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“Not to him,” Trainor said. “To his father.”

He reached behind him for a glass and handed it to me. He didn’t ask; he just handed me the glass. I took it and let him pour the wine into it. It was still not yet noon, but I figured that this would be the wrong time to comment on morning drinking. I accepted it and hoped that it would loosen his tongue.

Eban Trainor sat back and crossed his legs. He stared into his wineglass as though it were a crystal ball. “Do you remember the Martindale Little League incident?”

Now it was my turn to look at the wine. I took a sip. “The pedophilia scandal?”

“Yes.”

It had to be fifteen, maybe even twenty years ago, but I remembered because it was one of the first cases that received a lot of press. “The coach or head of a Little League was raping young boys, right?”

“That was the accusation, yes.”

“It wasn’t true?”

“No,” Eban said slowly, taking yet another deep sip. “It wasn’t true.”

We just sat there.

“So what does that have to do with Todd Sanderson?”

“Not him.” There was a slur now in Eban’s voice. “But the coach or head of the Little League, as you just described him.”

I saw it now. “It was his father?”

Eban pointed at me. “Bingo.”

I didn’t know what to say to that.

“Todd Sanderson skipped that semester to help his father,” Eban said. “He supported his family financially—his father was fired as a schoolteacher, of course—offered moral support, did whatever he could.”

I was surprised and confused, but it all just raised the central question in this whole line of questioning: What could any of this possibly have to do with my Natalie?

“I don’t remember the case that well,” I said. “How did it end? Did Todd’s father serve any time?”

“No. He was found innocent.”

“Oh?” I said.

“The outcome didn’t really get much press. That’s part of our process. The accusation gets page one. The retraction not so much.”

“So he was found not guilty?”

“That’s correct.”

“Big difference though between not guilty and innocent.”

“True,” Eban said, “but not in this case. During the first week of trial, it came to light that a vindictive parent made it up because Todd’s father wouldn’t let his son pitch. The lie just snowballed. But in the end Todd’s father was cleared of all charges.”

“And Todd returned to school?”

“Yes.”

“And I assume the derogatory comment had something to do with the accusations against Todd’s father?”

Eban raised an unsteady hand in mock toast. “You are correct, sir. You see, despite the new evidence, many believed, as you did, that where there was smoke there was fire. Mr. Sanderson must have done something. Maybe not this. But something. Especially after what happened after the trial.”

“What happened after the trial?”

He stared at his glass again. I was losing him.

“Eban?”

“I’m getting to it.”

I waited, gave him his space.

“Todd Sanderson came from a small Southern town. His father had lived there his entire life. But now, well, you could imagine. He couldn’t get a job. His friends wouldn’t talk to him. See, no one had truly believed him. You can’t unring that bell, Jacob. We teach that here, don’t we? Only one person still believed in him.”

“Todd,” I said.

“Yes.”

“Weren’t there other family members? Todd’s mother?”

“Long dead.”

“So what happened?”

“His father was crushed, of course, but he insisted that Todd go back to school. Did you read Todd’s transcript?”

“Yes.”

“Then you know already. Todd was a magnificent student, one of the finest ever to attend Lanford. He had a bright future. His father saw that too. But Todd wouldn’t come back. He saw it as abandoning his father in his hour of most need. Todd flat-out refused to return until the situation at home got better. But of course, as we know all too well, situations like this don’t get better. So Todd’s father did the only thing he thought he could to end his own pain and free his son to continue his studies.”

Our eyes met. His were wet now.

“Oh no,” I said.

“Oh yes.”

“How . . . ?”

“His father broke into the school where he used to work and shot himself in the head. See, he didn’t want his son to be the one who found his body.”

Chapter 12

Three weeks before Natalie dumped me, when we were madly in love, we sneaked down from our retreats in Kraftboro to visit Lanford. “I want to see this place that means so much to you,” she said.

I remember the way her eyes lit up when she walked with me on that campus. We held hands. Natalie wore a big straw hat, which was both endearing and odd, and sunglasses. She looked a bit like a movie star in disguise.

“When you were a student here,” she asked me, “where did you take the hot coeds?”

“Straight to bed.”

Natalie playfully slapped my arm. “I’m serious. And hungry.”

So we headed to Judie’s Restaurant on Main Avenue. Judie made a wonderful popover and apple butter. Natalie loved it. I watched her take it all in—the artwork, the décor, the young waitstaff, the menu, everything. “So this is where you took your ladies?”

“The classy ones,” I said.

“Wait, where did you take the, uh, classless ones?”