“Not enough,” I said.
“You’re worrying about the Tripps,” Susan said.
“Wouldn’t you?” I said.
“Up to a point,” Susan said. “You didn’t get them into this dysfunctional mess. You have done something to start getting them out of it.”
“By pulling the lid off,” I said.
Susan nodded. “By pulling the lid off. Someone had to. If it could have happened more gently, and more gradually, that would have been better. But you didn’t control that.”
I nodded.
Pearl finished hunting the stadium, and came up into the stands, and sat in front of us with her mouth open and her tongue hanging out.
“Dr. Faye is a well-respected and experienced therapist,” Susan said.
I nodded again. We were near the open end of the stadium. Across Soldiers Field Road, the river moved its oblivious way toward Boston Harbor.
Susan put her cheek against my shoulder.
“And,” she said, “you’re kind of cute.”
“There’s consolation in that,” I said.
I put Pearl’s leash on, and we stood and started out of the stands. Susan took my hand and we strolled back through the Harvard Athletic Complex toward the Larz Anderson Bridge. There was a red light at the pedestrian crossing. We stopped.
“What are you going to do about the murder?” Susan said.
“When Jefferson told me the truth that night,” I said, “there were six or eight dogs sleeping in the atrium.”
The light changed and we started across. “I think I’ll let them lie.”
