Marcus POV Saoirse was at the house when I got back from the lunch.She had not gone home after Sunday. She had, on Monday morning, driven to a job in Red Hook and then come back to Brooklyn Heights rather than to Ditmas Park, and Faraz had let her in, and when I came through the door at two forty PM she was in the front room with the book her book, the one she had bought open on her knee, not reading it, waiting.She looked up when I came in.She read my face the way she had learned to read my face.She said: “He didn’t take the story.”“No,” I said. “He didn’t take the story.”I sat down across from her. I told her the lunch. I told her about Anneke Vos the woman Doyle had buried in 2009, the case the system failed, the fifteen years Doyle had been carrying her. I told her that Doyle was not, it turned out, trying to catch me, but was trying to determine whether I was a man who deserved to be allowed to stop on his own terms. I told her what I had told Doyle, which was the whole tr
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