She would never know the Chicago her father fled, never meet the woman whose eyes she wore, never feel the long shadow that had ruled his life.

That was the whole point of Maine.

It was a long way from a Chicago syndicate and a hospital room and a woman in white gloves.

We had put a continent between us and all of that, deliberately, and in the six months since, the distance had done its slow work, and the fear that had ruled the edges of my husband’s life for five years had begun, finally, to loosen its grip.

Chapter 17 — The Fallout