In the early 1990s, Mara discovered that two people expected her in different places at four o'clock. One was a supervisor on another assignment. The other was Daniel, who had asked her to come home early enough to talk before exhaustion became her reason not to. Between those obligations sat a community conversation Ben was preparing to conduct. Mara had handled the first contact years earlier. She told herself that made her presence necessary, though nobody had asked her to attend.
She found Ben reviewing his notes in a small interview room. He had become economical in his preparations: the relevant pages open, a few questions written separately, the purpose of the meeting clear. Mara asked whether he wanted her to begin. 'No,' he said. She waited for an explanation. He closed the folder with one finger marking his place. 'You can tell me if there's something missing. But I'm not handing this back because you remember the first visit.'
She said the person coming in could be difficult when frustrated. Ben nodded. He had already spoken with them about the appointment. 'They want to know why we can't answer a question we couldn't answer before,' he said. 'I won't make that easy by borrowing your history with them.' Mara heard a challenge where there might only have been a boundary. She asked whether he thought she would interfere. 'I think you have somewhere else to be,' he answered.
Her other assignment involved work unrelated to the Green River investigation, with its own people entitled to attention. She had begun resenting such work on days when it prevented her from remaining close to the old case, then resenting the old case when it kept her from going home. Neither resentment helped her decide what she actually owed. She checked Ben's preparation. Nothing essential was missing. 'I'll leave you to it,' she said. He reopened the folder without asking her to remain.
She finished the required work and telephoned Daniel to say she was leaving. He answered on the second ring. 'Now?' he asked. 'Now.' She gave no estimate more exact than the traffic allowed. On the drive home, she rehearsed explanations and rejected them one by one. She knew how this conversation could be delayed: begin with a difficult day, let him ask a considerate question, then use his kindness to avoid what he had asked for.
A canvas bag stood beside the kitchen door. Daniel was sitting at the table with no newspaper, no cup, nothing she could mistake for an interruption. Mara set down her coat. 'How long have you been packing?' she asked. 'Today. I've been talking about leaving longer than that.' She took the chair across from him. The refrigerator switched on, filling the room with a familiar hum. She had wanted to get home before the conversation started. It had been underway for months.
'I kept thinking when something changed at work—' she began. Daniel shook his head. 'I know.' There was no anger in the interruption, which made it harder to bear. 'I'm not asking you to choose between me and people who need an answer. I'm saying I can't keep living as though our life begins after they get one.' Mara looked at the bag. She could ask him not to go, and he might stay tonight. She could not identify what tomorrow would offer him.
They discussed a separation in practical sentences that seemed much too small for what they contained. He had arranged somewhere to stay. They would speak about expenses on Sunday afternoon. Neither wanted decisions made by an exhausted telephone call after midnight. Mara asked whether he had already decided what came after. 'No,' he said. 'This is what I've decided.' She made herself hear the limit. His uncertainty was not an opening for her to negotiate away the step he had taken.
When she said she agreed, it sounded to her like surrendering a responsibility. Then she recognized how often she had used responsibility to claim the right to decide for both of them. 'Sunday afternoon,' she repeated. 'I'll be here.' Daniel looked at her, and she corrected herself before he had to. 'If something unavoidable changes, I'll call early. But I'm not planning to let this wait.' He nodded. They sat a little longer, neither offering the other the comfort of calling the separation temporary.
At the door, he picked up the canvas bag. Mara noticed a pale rectangle on the wall where a small photograph had stood on a shelf; she had not seen him remove it. He came back once, reaching into his pocket as though he had forgotten an errand. Then he placed his house key beside the folded grocery list on the kitchen table. She heard his car start outside. The key lay within reach of her hand. Mara did not immediately pick it up.