"Everything," said Kurtz.

Donald Rafferty worked at the main post office down on William Street and liked to eat lunch at a little bar near Broadway Market. As a supervisor, Rafferty managed to take ninety-minute lunch hours. Sometimes he would forget to eat lunch.

This afternoon he came out of the bar and found a man leaning against his 1998 Honda Accord. The man was white—that's the first thing Rafferty checked—and was wearing a peacoat and a wool cap. He looked vaguely familiar, but Rafferty couldn't quite place the face. Actually, this had been an extra-long lunch hour and Donald Rafferty was having a little trouble finding his car keys in his pocket. He stopped twenty feet from the man and considered going back in the bar until the stranger left.

"Hey, Donnie," said the man. Rafferty had always hated the name Donnie.

"Kurtz," Rafferty said at last. "Kurtz."

Kurtz nodded.

"I thought you were in jail, asshole," said Rafferty.

"Not right now," said Kurtz.

Rafferty blinked to clear his vision. "Another state, you would have got the chair… or lethal injection," he said. "For murder."

Kurtz smiled. "Manslaughter." He had been leaning against the Accord's hood, but now he straightened and took a step closer.

Donald Rafferty took a step back on the slippery parking lot. It was snowing again. "What the fuck do you want, Kurtz?"

"I want you to stop drinking on days that you drive Rachel anywhere," Kurtz said. His voice was very soft but very firm.

Rafferty actually laughed, despite his nervousness. "Rachel? Don't tell me that you give a flying fuck about Rachel. Fourteen years and you never so much as sent the kid a fucking card."

"Twelve years," said Kurtz.

"She's mine," slurred Rafferty. "Courts said so. It's legal. I was Samantha's husband, ex-husband, and Samantha meant for me to have her."