“Do you know where the free clinic is? On Barkley Avenue?”

“Yep.”

“Right next door.”

She crumpled her napkin and dropped it into her empty bowl. “I’ll swing by there tomorrow and see what they say.”

“Believe me, if you walk in and commit to a forty-day stint, they’ll greet you with open arms and cries of joy.”

“How do you know so much about it?”

He smiled, pleased with himself. “I’m on the board of trustees.”

She laughed. “You’re just full of surprises today.”

“I don’t want to get too boring.”

“Never that.”

There was a pause. Then Russ jerked around to wave their waitress over, and Clare twisted away to search for her wallet.

“It’s on me,” he said, plucking the slip from between the waitress’s fingers.

“You paid last week. And the week before that.”

“So what? I make more money than you do.”

“That’s not the point. We agreed to share-”

He stood up and pulled his billfold from his back pocket. “Make a donation to the historical society, then.” He laid down some money next to the ketchup bottle and waited while she struggled into her expedition-weight parka, a Christmas present from her concerned southern parents. Then he stood aside to let her go first to the door. On the way, he was greeted by two aldermen, and she said hello to one of her parishioners. It was all very open. Very aboveboard. Perfectly innocent.

Remember that you are dust. Then, she had said the words. Now… now she really felt them.

Chapter 3

THEN

Tuesday, May 23, 1950

Norman Madsen put down the last of the legal-sized papers on his green felt blotter and looked up. He smiled tentatively across the expanse of his desk at the woman seated in the deep leather chair opposite him. She did not smile back.