Grant did not move.

He looked at Darrow House, its stone facade dark against the rainy night sky.

“This is my house,” he muttered.

“Not for long,” I said.

The officer took Grant by the elbow.

Grant did not fight him.

He let himself be led toward the back of the police cruiser, his head bowed.

Philip watched them go, his mouth hanging open in the damp night air.

He looked at me, then turned and got back into his silver sedan without another word.

I stood on the wet gravel for a long moment, watching the red tail lights disappear down the driveway.

Lena put her hand on my shoulder.

“Let’s go,” she said. “We have a long morning ahead of us.”

The preliminary hearing was held two days later in Manhattan.

The courtroom was small, with peeling green paint near the high windows.

Rain streaked the glass, blurring the grey skyline outside.

The air smelled of floor wax and old paper.

Lena sat beside me at the plaintiff’s table, her fingers tapping a rhythm on her yellow legal pad.

Across the aisle, Grant sat alone.