Sympathy Between Humans Part 12

Colm looked a little sheepish.

"There's not a lot you can tell me if you haven't seen or heard from him," I explained.

He turned the television back on. The agents-in-training were now learning to break down and clean their guns. I wondered if the field of law enforcement held an appeal for Colm Hennessy, like it did for many boys his age.

"They do really good weapons training at Quantico," I offered.

Colm's light-blue eyes flicked to me again. "What kind of gun do you use?"

"A .40 caliber Smith & Wesson."

"Isn't that a lot of gun for a woman to handle?" Colm asked.

"Excuse me?" I said, though I'd heard him clearly.

He shrugged. "It's a big gun."

It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him that I'd been the second-best shooter in my Sheriff's academy cla.s.s, but it was probably beneath the dignity of a county detective to get into a verbal p.i.s.sing match with a boy half her age. So I bit my tongue and asked, "Are you interested in shooting?"

"Not really," Colm said. "Dad hates guns. He won't have one in the house, not even for hunting." He shrugged. "Doesn't matter. I'm more into close-quarters fighting."

"With what," I asked, "a television remote?" Something in his dismissive tone had pushed me over the edge.

Colm really looked at me for the first time, as if he'd been bitten by something that he didn't think had a mouth. His lips tightened with embarra.s.sment, and finally he said, "No, I have a heavy bag. And weights, out in the far garage."

Upstairs, I found Liam Hennessy at the computer in his father's study. There, he told me essentially the same thing Colm had, just in more words. Liam, too, hadn't heard from or written to Aidan since his older brother left for Illinois, and he too felt that Aidan had been sent away from home only because their father was struggling to raise five kids. Liam Hennessy at the computer in his father's study. There, he told me essentially the same thing Colm had, just in more words. Liam, too, hadn't heard from or written to Aidan since his older brother left for Illinois, and he too felt that Aidan had been sent away from home only because their father was struggling to raise five kids.

"It seems odd to me, though," I said, "that Aidan didn't come home for summers, or on holidays."

Liam looked at the computer screen, blue light reflecting off his gla.s.ses, as though the answer could be found there. "Summer is an important time on a farm," he said, "so it's unlikely that Pete could have spared him then. As for holidays, I guess Dad felt that Aidan really needed to settle in at Pete's, and think of that as his home."

"For five years? That's an awful long ban on visits home."

Liam nodded slowly. It was clear he was uncomfortable. "I wish I could tell you more," he said, "but I was young at the time. No one really explained it to me."

"Okay," I said. "If you think of anything else..."

"I'll let you know," he said hastily.

I got to my feet. Liam had lifted his long-fingered hands back to the keyboard, as if eager to escape again into whatever he'd been writing when I interrupted him, and I realized for the first time that it might not be homework that absorbed him. Liam, Marlinchen had said, was the aspiring writer among the kids.

On the way out, I paused at the doorway. "What happened to your carpet here?" The edge, where it met the carpeting of the hall, was rough-edged and fraying, as if the person who'd laid it had hacked it off carelessly with a utility knife.

"Dad happened to it," Liam said, a flicker of amus.e.m.e.nt on his face. "He put down the carpet in here himself. It's like that all around the edges. We're used to it."

It was true; the whole perimeter of the room looked the same as the doorway, rough-edged.

"Don't take this the wrong way," I said, "but was your father drinking when he was on this home-improvement kick?"

It wasn't as light a question as my tone implied. Whenever there's trouble in a family, it's good to know which way the alcohol is flowing, if at all.

Liam smiled, untroubled by my inquiry. "I wouldn't know," he said. "I mean, Dad put down the carpet a long time ago, before my time. But I do know that he never drank much, and he quit a few years back. Just for general health reasons. It was never a problem."

Marlinchen walked me out to my car, after I'd finished. "Were the boys helpful?" she asked. me out to my car, after I'd finished. "Were the boys helpful?" she asked.

"Yes, they were," I said. The truth was that they hadn't said anything useful, but neither had they seemed deliberately obstructionist. I'd spoken to Donal last, just to be thorough, but he scarcely remembered his older brother, and I'd only spent about three minutes with him.

A white cat emerged from the gra.s.s and went to Marlinchen, winding a figure eight around her ankles, pushing its trapezoidal head against Marlinchen's shins.

"Friend of yours?" I said.

"s...o...b..ll," she affirmed. "Our cat. I hardly ever see her in the daytime anymore. She gets around." She sat on her heels to run one hand over the cat's arched spine, then straightened.

"Well, she's got plenty of room for that," I said, looking around. The Hennessys and their neighbors had lots of open s.p.a.ce between lots.

I also noticed again the freestanding outbuilding that I'd taken for a nineteenth-century carriage house; it was what Colm must have meant by "the far garage," where he had his exercise equipment. Closer to Marlinchen and me was the lone tree on the bank of the lake. In this area, sugar maples were everywhere, as were smaller spruces and hardy little pines. Lilacs seemed to be the flowering tree of choice; some were still in bloom. This tree was none of them. It was obviously ornamental, deliberately planted in its solitary spot. I didn't think I'd ever seen one like it before, though its few flowers, cream-colored and orchidaceous, were vaguely familiar.

"What kind of tree is that?" I asked.

"It's a magnolia," Marlinchen said.

"Really? I didn't know they'd grow this far north," I commented.

Marlinchen's face was turned from me, looking toward the tree. "It was here when a real-estate agent showed our parents this place. It's what convinced my mother that this house was The One." I could hear a smile in Marlinchen's voice. "She and Dad met in Georgia. She thought it was fate."

Young. I was young. I was too young to remember much of anything. I was too young to remember much of anything.

That was the refrain I was getting from the Hennessy children, and to be fair, it was probably true. I was overdue for an adult perspective on the Hennessy situation, and with Hugh incapacitated and his wife dead, there wasn't one.

Hugh Hennessy, though, wasn't just any citizen. He was a successful writer. At least some of the details of his life must have been chronicled, and would be available to me. For that, I needed the University of Minnesota library.

I started with a Web search on Hugh's name. It told me that he had written three books, with more than a few years between publication of each. All three were considered to be largely semiautobiographical. The first, Twilight, Twilight, was an indictment of his parents' slowly withering marriage in suburban Atlanta. The second, was an indictment of his parents' slowly withering marriage in suburban Atlanta. The second, The Channel, The Channel, was a story about his ancestors in New Orleans, named for the Irish Channel section of that city. was a story about his ancestors in New Orleans, named for the Irish Channel section of that city. The Channel The Channel was the book that had sounded vaguely familiar to me when Marlinchen had mentioned it, and now I understood why; it had been his most popular work, praised by many critics as warm without being sentimental, unflinching about American prejudice without resorting to self-pity. was the book that had sounded vaguely familiar to me when Marlinchen had mentioned it, and now I understood why; it had been his most popular work, praised by many critics as warm without being sentimental, unflinching about American prejudice without resorting to self-pity.

Hennessy's third book, A Rainbow at Night, A Rainbow at Night, was widely perceived as a fictionalization of the Hennessy marriage, which had ended with the death of Hennessy's wife at age 31. The t.i.tle came from the protagonist's thought, verbalized close to the end of the book, that he had once had "a dream of love that was beautiful but ultimately impossible, like a rainbow at night." was widely perceived as a fictionalization of the Hennessy marriage, which had ended with the death of Hennessy's wife at age 31. The t.i.tle came from the protagonist's thought, verbalized close to the end of the book, that he had once had "a dream of love that was beautiful but ultimately impossible, like a rainbow at night."

A photo surfaced among the reviews that the Web search turned up. In it I saw a younger incarnation of the invalid I'd seen sleeping at Park Christian Hospital. He was a slight man with thin sandy hair and eyes that looked a pale blue, and his expression was, if not pinched, not quite at ease. His publisher's Web site also posted his author bio, clearly from the back of Rainbow. Rainbow.

With his first novel, Twilight, Twilight, published at age 25, Hugh Hennessy told America a cautionary tale about the perils of a.s.similation and upward mobility set in his own suburban Atlanta. His follow-up novel, published at age 25, Hugh Hennessy told America a cautionary tale about the perils of a.s.similation and upward mobility set in his own suburban Atlanta. His follow-up novel, The Channel, The Channel, about his Irish forebears, was both praised by critics and beloved by millions of readers, and adapted into a major motion picture. Hennessy has been a guest professor and writer-in-residence at several American colleges. He lives with his four children in Minneapolis, Minnesota. about his Irish forebears, was both praised by critics and beloved by millions of readers, and adapted into a major motion picture. Hennessy has been a guest professor and writer-in-residence at several American colleges. He lives with his four children in Minneapolis, Minnesota.I was wrong, though, in expecting to find interviews with Hennessy among the search results. A common phrase in news stories and reviews was something like: "Hennessy, who prefers to let his writing speak for itself..." Here and there was a reference to "a 1987 interview," or "a 1989 interview." Hugh had given his last interview, as far as I could tell, in 1990. There were, however, references to longer magazine profiles, and these I found in the stacks.

The longest piece, "A Rainbow in Shadow," was written for The New York Times Magazine The New York Times Magazine by a former by a former Pioneer Press Pioneer Press reporter named Patrick Healy, to coincide with the publication of reporter named Patrick Healy, to coincide with the publication of A Rainbow at Night. A Rainbow at Night. I started with his work, and followed up with two other pieces that had run in national magazines. I started with his work, and followed up with two other pieces that had run in national magazines.

This is the story that emerged.

Hugh Hennessy was born in 1962, into a comfortable Atlanta suburb. His father was a cardiac surgeon who'd played football in college and had hunted and fished regularly in later life. His mother never worked outside the home. If it was a bad marriage, as Hugh was later to imply in Twilight, Twilight, it wasn't the sort of bad marriage that brought cops to the front doorstep. Neither was Hugh troubled as an adolescent, at least in any way that police and available academic records showed. Hugh excelled at all his studies. While his slight stature kept him off the football team, he'd been an aggressive wrestler, posting a good record in his weight cla.s.s. it wasn't the sort of bad marriage that brought cops to the front doorstep. Neither was Hugh troubled as an adolescent, at least in any way that police and available academic records showed. Hugh excelled at all his studies. While his slight stature kept him off the football team, he'd been an aggressive wrestler, posting a good record in his weight cla.s.s.

Emory University granted Hugh a partial academic scholarship, despite his parents' comfortable finances. It was at Emory that Hugh Hennessy met the two people who would be his most constant companions. One was J. D. Campion, a part-Lakota literature student from South Dakota. The other was a beautiful German-born folklore and anthropology major, Elisabeth Hannelore Baumann.

The three were inseparable during their first two years at school. After that, Campion and Hennessy dropped out, much to the displeasure of Hennessy's parents. J. D. and Hugh planned to travel America, like young literary lions of an earlier generation had done.

Literally on the eve of their departure, Hennessy married Elisabeth Baumann. Both were 19, and their haste gave rise to rumors of a pregnancy, but those whisperings eventually proved unfounded. Apparently, the wedding had its roots in an urgency that was emotional, not biological. She stayed in school, a simple silver ring on her finger, her stomach flat. Hennessy embarked on a journey of self-discovery in sweat with Campion.

They refined taconite on the Range. They harvested hard red winter wheat in South Dakota. They worked in the shipyards of Duluth, once an outlaw border town. They traveled south to see the New Orleans where Hennessy's great-grandparents had arrived in America, and stayed to work on the docks and be arrested in a brawl that cleared out a working-cla.s.s bar there. They were either gathering fodder for their future writings, if you wanted to be charitable, or creating a legend, if you wanted to be cynical.

The New Orleans mug shots ran along with Healy's story. Campion, dark and thin, was appropriately resigned and surly in his, but Hennessy was smiling.

Smiling. I couldn't figure that out for a minute, but then I realized: well-bred, middle-cla.s.s Hugh Hennessy had been told all his life to smile when he was having his picture taken. For his booking photo, he did it automatically.

Somewhere in that interim period, Hennessy began work on Twilight, Twilight, the fictionalization of his parents' middle-cla.s.s life in Atlanta. In time, he felt strongly enough about its potential that he'd come home to Atlanta to ready it for publication. Elisabeth, who had finished her degree, supported her husband as he finished his novel at white heat, sending it off to agents at age 24. In due time, the fictionalization of his parents' middle-cla.s.s life in Atlanta. In time, he felt strongly enough about its potential that he'd come home to Atlanta to ready it for publication. Elisabeth, who had finished her degree, supported her husband as he finished his novel at white heat, sending it off to agents at age 24. In due time, Twilight Twilight was purchased, published, and hailed as a singular achievement. was purchased, published, and hailed as a singular achievement.

As friends of Hennessy's parents recalled (both were dead by the writing of Healy's piece), the book had a chilling effect between parents and son. That was no surprise. What did seem to surprise Hennessy was the way his book was received in his hometown.

"Twilight was perceived, or perhaps misperceived, as a sweeping condemnation of the mores and priorities of the New South," wrote Healy. "Reviews of the book were distinctly cooler in the Southern press. One can extrapolate how it might have been viewed among Hennessy's a.s.sociates and neighbors in Atlanta. Taking a no-prophet-is-received-in-his-homeland stance, Hennessy found the most pointedly Northern home he could have adopted: Minnesota." was perceived, or perhaps misperceived, as a sweeping condemnation of the mores and priorities of the New South," wrote Healy. "Reviews of the book were distinctly cooler in the Southern press. One can extrapolate how it might have been viewed among Hennessy's a.s.sociates and neighbors in Atlanta. Taking a no-prophet-is-received-in-his-homeland stance, Hennessy found the most pointedly Northern home he could have adopted: Minnesota."

Minneapolis was a new chapter in the Hennessys' life. As money from Twilight Twilight began to roll in, Elisabeth quit working to become a graduate student. The couple bought a house on Lake Minnetonka, and Hugh began working on his second book. began to roll in, Elisabeth quit working to become a graduate student. The couple bought a house on Lake Minnetonka, and Hugh began working on his second book.

Again using fictional characters that clearly sprouted off his family tree, The Channel The Channel portrayed people with lives that were "as alternately sunny and stormy as the world of portrayed people with lives that were "as alternately sunny and stormy as the world of Twilight Twilight is airless." The immigrants Aidan and Maeve Hennessy had several children, and all their stories were touched on, but as a writer, Hugh Hennessy seemed most taken with the lives of his two great-uncles, who were minor figures in the New Orleans underworld of their day. Their finest- or worst- hour came when they were implicated in a daring series of truck-hijackings for which they were never arrested. If Hugh ever questioned the ethics of their lifestyle, or whether they had had alternatives to a life of theft and violence, it wasn't an issue raised in is airless." The immigrants Aidan and Maeve Hennessy had several children, and all their stories were touched on, but as a writer, Hugh Hennessy seemed most taken with the lives of his two great-uncles, who were minor figures in the New Orleans underworld of their day. Their finest- or worst- hour came when they were implicated in a daring series of truck-hijackings for which they were never arrested. If Hugh ever questioned the ethics of their lifestyle, or whether they had had alternatives to a life of theft and violence, it wasn't an issue raised in The Channel. The Channel. Indulging a writer's fancy for artifacts from the fictional world, he bought a pair of restored revolvers of the kind his great-uncles had used; they appeared in a photograph of Hugh's study that accompanied one magazine profile. Indulging a writer's fancy for artifacts from the fictional world, he bought a pair of restored revolvers of the kind his great-uncles had used; they appeared in a photograph of Hugh's study that accompanied one magazine profile.

The Channel cemented Hugh's reputation as a writer of merit. It was that rare piece of modern fiction that is both praised by the highest stratum of critics and read on subways and beaches. cemented Hugh's reputation as a writer of merit. It was that rare piece of modern fiction that is both praised by the highest stratum of critics and read on subways and beaches. The Channel The Channel went to the top of the bestseller lists and stayed there for weeks. went to the top of the bestseller lists and stayed there for weeks.

If you could pick one word to describe the world of the Hennessys back then, fertile fertile would have been a good choice. Their family, their wealth, and their esteem were all growing in the Northern soil of Minnesota. Hugh and Elisabeth were celebrated in their adopted city, and Hugh stressed in interviews that they weren't going anywhere. This was what he'd always wanted, he said: a little land, roots, and the kind of big family he would have liked to have grown up in. would have been a good choice. Their family, their wealth, and their esteem were all growing in the Northern soil of Minnesota. Hugh and Elisabeth were celebrated in their adopted city, and Hugh stressed in interviews that they weren't going anywhere. This was what he'd always wanted, he said: a little land, roots, and the kind of big family he would have liked to have grown up in.

The "family" part was certainly coming together. Elisabeth was close to delivering her fourth child in five years; she and Hugh already had three-year-old twins and a toddler, Liam. Funds weren't a problem. If Twilight Twilight had brought in respectable money, had brought in respectable money, The Channel The Channel brought in a lot more, and Hugh was in demand as a lecturer at Twin Cities schools. He and Elisabeth entertained often; J. D. Campion was a frequent guest at their home. As a poet, he'd been enjoying a lesser success, but his volume of poetry, brought in a lot more, and Hugh was in demand as a lecturer at Twin Cities schools. He and Elisabeth entertained often; J. D. Campion was a frequent guest at their home. As a poet, he'd been enjoying a lesser success, but his volume of poetry, Turning Shadow, Turning Shadow, had won awards. It was both literate and in places vividly erotic, and for a while, it was the perfect book to peek s.e.xily out of a college soph.o.m.ore's backpack at the coffeehouse. Magazine writers made much of the literary friendship: the rootless, restless poet and the happily married scribe of family and heritage complemented each other in the public eye. had won awards. It was both literate and in places vividly erotic, and for a while, it was the perfect book to peek s.e.xily out of a college soph.o.m.ore's backpack at the coffeehouse. Magazine writers made much of the literary friendship: the rootless, restless poet and the happily married scribe of family and heritage complemented each other in the public eye.

Then, shortly after the birth of Colm Hennessy, the parties stopped. So did the interviews. Rather abruptly, the Hennessys closed their doors to public life.

To the world, it seemed as though the Hennessys had simply become deeply committed to raising a family. But if this were the case, the Hennessys were taking things to extremes. Campion, too, was suddenly excised from their lives. For years, he stayed away from Minnesota.

There were whispers of a falling out between Hugh and J. D., rumors that a longtime rivalry for Elisabeth's affections had finally boiled over, scalding the friendship beyond repair. There was a one-sentence reference, in Healy's story, to Campion's short-lived relationship with Elisabeth's younger sister, Brigitte, but Healy left it to the reader to draw the inference that Brigitte had been a failed subst.i.tute for her older sister in Campion's affections.

Others suggested the pernicious rivalry was professional, as Campion had never attained the heights his friend had. But the speculation remained speculation. Healy had been unable to reach the often-traveling Campion for an interview, and Hennessy had not cooperated with the story. Neither side of the split was told.

If Hugh wanted privacy, he got it. As years pa.s.sed without a follow-up to The Channel, The Channel, the world moved on. Even the Twin Cities media largely forgot about him, until the day it was reported that Elisabeth Hennessy's lifeless body had been found in the waters of Lake Minnetonka. She had left behind five children, the youngest only eleven months old. the world moved on. Even the Twin Cities media largely forgot about him, until the day it was reported that Elisabeth Hennessy's lifeless body had been found in the waters of Lake Minnetonka. She had left behind five children, the youngest only eleven months old.

For several years before her death, Elisabeth had been notably reclusive. Her husband taught at local colleges, but Elisabeth stayed at home, rarely going out or seeing friends. Perhaps this was simply consistent with having five children under the age of 10. If something darker, like postpartum depression, lay beneath it, there hadn't been enough evidence for the papers to even speculate. Coverage focused solely on tragedy striking at one of America's most respected writers on family ties, love, and loyalty.

Five years later, Hugh Hennessy had published his long-awaited third novel. A Rainbow at Night A Rainbow at Night focused on the union of two pa.s.sionate young people who had chosen, out of step with their modern world, to marry early and rear children immediately. It chronicled the trials and joys of such a young union, and then the narrator's struggle to make sense of the unexpected loss of his soulmate. It was well reviewed, and Hugh Hennessy was briefly in the public eye again. Then, once more, he faded from view. focused on the union of two pa.s.sionate young people who had chosen, out of step with their modern world, to marry early and rear children immediately. It chronicled the trials and joys of such a young union, and then the narrator's struggle to make sense of the unexpected loss of his soulmate. It was well reviewed, and Hugh Hennessy was briefly in the public eye again. Then, once more, he faded from view.

Even the best of the profiles left questions unanswered. Had one of America's famous literary friendships been a longtime, unacknowledged love triangle that had poisoned its princ.i.p.als? Had Hugh Hennessy pushed his wife into having too many children, and ignored the warning signs of postpartum depression? These were issues that Healy and his peers couldn't explicitly raise. There was no one to address them. Hennessy was uncooperative, Campion in parts unknown, Elisabeth dead.

On my way home from the university, it had occurred to me that I was reaching the end of the second day since my eardrum lancing; I was due at Cicero's for the follow-up exam he'd requested. I was tempted to skip it. My ear hadn't hurt at all today, and the last thing I needed was to prolong my involvement with Cicero Ruiz, who I'd last seen while attempting to slip out of his bedroom unnoticed. home from the university, it had occurred to me that I was reaching the end of the second day since my eardrum lancing; I was due at Cicero's for the follow-up exam he'd requested. I was tempted to skip it. My ear hadn't hurt at all today, and the last thing I needed was to prolong my involvement with Cicero Ruiz, who I'd last seen while attempting to slip out of his bedroom unnoticed.

But I also recalled how he'd helped me when I'd needed it rather desperately. The least I could do was respect his professional judgment. He probably wouldn't want to mention the events of my last visit any more than I would. Neither of us would mention it; everything would be fine.

In my last visit to Cicero's, I'd been in too much pain with my ear to think about the slow, creaky elevator ride up to his apartment. This evening I noticed it anew: the shrieking cable beyond the ceiling, the flickering light, the slow progress from lighted number to lighted number. I told myself to quit being paranoid. It was slow; that didn't mean- Above the roof, I heard a crunching noise, and the car came to an abrupt halt. The number 14 had been lit for a moment, perhaps more than a minute. I wanted to believe that someone on floor 14 had called the elevator, but I knew that wasn't true. By my estimation, I was in between floors 14 and 15, and I wasn't going to be getting any farther for a while.

"Perfect," I said.

When I finally arrived on the 26th floor, I saw Cicero immediately, sitting in the open door of his apartment, talking with a young black woman who stood outside the closed door of the apartment across the hall. She was about 21 or 22, striking in a two-piece outfit of bronze and gold, a sleeveless shirt and wide-legged pants over low-heeled boots. She held her keys in one hand and a take-out bag in the other, seemingly home late from an office job. As I approached, she looked at me, expectant. arrived on the 26th floor, I saw Cicero immediately, sitting in the open door of his apartment, talking with a young black woman who stood outside the closed door of the apartment across the hall. She was about 21 or 22, striking in a two-piece outfit of bronze and gold, a sleeveless shirt and wide-legged pants over low-heeled boots. She held her keys in one hand and a take-out bag in the other, seemingly home late from an office job. As I approached, she looked at me, expectant.

Cicero made the introduction. "Sarah, this is Soleil, my neighbor," he said. "Soleil, this is Sarah."

"Hey," I said.

"Good to meet you," Soleil said. "I better be going," she told Cicero, and unlocked her door.

Cicero put his hands on the wheels of his chair and backed up through his doorway, but he was slow enough doing it that I heard an odd sound behind me as Soleil went into her apartment. It sounded like claws ticking speedily across linoleum. I turned to see that in fact a big, fireplug-bodied black-and-tan dog had rushed to greet Soleil, and she'd gone down to sit on her heels, where he licked her face in the kind of reunion ecstasy that only dogs can feel. "That's my bwoy," she said, giving the last word a Caribbean twist.

Cicero closed his door, shutting out the spectacle.

"That was a dog," I said.

"Yes, it was."

"Not just any dog," I said. "That was a Rottweiler."

"Indeed it was. Fidelio, by name." Cicero rolled closer to the center of his living room.

"Dogs are allowed in this building?" I asked.

"No," Cicero said. "You disapprove?"

"No, no," I said quickly. "I like dogs. I'm just surprised she's getting away with it. It's hard to hide a dog that size. He must need to be walked and everything."

Cicero nodded. "And eventually she'll get caught. But not because of me or anyone on this floor. Fidelio's well behaved, and this is a live-and-let-live place," Cicero said. "The only thing I had to tell her is, he can't come in here."

"Why not?"

"Sanitary reasons. No dogs in the exam room."

"Of course," I said, and then we fell into a moment of silence. I took out my billfold. "So," I said, "how much for tonight's visit?"

"Forty," Cicero said. "I'll be right with you."

He rolled over to his kitchen sink. I took out two twenties and laid them on the shelf, stood awkwardly in Cicero's living room, wishing he kept more personal items out on display so I could pretend to study them. Anything to sandbag against the memory of intimacy that threatened like a silent wall of water. Cicero was doing an excellent job of not showing any sign that he remembered that we'd slept together two nights ago. I was having a little more difficulty with that. Maybe what Shiloh didn't know wouldn't hurt him, but that was a facile, easy excuse and it gave me no comfort.

I drew a deep, steadying breath. Cicero, washing up at his kitchen sink, misinterpreted it.

"Don't be nervous," he said, over the sound of running water. "I expect this to be painless."