Perfect Match by Jodi Picoult

and then realize that his finger s are making that I, L, Y combination, then reconfiguring into what looks like a peace sign.
    It may not be technically right, but I can understand Nathaniel, loud and clea r.
    I love you, too.
    Myrna Oliphant, the secretary shared by all five assistant district attorne ys in Alfred, is a woman nearly as wide as she is high. Her sensible shoes squeak when she walks, she smells of Brylcreem, and she can allegedly type an astounding hundred words a minute, although no one has ever actually see n her do it. Peter and I always joke that we see more of Myrna's back than her front, since she seems to have a sixth sense about disappearing the mom ent any of us need her.
    So when I walk into my office eight days after Nathaniel stops speaking, a nd she comes right up to me, I know everything's wrong. “Nina,” she says, tsking. “Nina.” She puts her hand to her throat-there are real tears in her eyes. “If there's anything ...”
    “Thank you,” I say, humbled. It does not surprise me that she knows what has happened; I told Peter and I'm sure he filled everyone else in on the relev ant details. The only sick days I've ever used have been when Nathaniel had strep or chicken pox; in a way my absence from work now has been no differen t, except that this illness is more insidious. “But you know, right now, I j ust need to get things taken care of here, so that I can go back home.”
    “Yes, yes.” Myrna clears her throat, going professional. “Your messages, of course, Peter's been taking care of. And Wallace is expecting you.” She he ads back to her desk, but hesitates a moment, remembering. “I put a note up at the church,” she says, and that's when I remember she, too, is a member of the congregation at St. Anne's. There is a small roped square on the Ne ws and Notes bulletin board, where people can request that a Hail Mary or O ur Father be said for family members or friends in need. Myrna smiles at me . “Maybe God's listening to those prayers even now.”
    “Maybe.” I do not say what I'm thinking: And where was God when it My office is just the way I left it. I sit gingerly in my swivel chair, push the papers around on my desk, scan my phone messages. It is good to come ba ck to a place that looks, and is, exactly the way I've remembered it in my m ind.
    A knock. Peter comes in, then shuts the door behind him. “I don't know what to say,” he admits.
    “Then don't say anything. Just come in and sit down.” Peter sprawls in the chair on the other side of my desk. "Are you sure, Nina?
    I mean, is it possible that the psychiatrist is jumping to conclusions?"
    “I saw the same behaviors she did. And I jumped to the same conclusions.” I look up at him. “A specialist found physical proof of penetration, Peter.”
    “Oh, Jesus.” Peter clasps his hands between his knees, at a loss. “What can I do for you, Nina?”
    “You've been doing it. Thanks.” I smile at him. “Whose brain matter was it, in the car?”
    Peter's eyes are soft on my face. “Who the hell cares? You shouldn't be thin king about that. You shouldn't even be here.”
    I am torn between confiding in him, and ruining his good impression of me. “B ut Peter,“ I admit quietly, ”it's easier.”
    There is a long moment of silence. And then: “Best year,” Peter dares. I grab the lifeline. That's simple-I was promoted, and had Nathaniel, within months of each other. “1996. Best victim?”
    “Polly Purebred, from the Underdog cartoon.” Peter glances up as our boss, Wally Moffett, comes into my office. “Hey, chief,” he says to Wally, and then to me, “Best friend?” Peter gets up, heads for the door. “The answer is me. Whatever, whenever. Remember that.”
    “Good man,” Wally says, as Peter leaves. Wally is the standard-issue distric t attorney: lean as a shark, with a full head of hair and a mouthful of capp ed movie-star teeth that could win him reelection all by themselves. He's al so