“Thanks.” Christine drove down Warwick Street, slightly downhill, and they entered a residential section of West Chester. Well-maintained colonial-vintage row houses with Victorian porches lined block after block, each home with brick façades and paneled shutters painted in tasteful Williamsburg hues of light blue, grayish browns, or daffodil yellow. Most of the front doors sported decorative wreaths, and colorful glazed pots of impatiens and petunias sat atop the front steps. The houses had no front yards because they were built directly on the sidewalk, as they would have been in the 1700s and 1800s, reminding Christine of the older sections of Mystic and Marblehead.

“This is pretty.”

Christine looked ahead to the next block, where there seemed an unusual amount of traffic slowing in front of one of the houses. “I think that’s 305, her house.”

“Oh man. People are stopping by to pay their respects.”

“Right.” Christine was getting the idea that the murder of Gail Robinbrecht might have disappeared from national headlines, but the story was heartbreakingly alive in West Chester.

“Look, a memorial.” Lauren pointed to the right, and as Christine drove closer, she spotted in the middle of the block a lovely three-story house with moss-green shutters. People stood in front, gathering around a sad grouping of flowers, candles, stuffed animals, and homemade signs. Cars lined the block, and some double-parked in front of number 305, with their blinkers on.

“That’s sad.” Lauren shook her head. “I hate to think that people can be that evil.”

“I know.” Christine was wondering if Zachary could be that evil and if evil was inherited. She drove slowly as she approached the house, then navigated around the double-parked cars, glancing over at the signs. WE WILL MISS YOU, GAIL, read one handwritten placard with a bunch of signatures, and another sign had a picture of a lovely young woman, presumably Gail, but Christine couldn’t see much detail from her side of the car.

“You sure you want to do this?” Lauren asked, looking over. “This reminds me of Sabrina, remember?”

“Yes,” Christine said, her throat tight. Sabrina Bryfogle had been one of the most beloved teachers in the fourth grade, passing last year from breast cancer. The faculty had been stricken to lose her, and they’d called in grief counselors for the students. Sabrina’s memorial tree grew by the soccer field, and Christine would never forget the outpouring of emotion at the memorial service.

“I hate cancer.”

“I hate cancer, too.”

“But I hate murder more.”

“I do, too. I hate that anybody has to die, ever.” Christine was thinking of her father. She turned the corner, looking for a parking space that she wasn’t sure she wanted to find. “Maybe we should leave. I don’t want to bum you out.”

“No, that’s okay,” Lauren said, rallying. “We’re here, and I see a space at the end of the block. Go park, it’s okay.”

“Okay, thanks. I don’t know what I’m expecting to find, I’m just curious.” Christine drove forward to the space, which was at the corner, where she parked and cut the ignition. They got out of the car, and Christine crossed behind it to the sidewalk, where she fell into step with Lauren. They passed a woman with over-processed bright red hair sweeping the sidewalk, a cigarette clamped between her teeth.

“Hello,” Christine said politely.

The woman straightened up with a deep frown. Her eyes were a bloodshot blue, and her nose was vaguely reddish, like a drinker. She was dressed in a vintage Ramones T-shirt, cutoff shorts, and pink flip-flops, and blurry tattoos blanketed her arms. “Going to see Gail’s?”

“Yes.”

“You from Connecticut?”

“Yes,” Christine answered, surprised. “How do you know?”

“The license plate.” The woman motioned toward the car with her broom. “I’ve been seeing all kind of plates, you’re not even the farthest. People came down from Québec yesterday. They don’t even know her. People, they’re ghoulish. It’s sick.”

“Not really,” Christine said, defensive. “They’re just trying to be nice, I think. Don’t you?”

“Hmph.” The woman turned her back, returning to sweeping, while she talked to herself. “What’s nice about it? Come see where the lady was killed by the Nurse Murderer? Everybody in town’s talking about it. Everybody’s saying the same thing, ‘I just saw her, she was just here.’ Everybody locking their doors now. We never used to have to lock our doors around here. Never!”

Christine and Lauren exchanged glances, but neither of them said anything, and they resumed walking again. They came to a break in the row houses, and a skinny asphalt street that ran behind the row houses, each of which seemed to have a backyard. Blue recycling bins and numbered trash cans lined the spiky privacy fences along the back wall of the yards. Most were also fenced on the sides by more tall wood, white picket, or old-school iron, separating one neighbor from the next, and some yards contained pretty gardens around bistro tables, but others were paved over, converted to a driveway.

The women kept walking, and Christine felt an increasing sadness the closer they got to the house, and by the time they turned the corner and walked partway up the block, she regretted having come. A small group of forlorn people clustered around the memorial, their heads bent over a pastel pile of sympathy cards, scented and votive candles, and more than one SpongeBob SquarePants; Gail Robinbrecht must have been a fan, which touched Christine, showing that the nurse had had a sense of fun. Photographs of Gail covered the signs; candids showing her in navy scrubs at the hospital, hiking with three other women on a hillside covered with wildflowers, or cuddling a chubby calico near a bookshelf full of books.

Christine felt an ache in her heart. She prayed to God that Zachary hadn’t been responsible for the brutal death of this lovely woman, then caught herself, realizing that Zachary might not have been her donor at all. Either way, she felt terrible if Zachary had killed Gail, or that anybody had killed her. She heard snatches of the sorrowful talk around them: “… how could this happen…” “… she was so dedicated…” “… I’ll never forget how she helped my son when he had his tonsils out…” “… she was the best, just the best…”