Without a word, he took her by the arm and led her toward a quieter spot, past the poster of Abelard and Heloise locked in a passionate kiss. It was a damning reminder of how he had landed in this personal hell; a Hieronymus Bosch painting would have been more appropriate. He took her to a viewing bench at the far end of the gallery, and they both sat down.

Maggie’s face was pale from the cold, and he could feel the evening’s chill lifting off her clothes. “What’s going on?” she whispered. “Why do the police want to see me?”

He paused as a security guard strolled in. The guard eyed them, then moved on into the next gallery. When he was out of earshot, Jack said: “I have something to tell you. This isn’t going to be easy. In fact, it’s the hardest thing I’ve ever had to say.”

“You’re scaring me. Just say it.”

He took a deep breath. “That student, Taryn Moore. You know I was her faculty adviser. I helped her get into the doctoral program.”

“Yes, I know.”

“She was extremely bright. An excellent student. But after her boyfriend broke up with her, she was an emotional wreck. She had no one else to confide in, and we . . . we got close.”

“How close?” Maggie leaned toward him, her gaze fixed on his. “Do you have something to confess?”

He sighed. “I do.” I do. It was an echo of his wedding vows, the vows that, in a mania of lust, he had briefly forsaken. “I slept with her, Maggie. I’m sorry. I’m truly, deeply sorry.”

She stared at him as if she had not understood a word.

“It meant nothing. I never loved her,” he said. “I only ever loved you.”

“How long did it go on?” Maggie’s voice was strangely, frighteningly calm.

“It was over as soon as it happened. Just once.” Twice was the truth, but he couldn’t say it. And it made no difference anyway. Not now. “I’m sorry.”

“Where did it happen? This momentary little affair?”

“Amherst. The conference. I had too much to drink, and one thing led to another . . .”

“Oh my God.” She pressed her hand to her mouth. “I don’t believe this.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Stop saying that.”

Over the museum PA system, a voice announced that the museum would close in thirty minutes.

“But I am,” he said. “I am sorry.”

“And now that girl is dead. The girl you had sex with.”

“It’s probably a suicide. But just to be sure, the police are questioning everyone who knew her.”

“And you need an alibi for that night.”

“Yes,” he whispered. “I’m sorry.”

“If you say that one more time, I’m going to fucking scream.” She shot to her feet and started to walk away, then paced back to stand over him. “We’ve been married twelve years. We have a child coming. And you go and fuck a student?”

The guard had walked back into the gallery, drawn by the sound of their voices, and he stood watching them from the far end of the room.

“Please, Maggie. They’ll hear us.”

“I don’t care. Why are you a suspect? Why are the police even looking at you?”

Jack rubbed his face, then looked up at her. “Because she was pregnant,” he murmured.

An involuntary gasp rose in Maggie’s throat. “I can’t believe this.”

“She’d just broken up with her boyfriend. It’s probably his.”

“Or it could be yours. Jesus.” She closed her eyes to regain her center. “Do the police know you had an affair with her?”

“They know we were involved.”

“How do they know that?”

“There were text messages. Between us.”

She nodded, her face tight with disgust. “And where exactly were you the night she died?”

“I told you. I was home, asleep.”

“And you want me to tell the police I was with you all night.”

“Yes.”

“But I wasn’t. I told you, I had to go to the hospital to see a patient.” She paused as a thought occurred to her. Quietly she asked: “Did you do it, Jack?”

“Did I do what?”

“Did you kill her?”

“No! I can’t believe you’d even ask that.”

“But you did have a motive.”

And I’d swallowed a killer combo of wine and Ativan.

Without another word, Maggie spun around to leave.

He jumped up and grabbed her arm. “Maggie, please.”

She yanked herself free. He didn’t want to cause more of a disturbance by chasing after her, so he sat back down and stared dully at the Abelard-and-Heloise banner hanging on the opposite wall.

“Sir? The museum is closing.”

Jack looked up to see the security guard standing in front of him.

“Rough day?” the guard asked.

With a sigh, Jack rose to his feet. “You have no idea.”

CHAPTER 42

FRANKIE

“What if the wife backs up his alibi?” says Mac, as they pull into a stall in the clinic parking lot.

Frankie turns off the engine and looks at Mac. “If your wife killed her lover, would you give her an alibi?”

“It depends.”

“Come on, Mac. Put yourself in Maggie Dorian’s position. When she finds out her husband’s cheating on her, she’s not going to be in any mood to protect him.”

“You’re assuming she doesn’t already know about the affair. Maybe she does know. Maybe she’s still willing to protect him.”

“Protect a husband who’s cheating on you?”

“I don’t know. Women put up with all sorts of crazy shit. Why do they stick with men who smack ’em around? Being in love makes people stupid. Or blind.”

Frankie sits for a moment, staring at the clinic entrance, thinking about her own marriage, her own blindness. She thinks about the day her husband, Joe, was found dead of a heart attack in the stairwell of his mistress’s apartment building, the building that Frankie cannot seem to stay away from. The building she obsessively visits. Joe was fifty-nine years old, and the emotional strain of the affair must have been too hard on his heart. Or maybe it was the three-flight climb to his girlfriend’s apartment, along with his sky-high cholesterol and the extra thirty pounds he hauled around like a sandbag on his belly.

Two days after he died, she visited that stairwell. It was a grim pilgrimage that Mac had pleaded with her not to make, but she needed to see the place where Joe had collapsed. Maybe it was the cop in her, wanting to visit the scene, wanting to understand how it all went down. She felt oddly detached, almost clinical, as she looked at the concrete steps, at the dented stairwell door and the smudged walls. By then she already knew about the mistress; Mac had reluctantly broken the news to her after she’d demanded to know why Joe had died in that stairwell, in that building, when he was supposed to be on a business trip in Philadelphia. Rather than anger or grief or any of the normal emotions she should have felt that day, what she felt instead was bewilderment that she had missed all the signs of his infidelity. She was a homicide detective; how could she not have known about the other woman?

Only later, weeks later, did rage finally boil up inside her, but then she could do nothing about it because Joe was already dead. There is no point in screaming at a corpse.

She can feel that same anger bubbling up inside her now, on Dr. Maggie Dorian’s behalf. Anger against Jack Dorian for betraying his wife. Anger about his likely role in Taryn Moore’s death.

Oh yes, Frankie is ready to take the man down. She just has to prove he is guilty.

As she and Mac walk into the clinic’s crowded waiting room, she is already rehearsing how to break the news to Maggie Dorian. Dr. Dorian is the innocent in all this, the clueless wife whose life and marriage are about to be demolished. There is no easy way to tell a woman her husband has betrayed her, and Frankie is bracing herself for the woman’s reaction. She also hopes they can use it to their advantage. An angry wife might be their most powerful ally.

The clinic receptionist slides open the glass partition and smiles at them. “Can I help you?”

“We’re here to see Dr. Dorian.”

“Did you have an appointment?”

“No, ma’am.”

“I’m sorry, but this clinic doesn’t take walk-ins. I can schedule an appointment with one of our other doctors for a few weeks from now.”

Mindful of the patients sitting nearby, Frankie slides her badge across to the receptionist and says quietly: “Boston PD. We need to speak to Dr. Dorian.”

The receptionist stares at the badge. “Oh. I’m afraid she’s not here.”

“When will she return?”

“I’m not really sure when she’ll be back. Maybe tomorrow? She asked me to cancel the rest of her appointments for the day. She had to leave for a family emergency.”

Frankie glances at Mac and sees, in his face, the same sense of alarm she is feeling. She keeps her voice steady, her expression neutral, as she asks the receptionist: “What time did Dr. Dorian leave the clinic?”

“It was about half an hour ago. I’ve been trying to reschedule all her patients. Any minute now, they’ll start showing up here, expecting—”

“Do you know what the family emergency is?”

“No. She got a phone call, and a few minutes later, she ran out.”

“Where did she go?” Mac snaps.

The woman glances at the patients in the waiting area, where everyone is now tuned in to the conversation and staring at them. “I don’t know. She wouldn’t tell me.”

CHAPTER 43

JACK