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***November 28, 2025***
"What are you doing up?"
They said it in unison and then laughed. Her laugh was warm and indulgent, with a tinge of worry, while his ended with a swallow as he tilted his head up at her standing in the doorway to the big front parlor where he sat close to a banked fire glowing in the darkness, leaning on something new that bothered him, a walker with wheels on the front.
"Robert," she scolded, "what are you doing up? You have to leave early tomorrow if you're going to beat that storm home."
"You know me, Aunt Agnes," Robert Goren confessed. "I get restless, and Alex is sound asleep. I didn't want to wake her. Besides, she always drives first, and I can always catch a nap until it's time for my turn." At age 64 and at six foot four with still-formidable stance, his petite, indefatigable aunt had a way of reducing him to a guilty schoolboy, and he rose from the ancient wing-backed armchair that had belonged to his late uncle's father. "Sit down. Please."
Agnes Fry looked indignant. "Goodness, Robert, how you fuss! I'm using my chariot here to get around faster, nothing more. My knees aren't what they used to be. Now sit back down."
"I love this thing," Aunt Agnes continued as she entered the room, her chin up, warmly wrapped in a green flower-print quilted bathrobe and sheepskin-lined suede slippers to settle in the second armchair opposite him. The chairs were close together and she reached out the fingers of her left hand to briefly tap his right hand resting on the arm of his chair. "With this nice little tray, Bobby, I don't have to carry anything anymore. It's quite helpful. And it's only until my knees feel better. Stupid arthritis! Aren't you cold, dearest?"
He would have loved to have believed her, but the signs were clear: talk at supper about installing a chair lift on the venerable staircase, seat risers on the bathroom toilets, his cousin Sandy's close watch on his mother's movements. Age was taking its toll on his aunt, only reconnected with him less than 20 years ago.
Bobby was slightly chilly--the old farmhouse wasn't as well-insulated as newer homes would be, and the Frys kept the heat low at night to conserve fuel--but not excessively so. He wore a heavyweight long-sleeved red t-shirt and red-and-blue plaid fleece pajama pants, and for his birthday in August, their foster son had given him a pair of thick men's wool socks he found on Etsy and that Alexandra Eames had approved and paid for: they had magnifying glasses as a design, which Randall had thought perfect for a retired police detective and FBI agent.
Agnes continued, oblivious, "I was thinking of making some tea for myself, but I'm just too darn lazy right now. I wish I could wiggle my nose like that Samantha used to! It must be the Goren blood. I was restless, too."
Illumination, from both the glowing embers and the soft night light Sandy kept burning on the bookshelves next to the fireplace, a glowing owl sculpture, wasn't bright enough to reveal the flicker of pain that crossed Bobby's face.
"I could make you some tea," he offered, prepared to rise, but she waved her hand.
"Silly idea," she declared. "I don’t have decaf and want to sleep eventually."
"I wish we didn't have to leave," he said instead, relaxing again. "We had permission from St. Gregory's to keep the kids out on Monday, but-"
"No, no," Agnes Fry said firmly. "What's coming is a bad storm, Bobby. I don't just feel it in my bones, I watch the Weather Channel and that nice Ginger Zee on ABC World News. You must get east before this hits. Sandy and Paul and I will spend tomorrow prepping the livestock and the barn." The Frys had once owned a dairy farm; now they had goats for homemade goat milk soap and sheep for specialty yarns, a business started by her grandson Paul. "We already have groceries, and when Sandy ran errands today, he bought more gas for the generator. But it will be worst on the roads."
"I know." Bobby looked at the clock on the mantel; it was barely after ten and they were supposed to leave at six. The Honda Pilot was already loaded except for the valise with their night clothes and bedtime supplies; all they needed was a swallow of breakfast and popping the family budgie into his warm carry box, and they could be off.
"I'm glad you're here," Aunt Agnes admitted after a few moments of silence. "It's been hard to talk, except for the first night."
"I know," Bobby said softly. They had arrived Monday night, with two excited children--well, Olivia was still a little quiet after the events of her first two months of school, but Randall was about to explode, having managed to wedge his telescope into the last free space in the SUV and wanting a good look at the stars--the big tricolor collie Sam, and Bandit singing his feathered head off. When supper and somnolence had subdued all four, only then had Alex and Bobby time to cozy around the kitchen table with warm cups of coffee to talk with Agnes and her steady male friend Mel Harris (they had been "friends" since Bobby met first visited the Fry farm in 2008), tall grey-haired Sandy (Alexander) and his son Paul (who was in his late 30s), and 26-year-old Molly, who was Bobby's niece by his late half-sister from his father's early aborted romance with a neighborhood girl, and who had been raised on the Fry farm. (Molly had already left earlier that Friday morning for her flight back to Los Angeles, where she was doing graduate studies in forensics--she was always flying somewhere; Bobby remembered having that energy).
He smiled to himself in recall. Paul had been up in the air talking about taking in a new partner at Wools by Fry--a new partner period. Her name was Bernadette, and from Paul's account, he and Alex had joked between themselves afterwards that she was a cross between Coco Chanel and Madame Curie, with a doctorate in chemistry and brilliant ideas of new designs for the wool business. They weren't sure how they pictured her until she had shown up at Thanksgiving dinner, a tall, freewheeling girl in her late 20s, of Chinese and French heritage, in boho clothing, platform clogs, and a pierced septum, a complete contrast to quiet, ordinary Paul in his plaid work shirts, chinos, and L.L. Bean boots.
"Don't be surprised," Aunt Agnes had told Alex later as they were working on the glazed carrots, "if next year Paul has a purple streak in his hair and a piercing of his own. He's dead gone on her--but she's a darling and loves him, too. I want him happy, even if he's hole-y."
All their wishes were checked off: the roses came back to Olivia's cheeks as she helped with the sheep--the ewe lamb, Olivia Too, that Aunt Agnes had named after her, she discovered with astonishment, already had a lamb of its own!--and Randall got to stargaze--"Look, I found 40 Eridani A--that's the star Vulcan orbits!"--and Sam ran wild with Micah the farm collie and Pip, his eventual successor, and Bandit spiced up watching the Macy's parade with a string of words that went on for minutes, including the Spanish he'd learned from Abbi Diaz and Ana and Carlos. Bobby basked in the circle of his family, and Alex basked in Bobby's contentment.
On Wednesday morning, Olivia's half-brother Laurent, his wife Noémie, and their five-month-old daughter Françoise--Olivia called her Francie now that she had read A Tree Grows in Brooklyn--had arrived. The baby, bright and blue-eyed in a matching toque, squealed at the sheep and the goats, attempted to kill Sam with affection (dignified Sam suffered the human puppy's grasping fists and attempted to lick her hair off in return), and smiled with gooey smiles at everyone. They had just started her on soft baby cereals and the mess she made as she ate made Randall declare, "No babies for me!" They'd had to cram a reunion in 36 hours, as the Pepins hurried off from Thanksgiving dinner to the airport.
But there had never been quite enough time to talk as he wished. This was his last chance.
"Olivia's looking much brighter, that's a mercy," Agnes continued.
"We're rebuilding," Bobby answered in a low voice. "It had to happen, eventually." In his mind, he mourned, But, Jesus, not so soon!
"What's done is done," Alex had said regretfully late Halloween night, holding him close, with his nose buried in her hair. She was the one, initially, who had told Agnes Fry the bare facts about Olivia's mother: not their friend, but for a long time their quarry, a clever, beautiful but disturbed woman whose childhood rape had twisted her inside. Alex had little patience with Nicole Wallace--Madeleine Haynes as she styled herself in Paris--but Bobby insisted something inside her had turned for the better once her daughter was born.
She had, Alex had to admit to herself, as little Olivia had declared at her mother's funeral, "always been a good mother" to their adopted daughter.
The fact, however, that Olivia had learned some minimal details about her mother's homicidal career from the internet still stung. They had already had one session together with Olivia's therapist, who had given her some reading material that explained the effects of childhood abuse in simple, truthful, but tempered prose for a person of her age.
Agnes lowered her voice. "Has Randall asked yet, about what his father told you?"
"No," Bobby said, then imitated his aunt, "and that's a mercy. But I think he will someday, and maybe sooner than later. He's made friends with a boy named Samuel in his science class. Samuel loves astronomy and books, and they talk about having a 'guy book club.' But Samuel's bar mitzvah is coming up in February, and he's told Randall about Hebrew school, reading and interpreting the Torah, and that at thirteen, he'll be a man in the eyes of his congregation. Olivia's not the only one who's dabbled with wanting to be 'grown up' this year; he's already asked me if boys who aren't Jewish are considered men at thirteen. I know Randall didn't miss that his father sent him off for ice cream deliberately. It'll come eventually."
"Well, good or bad, Shaw was his father. Blood didn't matter. He loved him as a small child, he raised and supported him…he just fumbled later on when he should have kept supporting him. Ridiculous man. 'A boy who reads isn't a "real boy," so I need to change him!' And they say I'm old! That idea is straight out of the 19th century!"
Good or bad, Shaw was his father. Blood didn't matter.
"We take Rand once a month to see his dad. Shaw's constantly surprised at how he's changed. Rand still looks at his shoes a lot. But he talks…about the ASL, about how they're planning to mainstream him to a regular home room once he reaches the Upper School, how Kenny Shepherd's transferring to a vocational school next year so that even with his intellectual limitations, he may be able to get a job and live in a group home." Bobby paused. "Brother Matthew constantly tells Randall how much his friendship has helped Kenny learn to deal with others outside his family, how he’s given Kenny a 'leg up' on his future. But the news has made Randall sad. He considers Kenny family. We'll have to keep in touch."
"Robert!" Agnes said brightly. "Why not talk to someone in administration before the next school year, and see if Randall can't be in homeroom with Samuel? At least he would have one friend there already."
Bobby restrained a laugh. He and Alex had already talked about doing the very same thing, but- "Auntie, that's a wonderful idea. Alex and I will take it up with them. They could even sit next to each other--Samuel's last name is Gertner."
His aunt sat back, very pleased with herself, clapping her hands together once in joy. "Oh, Bobby, it's been so good to see you, but the last four days have spun by so quickly! Time just flies these days, flies. I'm barely out of bed before it's lunch time, a few minutes it seems with the stock or the chores, then it's dinner, then it's like I spend ten minutes in a book or engrossed in that Naval intelligence show and it's bedtime."
"Time's odd now, Auntie, even for me." He winced internally, remembering the long, brooding days of summer vacation, carefree for the other kids, for him a landmine with Frank growing distant with his "gang" and his mother, month by month, slipping away from reality, away from him. He would squirrel himself in the library in his mill-outlet shirts and jeans, picking whatever caught his fancy off the shelves--the classics, adult bestsellers hoping for steamy scenes (he was always on the lookout for a new Sidney Sheldon), books about the history of various countries, science tomes that he'd challenge himself to read, literary criticism--to make the endless summers bearable. There was a big world out there, and he wanted to know every inch of it, the land, the people, the languages...he drank books the way Frank later shot drugs, in thirst for knowledge and longing for a way out. School grounded him. And then there had been the long, long six months in Major Case when he was suspended...aching, endless days when even the books weren't enough and only the alcohol eased the late hours.
The clock on the mantel softly chimed the quarter hour.
Good or bad, Shaw was his father. Blood didn't matter.
"Auntie," Bobby said quietly, "there was something I wanted to tell you before we left. We were talking about truth..."
"Yes," Agnes said, leaning forward. He did the same, till they were almost head-to-head, and she saw his grip on his knees tighten, his eyes grow melancholy in the ember light.
"Bobby," she added, "you are Frances' boy, and I will love you forever," as if she knew what he was about to tell her.
"Auntie...all those times m-my dad was gone...my mom...she had an affair."
She stared at his anguished face for only a second, then said patiently, "And am I now supposed to say in my Lady Macbeth voice, 'Oh, woe is me, my sister-in-law was a fallen woman! She consorted with a man not her husband! Shame! Shame!' Well, you know what, Bobby? I can't blame her. My brother Billy chased anything in a skirt." She paused, then said almost teasingly, "He drew the line at kilts, of course. Oh, for goodness sake, Bobby. I'm on Frannie's side, and I always was. What's sauce for the gander and all that. She deserved some adult companionship. Did you boys meet him?"
"I don't recall h-him. Frank called him 'Uncle Mark.' He...um... remembered him. Said this Mark guy brought me st-stuff."
"And he treated your mother well?"
Bobby choked a moment, then coughed. "I wish he'd been good for her. But..." He took in a deep breath. It was time. "She didn't get into a car accident, Aunt Agnes. He...he...beat her up. She didn't...um...say, but I think he tried to get her to leave Dad...get a d-divorce and...she wouldn't do it."
Agnes reached forward with fingers stiffened by arthritis and grasped his fists in her warm hands. "She was a good Catholic girl. Poor Frances, she never caught a break."
Bobby's mind curdled. His mother had said that about Frank once upon a time. She had also said...that he "had all the luck." What luck? Never luck--hard work, busting his balls chopping up chicken, running errands for pittance tips, once working as an underage bouncer--because he was so large--at a club that everyone--even the dirty cops who frequented the place--knew was a front for the mob. He hadn't ever felt "lucky" growing up, or later on during the two years at Major Case when his gold shield had tarnished.
"Before that, he treated her well," Bobby explained. "He was a...um... photographer and carpenter. Took cheesecake shots of girls at the beach where he worked as a lifeguard."
"She chased beauty, your mother. He sounds artistic."
"Yeah." He remembered Brady's photos. He saw the best in the women whom he photographed and brought it out in his prints.
And then he murdered them.
"Auntie...he-" Get it over with, Bobby. "I had my DNA tested. Back before we talked after Frank's funeral. This...'Uncle Mark' was my father."
Agnes leaned back, but did not let go of his hands. "Well, this explains a lot of things." When he looked startled, she said gently, "When we met at Frank's funeral. You were so…hesitant, as if there was something about you that Sandy and I shouldn't like. And Alex was so helpful, nudging us into having lunch together and then…oh, that offer to drive us to LaGuardia, as if a beautiful woman like Alex didn't have better things to do than shuttle her work partner's relatives in horrible traffic simply to be a good egg. She was watching out for you even that long ago."
He said ruefully, "Alex cleaned up my m-messes for a good long time."
His aunt responded sturdily, "Well, she has the chops for it. Best thing that ever happened to you."
"Auntie…Uncle Mark...my father-"
"Your sperm donor," she corrected dryly.
"Eames calls him that, too," he said, falling back into his old habit of calling Alex by her last name. "He…hurt other women, too, Aunt Agnes. Just…um…just like Olivia's mother did."
She understood the inference and took a breath. "Many women?"
"Yes. Over several decades."
"He was caught, I presume? And his fate?"
"The State of Pennsylvania put him to death just after Mom passed away."
"Good." Agnes lifted her chin. "I suppose that makes me a barbarian, but I don't see any need to feed and clothe an unrepentant killer. Was he repentant?"
"No. He practically bragged his way through the few times I interviewed him. Made a pass at Alex. All before he told me about his role in my life in the broadest of implications. But he implied that I…that I had it in me, too."
"Bullshit," Agnes said so strongly that Bobby jerked. "You had your mother, and Billy--however inadequate a parent Billy proved to be--and Frank before he went off the deep end…and the ladies at her library--I remember she told me how they fussed over you when you were small and found you books!--and your grandmother and grandfather Acevedo and your Uncle Sal.
"All you have in you is for good, Bobby. I've heard stories of your kindness to victims in your cases. A little boy named Robbie. A girl named Maggie. I've seen you with your friends and the rest of your family. All those gift cards last year! Tributes, Bobby. Not just to Alex and the kids, but to you. And Alex--I only have to look into your eyes to see your deep love for Alexandra. And the way Olivia and Randall look at you tells the story of your love for them. All of it is truth--and don't you forget it."
"Auntie…" and he bent his head over her hands and she could feel wetness on her fingers.
"Now look at you," she said soothingly, "all torn up again like you must have been when you found out. It's all right. It's all right." Unconsciously she began to rock her herself from left to right and back again as she would have holding Sandy as a baby, and Bobby's harsh breath quieted, the small woman comforting a big man with an aching heart.
"Now," she said briskly, as the clock chimed the half hour, "you really need to get some sleep. I want you to have a safe drive home. No skids, no pileups, no accidents. I want a call on Sunday that you're back home among your books, and that Abbi left you something for supper so you won't have to cook because that's the kind of person Abbi is. I want you and Alex and Olivia and Randall there, unscathed, so I can spend Christmas Day with family, all of you and Lizzie and Jack's broods, too, and Mike with his attitude and Viola as someone my age to swap stories with. Understand me, boy?"
Bobby lifted his head, a smile building across his lips. "Yes, Aunt Agnes."
"Now scoot off to bed," she commanded as if he were Randall's age.
"As soon as I escort you to yours," he returned equably.
"Oh…if it makes you happy!" she said in faux exasperation, hiding her face because she was about to laugh.
"It does, Auntie." He let out a breath, conscious that he was free. "It really does."