By four thirty the sun had sunk behind the courthouse’s brick roof, leaving the parking lot in deep gray shadow.

Sophie and I walked toward her little blue sedan while the damp November wind shook the bare oaks along the street.

Hard leather soles clicked quickly across the asphalt behind us.

“Mrs.

Miller, please, wait a moment,” Dean’s lawyer called, pulling his wool scarf tight around his neck.

We stopped by the passenger door as he caught up to us.

“The prosecutor is drawing up the final restitution papers right now,” the lawyer said.