He was sipping a very nice Louis Jadot Chardonnay when Clendenin Hughes walked into the room with a full tumbler of scotch. Hughes saw Box and stopped short. He executed a half turn, as if to leave the room. Box couldn’t blame him, but he didn’t want to let Hughes escape. This was too rich an opportunity.

“Excuse me!” Box called out. He stood. “Mr. Hughes?”

Despite his size—he had at least six inches on Box—Hughes looked very young at that moment. Young and vulnerable, and of course he had only the one arm. Box reminded himself to proceed civilly.

“Professor,” Hughes said. At least he wasn’t pretending not to know who Box was.

“Call me Box,” Box said. “Please.” He reached out to shake hands, but Hughes was holding his drink, so Box awkwardly retracted his hand.

Hughes said, “Nice party.”

“Yes, Elizabeth always does a beautiful job,” Box said. “Do you know her well?”

“I do, actually. Her husband and I worked together in Asia for six years. I think I can claim to be the only man at this party who has seen Elizabeth ride an elephant.”

“I’m sure you’re right about that,” Box said. “And you, you’re back on the island permanently? Staying here?”

“Permanence is hard to commit to,” Hughes said. “But this is home. I grew up here.”

“Yes,” Box said. “Of course, that’s right.”

Hughes rattled the ice in his glass. “And how do you know Elizabeth? From Washington?”

“No,” Box said. “From here on island. I live here half the year, and the other half in Cambridge. I still teach a full course load at Harvard.”

“I’m aware,” Hughes said.

“You’ve done your investigative work, then,” Box said. “You’re a newspaperman, so I can hardly be surprised.”

“I don’t wield nearly the influence that you do,” Hughes said. “Behind closed doors with the President of the United States? I could only dream of that.”

Box stared at Hughes. “You heard I was with the president? You…spoke to Dabney, then?”

Hughes rattled his ice again. It was a tell; he was nervous. “Yes,” he said. “I bumped into Dabney on Main Street and she filled me in.” Somehow his drink had disappeared. “Well, anyway, I should get some food before the Glenfiddich hits bottom. Good to see you…”

“Wait,” Box said. “You bumped into Dabney on Main Street? She didn’t mention that to me.”

“It was no big deal,” Hughes said. “A casual run-in on the street.”

“You and Dabney used to be quite close,” Box said.

“Yes, quite,” Hughes said. “I’m sorry if that bothers you. Everyone has a past.”

Box didn’t know what to do with the rage that was consuming him. It was jealousy, he realized. He was insanely, criminally jealous of this man in front of him, the man who had broken Dabney’s heart and then absconded with the fragments. Box and Dabney had been married twenty-four years and those years had been good ones for both of them. They had raised a daughter, created a lovely home, and pursued fruitful careers. Dabney had given Box her genuine smile and her keen intellect and her sweet disposition and her warm body—but he had never had her heart.

Because this man had it.

Box gritted his teeth, and reminded himself to proceed civilly. “I understand chance meetings on the street,” he said. “But I would appreciate it if, from now on, you would give my wife a wide berth. It can’t be easy for her to have you back on this island.”

Hughes said, “I’m sorry, I don’t see that it’s any of your business.”

“No, I’m sorry,” Box said. “It is my business. Dabney is my wife.”

Hughes set his glass down on a side console that was probably an antique and should not be seeing a wet glass without a coaster. Box was considerate this way, but Mr. Hughes, of course, was not. Mr. Hughes was a boor and a philistine and didn’t know the first rule for caring for fine things.

Hughes said, “I realize you are currently married to Dabney, Professor. But that doesn’t give you the right to comment on my relationship with her.”

“You caused her a great deal of pain,” Box said.

“What do you know about it?” Hughes asked. “Were you here when it happened? No, you were not. You aren’t qualified to speak on the subject of my shared past with her, sir.”

The “sir” hit Box sideways, spoken as it was with such contempt. “I raised your daughter.”

Hughes pressed his lips together but said nothing. Box took a step closer, his fists clenched.

“I drove her to ballet class, I took pictures of her before the prom, I paid for her college education.”

Hughes nodded. “Yes. Yes, you did.”

But Box wanted more than just an acknowledgment of the fact. He wanted a thank-you, or a grand apology, preferably both and preferably with some fucking humility. Box couldn’t remember ever being this angry before. What reason would he ever have had—an irreverent student? A frustrating department meeting? “She is mine,” Box said. “And Dabney is mine.”

“You sound pretty sure about that,” Hughes said.

Before Box knew what he was doing, he rushed Hughes and swung at him, meaning to hit him in the jaw but instead catching him under the clavicle. The punch hurt Box’s fist and it threw Hughes off balance. Hughes fell into the side console, toppling a lamp and knocking his glass to the floor, where it shattered.