A Traitor to Memory

Gideon looked beyond her then and saw that the lights in the music room were off, which served to warn him although he could not have said what the warning was. He took in the fact that Libby was blocking his way to the room, though. He took a step towards it.

Libby said quickly, “Here's what you've got to understand, Gideon. You are number one with me. And here's what I thought: I thought, How can I help him—how can I help us to really be a real us? Because it's not normal that we'd be together but not really be together, is it. And it would be totally good for both of us if we … you know … look, it's what you need. It's what I need. Each other, being who we really are. And who we are is who we are. It's not what we do. And the only way I knew to make you, like, see that and understand it—because talking myself blue in the face sure as hell wasn't doing it and you know that—was to—”

“Oh God. No.” Gideon pushed past her, shoving her to one side with an inarticulate cry.

He fumbled to the nearest lamp in the music room. He grabbed it. He switched it on.

He saw.

The Guarneri—what was left of it—lay next to the radiator. Its neck was fractured, its top was shattered, its sides were broken into pieces. Its bridge was snapped in half and its strings were wrapped round what remained of its tailpiece. The only part of the violin that wasn't destroyed was its perfect scroll, elegantly curving as if it still could bend forward to reach towards the player's fingers.

Libby was speaking behind him. High and rapid. Gideon heard the words but not their meaning. “You'll thank me,” she said. “Maybe not now. But you will. I swear it. I did it for you And now that it's finally gone from your life, you can—”

“Never,” he said to himself. “Never.”

“Never what?” she said, and as he approached the violin, as he knelt before it, as he touched the chin rest and felt the cool of it mix with the heat that was coming into his hands, “Gideon?” Her voice was insistent, ringing. “Listen to me. It's going to be okay. I know you're upset, but you've got to see it was the only way. You're free of it now. Free to be who you are, which is more than just a guy who plays the fiddle. You were always more than that guy, Gideon. And now you can know it, just like I do.”

The words beat against him, but he registered only the sound of her voice. And past that sound was the roar of the future as it rushed upon him, rising like a tidal wave, black and profound. He was rendered powerless as it overcame him. He was caught within it and all he knew was reduced in that instant to a single thought: what he wanted and what he planned to do had been denied him. Again. Again.

He cried out, “No!” And “No!” And “No!” He surged to his feet.

He did not hear Libby cry out in turn as he leapt towards her. His weight fell against her, fell hard upon her. Both of them toppled to the floor.

She screamed, “Gideon! Gideon! No! Stop!”

But the words were nothing, less than sound and fury. His hands went for her shoulders as they'd done in the past.

And he held her down.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I couldn't have completed a project of this size in the time I allowed myself without the contributions and assistance of various individuals both in the United States and in England.

In England, I would like to express my appreciation to Louise Davis, Principal of Norland College, for allowing me to watch nannies in training and for giving me background information on the professional lives of child care givers; to Godfrey Carey, Q.C., Joanna Korner, Q.C., and Charlotte Bircher of the Inner Temple, all of whom were instrumental in assisting me in my understanding of British jurisprudence; to Sister Mary O'Gorman of the Convent of the Assumption in Kensington Square for giving me access to the convent and the chapel and for providing me with two decades of information about the square itself; to Chief Superintendent Paul Scotney of the Metropolitan Police (Belgravia Police Station) for assisting me with police procedures and for proving once again that the most forgiving audience among my readers exists within the ranks of the British police; to Chief Inspector Pip Lane, who always and generously acts as liaison between the local police and me; to John Oliver and Maggie Newton of HM Prison Holloway for information about the penal system in England; to Swati Gamble for everything from bus schedules to the locations of hospitals with casualty wards; to Jo-Ann Goodwin of the Daily Mail for assistance with the laws that deal with press coverage of murder investigations and trials; to Sue Fletcher for generously lending me the services of the resourceful Swati Gamble; and to my agent, Stephanie Cabot of William Morris Agency, to whom no obstacle is too much of a challenge.