She looks up. “No, I don’t.”

“What’d that cop say to you?”

“He kept asking about you.”

“Do you think I’m hiding something?”

“No.”

“But you’re not sure?”

Diane sets her fork down then reaches across the table and puts her hand on mine. “I know you’re not. And I know that whatever this is about, you’re not the one to blame.”

“You’re distant now.”

“I know.”

“Are you going to tell me why?”

She sits back. “I suppose I feel helpless, like I should be able to do something.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

I don’t believe her.

I know Diane loves me, but this wasn’t what she signed up for. She wanted to marry the kid she read about in the book, the one who pulled himself out of the fire, not the one still burning.

I hope I’m wrong, but something tells me I’m not.

Two days later, I go back to the doctor and have the Q-tip bandage replaced with a smaller one. The new bandage covers the fingers on the left side of my hand, leaving my thumb free. It’s not much, but I can use my hand again.

We haven’t heard from Detective Nolan, so on the third day, I call him. He tells me there were no fingerprints, other than mine, on the jar, the tape, or the packaging.

“So now what?” I ask.

He pauses, then gives me the stock answer: following every lead, no stone unturned.

My fault for asking.

“How about the two men who attacked me? Anything on either of them?”

“Not yet,” Nolan says. “We talked to the bartender who was working that night. He remembered them, but didn’t have much to add. Said they never talked, even to each other, and when they talked to him, he could barely understand a word.”

“That helps.”

“Did your wife make it back?”

“She did.”

“No worse for wear, I hope.”