He dropped his hand and stared off at the mist. It was lifting now, revealing the landscape in a slow, upward peel. When he turned back, there was an odd expression on his face.

"But I will tell you that powerful people are involved."

"The Dalai Lama? The Joint Chiefs of Staff?" Anger hardened my voice.

"Don't be mad at me, Tempe. This investigation is big news. If problems develop, no one's going to want to own them."

"So I'm being set up in case a scapegoat is needed."

"It's nothing like that. I just have to go through proper procedures."

I took a deep breath.

"What happens now?"

He looked straight at me and his voice softened.

"I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

"When?"

"Now."

It was my turn to stare into the mist.

High Ridge House was deserted in the middle of the day. I left a note for Ruby, thanking her and apologizing for my abrupt departure and for my coolness the night before. Then I gathered my belongings, tossed them into my Mazda, and drove off so fast the tires threw up a gravel spray.

All the way home to Charlotte I stopped and started hard, screeching from lights then weaving from lane to lane once I reached the highway. For three hours I crawled up bumpers and rode the horn. I talked to myself, trying out words. Vile. Despicable. Vicious. Vile. Despicable. Vicious. Other drivers avoided my eyes and gave me lots of space. Other drivers avoided my eyes and gave me lots of space.

I was irate and depressed at the same time. The injustice of an anonymous accusation. The helplessness. For a week I'd been working under brutal conditions, seeing, smelling, and feeling death. I'd dropped everything, devoted myself to the effort, then been dismissed like a servant suspected of stealing. No hearing. No opportunity for explanation. No thank-you. Pack and go.

Besides the professional humiliation, there was the personal letdown. Though we'd been friends for years, and Larke knew I was scrupulous about professional ethics, he hadn't defended me. Larke was not a cowardly man. I had expected more of him.

The wild driving served its purpose. By the outskirts of Charlotte my cascading fury had congealed into cold resolve. I'd done nothing inappropriate and I would clear my name. I would find out what this grievance was, quash it, and finish my work. And I would confront the accuser.

My empty town house destroyed that resolve. No one to greet me. No one to hold me and tell me I'd be fine. Ryan was quibbling with a distant Danielle, whoever she was. Ryan had told me it was none of my business. Katy was with her friend, gender unspecified, and Birdie and Pete were far across town. I threw down my bags, flung myself on the sofa, and dissolved into tears.

Ten minutes later I lay quietly, chest heaving, feeling like a kid coming off a tantrum. I'd accomplished nothing and felt drained. Dragging myself to the bathroom, I blew my nose, then checked my phone messages.

Zero to brighten my mood. A student. Salesmen. My sister, Harry, calling from Texas. A query from my friend Anne: Could we get together for lunch since she and Ted were leaving for London?

Great. They were probably dining at the Savoy as I erased her words. I decided to collect Birdie. At least he would purr in my lap.

Pete still lives in the house we shared for almost twenty years. Though it is worth hundreds of thousands of dollars, the fence is mended with a wooden block, and a makeshift goal sags in the backyard, testimonial to Katy's soccer years. The house is painted, the gutters cleaned, the lawn mowed by professionals. A maid maintains the inside. But beyond normal upkeep, my estranged husband believes in laissez-faire and the quick patch. He feels no obligation to protect area real estate values. I used to worry about neighborhood protests. The separation relieved me of that.

A furry brown face watched through the fence as I swung onto the drive. When I climbed from the car, it crinkled and gave a low "rrup!"

"Is he here?" I asked, slamming the door.

The dog lowered its head, and a purple tongue dropped from its mouth.

I circled to the front and rang. No response.

I rang again. A key still hung from my chain, but I wouldn't use it. Though we'd been living apart for over two years, Pete and I were still stepping carefully in establishing the new order between us. The sharing of keys involved an intimacy I didn't want to imply.

But it was Thursday afternoon and Pete would be at the office. And I wanted my cat.

I was digging in my purse, when the door opened.

"Hello, attractive stranger. Need a place to sleep?" said Pete, surveying me from top to bottom.

I was wearing the khakis and Doc Martens I'd donned for the morgue at six that morning. Pete was perfect in a three-piece suit and Gucci loafers.

"I thought you'd be at work."

I wiped knuckles across the mascara smears on my lower lids, and took a quick peek inside the house. If I spotted a woman I'd die of humiliation.

"Why aren't aren't you at work?" you at work?"

He glanced left, then right, lowered his voice, and gestured me close, as if imparting secure information. "Rendezvous with the plumber."

I didn't want to contemplate what had gone so wrong that Mr. Fix It would call in an expert.

"I came for Birdie."

"I think he's free." Pete stepped back. I entered a foyer lighted by my great-aunt's chandelier.

"How about a drink?"

I drilled him a look that could slice feldspar. Pete had witnessed many of my Academy Award performances, and knew better.

"You know what I mean."

"A Diet Coke would be nice."

While Pete rattled glassware and ice cubes in the kitchen, I called up the stairs to Birdie. No cat. I tried the parlor, dining room, and den.

Once upon a time, Pete and I had lived together in these rooms, reading, talking, listening to music, making love. We'd nurtured Katy from infant to toddler to adolescent, redecorating her room and adjusting our lives with each passage. I'd watch the honeysuckle come and go through the window over the kitchen sink, welcoming every season. Those had been fairy-tale days, a time when the American dream seemed real and attainable.

Pete reappeared, transformed from attorney-chic to yuppiecasual. The jacket and vest were gone, the tie loosened, the shirtsleeves rolled to below the elbows. He looked good.

"Where's Bird?" I asked.

"He's been keeping to the upper decks since Boyd checked in."

He handed me a mug with Uz to mums atkal jaiedzer! Uz to mums atkal jaiedzer! scrolled around the glass. "To that we must drink again!" in Latvian. scrolled around the glass. "To that we must drink again!" in Latvian.

"Boyd's the dog?"

A nod.

"Yours?"

"Interesting point. Have a seat and I'll share with you the saga of Boyd."

Pete got pretzels from the kitchen and joined me on the couch.

"Boyd belongs to one Harvey Alexander Dineen, a gentleman recently in need of pro bono defense. Completely surprised by his arrest, and lacking family, Harvey requested that I look after his dog until the misunderstanding with the state was cleared up."

"And you agreed?"

"I appreciated his confidence in me."

Pete licked salt from a pretzel, bit off the large loop, and washed it down with beer.

"And?"

"Boyd's on his own for a minimum of ten and a maximum of twenty. I figured he'd get hungry."

"What is he?"

"He thinks of himself as an entrepreneur. The judge called him a con man and career criminal."

"I meant the dog."

"Boyd's a chow. Or at least most of him is. We'd need DNA testing to clarify the rest."

He ate the other half of the pretzel.

"Been out with any good corpses lately?"

"Very funny." My face must have suggested that it was not.

"Sorry. Must be grim up there."

"We're getting through it."

We made small talk for a while, then Pete invited me for dinner. Our usual routine. He asked, I refused. Today I thought of Larke's allegations, Anne and Ted's London adventure, and my empty condo.

"What are you serving?"

His eyebrows shot up in surprise.

"Linguini con sauce vongole."

A Pete specialty. Canned clams on overcooked pasta.

"Why don't I pick up steaks while you deal with the plumber. When the pipes are flowing, we can grill the meat."

"It's an upstairs toilet."

"Whatever."

"It will be good for Bird to see that we're friends. I think he still blames himself."

Pure Pete.

Boyd joined us at dinner, sitting beside the table, eyes glued to the New York strips, now and then pawing a knee to remind us of his presence.

Pete and I talked about Katy, about old friends, and about old times. He discussed some current litigation, and I described one of my recent cases, a student found hanging in his grandmother's barn nine months after his disappearance. I was pleased that we'd reached a comfort level at which normal conversation was possible. Time flew, and Larke and his complaint receded from my thoughts.

After a dessert of strawberries on vanilla ice cream, we took coffee to the den and switched on the news. The Air TransSouth crash was the lead story.

A grim-faced woman stood at the overlook, the Great Smoky Mountains rolling behind her, and talked of a meet in which thirty-four athletes would never compete. She reported that the cause of the crash was still unclear, although a midair explosion was now almost certain. To date forty-seven victims had been identified, and the investigation was continuing around the clock.

"It's smart they're giving you time off," Pete said.

I didn't answer.

"Or did they send you down here on a secret mission?"

I felt a tremor in my chest and kept my eyes on my Doc Martens.

Pete slid close and raised my chin with an index finger.

"Hey, babe, I'm only kidding. Are you O.K.?"

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.

"You don't look too O.K."

"I'm fine."

"Do you want to tell me about it?"

I must have, for the words poured out. I told him about the days of gore, about the coyotes and my attempts to pinpoint the foot's origin, about the anonymous complaint and my dismissal. I left out nothing but Andrew Ryan. When I finally wound down my feet were curled beneath me, and I was clutching a throw pillow to my chest. Pete was regarding me intently.