, one of the founding partners over a century ago. She and Amy’s mother had been friends since high school—best friends until her death. It was Marilyn who had gotten Amy hired as the computer expert, and it was Marilyn who had committed the firm to pay half of Amy’s tuition if she went to law school. The only condition was that Amy had to come back to work at the firm as an associate, putting her valuable law and science background to use in the firm’s nationally recognized environmental law practice. At least, that was supposed to be the only condition. Ever since Amy had accepted the deal, the firm had treated her