She had driven home for the sentencing. She remembered the way the neighbors looked at her mother in the grocery store - not cruelly, not all of them, but with that careful, deliberate politeness that was worse than cruelty because it meant people were working at it. She remembered sitting in the courtroom watching her father stand to receive his sentence and thinking: I don't recognize him. The man who had stolen from the town that trusted him, who had lied for years to the people who believed in the Bancroft name - she couldn't fit him inside the same person who had carried her on his shoulders past the break, laughing while she shrieked at the waves.

She had stayed in school. She'd had to. There was no money coming from home anymore, the legal fees had gutted what savings her parents had, and so Hazel had picked up jobs - waitressing, data entry, weekend work cleaning vacation rentals - and she had made it through on stubbornness and financial aid and a flat refusal to let what her father had done become the ending of her own story.

And then her junior year, the second phone call.

Her father had been out of prison for four months. He was staying with her mother again - they had separated during his sentence and reconciled after, tentatively, the way people do when there is nowhere else to go. He had been drinking more than he should have been, and Hazel had noticed on her last visit and told herself it was temporary, the man had just done three and a half years in federal prison, give him time to readjust. She had told herself what you tell yourself when the alternative is too hard to think about directly.

He'd gotten into his truck on a Tuesday night in November, on a road she knew - Route 1 just north of town, a curve that wasn't dangerous unless you were going too fast. The other driver had walked away. Her father had not.

She had been twenty-one years old. She had been, in every practical sense, alone.

She hadn't cried at the funeral. She still didn't fully understand why. She'd stood in the receiving line for two hours, shaking hands and saying thank you for coming and yes, he would have loved all this, and her face hadn't cracked once. It was only three days later, when she'd found his jacket draped over the back of her couch - he'd left it on his last visit and she'd been meaning to return it - that she sat down on the kitchen floor and cried in a way she'd never cried before and hoped never to cry again. Not dignified. The other kind.

She was twenty-three now. Two years from then to now, and she had rebuilt herself into something functional. Most days she managed not to think about the jacket for hours at a stretch. Some days she managed not to think about it at all.

Today was not one of those days.

Warren Hollis had come to work for her father straight out of a political science program at Bowdoin - twenty-two years old and sharp and effortlessly good with people, the kind of person who remembered names after one introduction and made everyone feel like the most important person in the room. Douglas Bancroft had liked him immediately. her father used to say, with an admiration that Hazel now found difficult to think about.