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As he drove along, he passed by a jewelry store that was locked up tight for the night, and then a florist and then an antique shop that he knew his wife liked to browse in.

She’d given him three children. Nearly twenty years of marriage. And space to work this career of his.

He’d given her a lot of lonely nights. Dinners with just the kids. Vacations that were limited to a day or two tacked onto dermatology conferences.

And a Volvo.

It took T.W. twenty minutes to get to a Hannaford that was open all night, and he jogged into the supermarket even though there was no closing time to worry about.

The flower section was to the left, just as he walked in through the automatic doors. As he saw the roses and the chrysanthemums and the lilies, he thought about backing up his Lexus and filling the trunk with bouquets. And the backseat.

In the end though, he chose one single flower, and he held it carefully between his thumb and forefinger all the way home.

He parked in the garage, but didn’t go in through the kitchen. Instead he went to the front door and rang the bell.

His wife’s familiar, lovely face peeked out of the long, thin windows that framed their colonial’s entryway. She looked confused as she opened the door.

“Did you forget your—”

T.W. held the flower out in his burned hand.

It was a lowly little daisy. Exactly the kind she’d brought to him once a week in the hospital. For two months straight.

“I don’t say thank-you enough,” T.W. murmured. “Or I love you. Or that I still think you’re as beautiful as the day I married you.”

His wife’s hand trembled as she took the flower. “T.W. . . . are you okay?”

“God . . . the fact that you have to ask that just because I bring you a flower . . .” He shook his head and hugged her into his arms, holding her tight. “I’m sorry.”

Their teenage daughter walked by them and rolled her eyes before heading up the stairs. “Get a room.”

T.W. pulled back and tucked his wife’s salt-and-pepper hair back behind her ears. “I think we should take her advice, what do you say? And by the way, we’re going somewhere for our anniversary—and not to a conference.”

His wife smiled and then outright beamed. “What has gotten into you?”

“I saw this patient and his wife tonight. . . .” He winced and rubbed his temple. “I mean . . . what was I saying?”

“How about dinner?” his wife said, fitting herself into his side. “And then we’ll see about that room?”

T.W. leaned into his wife as he shut the door. As they went down the hall to the kitchen together, he kissed her. “That sounds perfect. Just perfect.”

TEN

Back at the Brotherhood’s mansion, Z stood at one of the windows in his and Bella’s bedroom and looked down over the terrace and the back gardens. His wrist burned from where the laser had been applied, but the pain wasn’t bad.

“I’m not surprised by the whole thing,” he said. “Well, other than the fact that I liked the doc.”

Bella came up behind him and put her arms around his waist. “He was a good guy, wasn’t he.”

As they stood together, there was a whole lot of what-now floating around the room. Unfortunately he didn’t have any answers. He’d kind of banked on the bands being removed, like that would somehow make everything better.

Although it wasn’t as if there weren’t still scars on his face.

From the nursery Nalla let out a burble and then a hiccup. A cry was next.

“I just fed her and changed her,” Bella said, pulling away. “I’m not sure what this is about—”

“Let me go to her,” he said in a tight voice. “Let me see if I can . . .”

Bella’s eyebrows lifted, but then she nodded. “Okay. I’ll stay here.”

“I won’t drop her. I promise.”

“I know you won’t. Just make sure you support her head.”

“Right. Got it.”

Z felt like he was going unarmed into a field of lessers when he walked into the nursery.

As if sensing him, Nalla let out a whiffle.

“It’s your father. Dad. Papa.” What would she call him?

He went over and peered down at his daughter. She was dressed in a Red Sox onesie, no doubt a gift from V and/or Butch, and