While it did the gutters coursed and the sidewalks danced, and hissing cars along Howell Road carved plumes through puddles big as lawns. One of those cars, Jean saw as she walked toward home with Natalie, was Jeff Birdy’s orange Barracuda, and the sight of it disappearing into the downpour was almost nostalgic for her, although she gave the boy inside little thought. She concentrated instead on the problem ahead of her. Because the terrible news of Adele’s survival brought with it the prospect of detectives at her door at any moment, and the chance that she might never be able to give another friend her beautiful, practical gift. If that happened, she didn’t see how she could live with herself. So she walked through the rain, hardly saying a word to Natalie, hardly lifting her gaze from the grass encroaching the limits of the sidewalk, and felt the pressures of her obligation building with each soggy step. Natalie wasn’t like her other friends. Jean couldn’t help but dwell on that fact.
