Guilt by G. H. Ephron

afternoon in a rage? When Peter mentioned this to Pearl, she said to stop hakken her—Yiddish for “butt out.” She reminded him that she was the resident noodge.
    By the time he got into East Cambridge, the trial was due to start in ten minutes. Parking spots were scarce, and there’d be a backup at the metal detector at the entrance. With their official IDs, Chip and Annie could zip through without waiting on line. He hoped they weren’t still waiting for him.
    He squeezed his Miata into a space on the top floor of the parking garage on Third and didn’t bother to wait for the elevator. He ran five flights down, then cut across Bullfinch Square. If he hadn’t been in such a hurry, he’d have slowed down to enjoy the refurbished century-old courtyard, an oasis of calm surrounded by early nineteenth-century red-brick court buildings.
    He started down the steps to the street. Across the busy intersection stood the modern, nondescript Middlesex District Court, a building whose only virtue was to remind the good citizens of the Commonwealth that progress wasn’t always a good thing. The structure had so much less appeal with its ugly concrete and—
    Peter never got to finish the thought. A powerful shock wave forced him back. Time seemed to slow down as he felt himself lifted off the ground. Somewhere in midair he registered the sound of an explosion. Next thing he knew, he was flat on his back in the courtyard.
    He lay there, sounds suddenly muted. Scores of pigeons flapped against a blue sky. They must have been blown out of their roosts. A deep shadow fell, like a hand had reached out to blot the sun. The air hung thick with sulphur.
    Peter lifted his head. Car alarms clanged. He could make out raised voices. Somewhere a woman was screaming.
    Trying not to move too fast, he propped himself on one elbow. The ground sparkled with broken glass. His back and his head hurt like hell. He touched his forehead, his head. No blood. He looked down. Legs and arms seemed intact. The only thing missing was his briefcase.
    Peter started to get up, but a wave of dizziness forced him down again. He rolled onto his hands and knees and crawled to the top of the steps. From there, he looked down at the devastation. Traffic had come to a halt. Black smoke billowed from where the glass doors had blown off the front of the courthouse. People were lying on the sidewalk and in the street, blood everywhere. If he hadn’t been running late, he’d have been one of them.
    A man in a business suit was on his knees a few feet away, talking on a cell phone. Peter could only make out the occasional word: “injured.… explosion.… Thorndike Street.”
    More slowly this time, Peter got to his feet. He saw his briefcase lying on a step halfway down. It was open, and the papers spilled out. He’d have to gather them up before they all blew away, Peter thought distractedly; otherwise he wouldn’t have what he needed to testify. That’s why he was here. To testify about the effects of alcohol on judgment. The trial should be getting under way—he looked at his watch—any minute. Chip and Annie should be waiting for him.…
    The situation snapped into focus, and Peter stared at the smoking lobby, emptiness edging on nausea in the pit of his stomach, a cold sweat on his back. Were Chip and Annie somewhere in there?

7
    â€œI S THAT adorable or what?” Annie’s sister Abby asked as she tucked a strand of long red hair behind her ear with a manicured finger. Once upon a time, it had bothered Annie that Abby was perfect—five-foot-five, silky straight hair, hourglass figure, turned-up nose. And no freckles.
    They were outside a grassy enclosure in a part of the Franklin Park Zoo closed to the public. Jackie, Sophie, and Abby’s boyfriend, Luke Thompson—the guy Abby had been keeping under wraps—were pressed up against the chain-link fence watching a