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“It was a very short letter,” continued Richard Pendleton. “It noted that his footage constituted unlawful surveillance of private persons. It noted that the private persons included a Mr. Alexander Pendleton, who was recorded, on several occasions, in a state of undress. It noted the existence of a civil claim in the amount of four million dollars, and a criminal referral to the Halden county attorney.” He sipped his coffee. “It offered him an alternative.”

“An alternative.”

“He may delete every file. He may sign a non-disclosure agreement. He may issue a public apology to the Frost Cup committee for ‘an unfortunate lapse in judgment.’ And he may accept a suspension from the league for the remainder of the season.” A thin smile. “He accepted within the hour.”

I sat there for a moment, unable to speak.

I had once seen a king command his armies with less economy.

“Why?” I said, at last.

“He was a nuisance.”

“Sir—”

“He recorded my son in his underwear, Mr. Volkov.” My father-in-law-to-be turned another page, quite calmly. “I am not a violent man. I have simply never forgiven a slight.”

He did not look at me. But I saw the tips of his ears go faintly pink.

Under the table, Lex found my hand and squeezed it so hard my fingers cracked.

The second order of business was Gideon Roake.

I had not intended to visit him. It was Lex who said, on the third night, lying in the dark of the guest room where he was not supposed to be, that someone ought to. “He’s a person,” he said, into my shoulder. “He did a terrible thing. He’s going to prison. But he’s a person, and he’s alone, and I keep thinking about the picture on the wall.”

I did not answer.

“You don’t have to.”

“I know.”

“It’s just, you said, at the end. I saw the photographs. I keep thinking about it.”

I lay for a long time listening to the house settle.

“I will go,” I said.

The county jail in Halden is a squat gray building beside a parking garage.

They let me in on a Thursday. I had made an appointment under the name of Volkov, as a “friend of the family,” and Sabine had made two calls to a lawyer in Boston who owed her a great deal, and the guard at the desk looked at my papers, and at my face, and decided not to ask.

They put me in a small room with a table and two chairs.

He came in a few minutes later.

He wore an orange jumpsuit. His wrist was in a cast. He had lost weight, perhaps ten pounds, and shadows lay under his eyes like bruises, and the silver at his temples had spread. But his back was straight. He walked with the same careful, exact, surgical grace. When he saw me, he stopped in the doorway.

“Mr. Volkov.”

“Dr. Roake.”

“I did not think you would come.”

“I did not think I would.”

He sat down. He laid his good hand on the table, palm down, and looked at it for a moment. “I am told the district attorney will seek fifteen years. I am told I will plead. I am told my lawyer has, quote, never seen a client so eager to confess.”

“You are ashamed.”