What people don�t know can�t hurt them.

  The problem with coming clean was that you thought you were clearing the slate, starting over, but it never quite worked that way. You didn�t erase what you�d done. As Laura knew now, the stain would still be there, every time he looked at you, before he remembered to hide the disappointment in his eyes.

  Laura thought of what she had not told Daniel, the things he had not told her. The best decisions in a marriage were based not on honesty but on the number of casualties that the truth might cause, versus the number saved by ignorance.

  With great care, she folded the edge of the newspaper and ripped it gently along the crease. She did this until the advice column had been entirely cut out. Then she folded the article and slipped it under the strap of her bra. The ink smudged on Laura�s fingers, the way it sometimes did when she read the paper. She imagined a tattoo that might go through flesh and bone and blood to reach her heart-a warning, a reminder not to make the same mistake.

  �Ready?� Daniel asked.

  Trixie had been sitting in the truck for five minutes, watching townspeople crowd into the tiny Methodist church. The principal had gone in, as well as the town manager and the selectmen. Two local television stations were broadcasting from the steps of the church, with anchors Daniel recognized from the evening news. �Yes,� Trixie said, but she made no move to get out of the truck.

  Daniel pulled the keys out of the ignition and got out of the truck. He walked around to the passenger door and opened it, unbuckling Trixie�s seat belt just like he used to when she was a baby. He held her hand as she stepped out, into the shock of the cold.

  They took three steps. �Daddy,� she said, stopping, �what if I can�t do this?�

  Her hesitation made him want to carry her back to the truck, hide her so securely that no one would ever hurt her again. But-as he�d learned the hard way-that wasn�t possible.

  He slid an arm around her waist. �Then I�ll do it for you,� he said, and he guided her up the steps of the church, past the shocked wide eyes of the television cameras, through an obstacle course of hissed whispers, to the place where she needed to be.

 

  For a single moment, the focus of everyone in the church swung from the boy in the lily-draped coffin to the girl walking through the double doors. Outside, left alone, Mike Bartholemew emerged from behind a potbellied oak and crouched beside the trail of boot prints that Daniel and Trixie Stone had left in the snow. He lay a ruler down beside the best print of the smaller track and took a camera from his pocket for a few snapshots. Then he sprayed the print with aerosol wax and let the red skin dry on the snow before he spread dental stone to make a cast.

  By the time the mourners adjourned to their cars to caravan to the cemetery for the interment service, Bartholemew was headed back to the police department, hoping to match Trixie Stone�s boot to the mystery print left in the snow on the bridge where Jason Underhill had died.

  �Blessed are those who mourn,� said the minister, �for they will be comforted.�

  Trixie pressed herself more firmly against the back wall of the church. From here, she was completely blocked by the rest of the people who�d come for Jason�s memorial service. She didn�t have to stare at the gleaming coffin. She didn�t have to see Mrs. Underhill, slumped against her husband.

  �Friends, we gather here to comfort and support each other in this time of loss�but most of all we come here to remember and celebrate the mortal life of Jason Adam Underhill and his blessed future at the side of our Lord Jesus Christ.�

  The minister�s words were punctuated by the tight coughs of men who�d promised themselves they wouldn�t cry and the quicksilver hiccups of the women who�d known better than to make a promise they couldn�t keep.

  �Jason was one of those golden boys that the sun seemed to follow. Today, we remember him for the way he could make us laugh with a joke and the devotion he applied to everything he did. We remember him as a loving son and grandson, a caring cousin, a steadfast friend. We remember him as a gifted athlete and a diligent student. But most of all we remember him because Jason, in the short time we had with him, managed to touch each and every one of us.�

  The first time Jason touched Trixie, they were in his car, and he was illegally teaching her how to drive. You have to let up on the clutch while you shift, he explained, as she�d jerked the little Toyota around an empty parking lot. Maybe I should just wait until I�m sixteen, Trixie had said when she�d stalled for the bazillionth time. Jason had laced his fingers between hers on the stick shift, guiding her through the motions, until all she could think about was the temperature of his hand heating hers. Then Jason had grinned at her. Why wait?

  The minister�s voice grew like a vine. �In Lamentations 3, we hear these words: My soul is bereft of peace; I have forgotten what happiness is; so I say, �Gone is my glory, and all that I had hoped for from the Lord.� We, whom Jason left behind, must wonder if these were the thoughts that weighed heavy on his heart, that led him to believe there was no other way out.�

  Trixie closed her eyes. She had lost her virginity in a field of lupine behind the ice rink, where the Zamboni shavings were dumped, an artificial winter smack in the middle of the September flowers. Jason had borrowed the key from the rinkmaster and taken her skating after the rink was closed for the day. He�d laced up her skates and told her to close her eyes. Then he�d reached for her hands, skating backward so fast she felt like she was falling to earth. We�re writing in cursive, he told her as he pulled in a straight line. Can you read it? Then he looped the breadth of the rink, skated a circle, a right angle, a tinier loop, finishing with a curl. I LOVE O? Trixie had recited, and Jason had laughed. Close enough, he�d said. Later, in that field, with the pile of snow hiding them from sight, Jason had again been moving at lightning speed, and Trixie could not quite keep up. When he pushed inside her, she turned her head to watch the lupine tremble on their shivering stems, so that he wouldn�t realize he�d hurt her.

  �In the past few days, you who are Jason�s family and friends have been struggling with the questions that surround his death. You are feeling a fraction of the pain, maybe, that Jason felt in those last, dark hours. You might be reliving the last time you spoke to him. You might be wondering, Is there anything I should have said or done that I didn�t? That might have made a difference?�

  Trixie suddenly saw Jason holding her down on Zephyr�s white living room carpet. If she�d been brave enough to peek that night, would she have seen the bruises blooming on his jaw, the smile rotting off his face?

  �Into your hands, O Savior, we commend your servant Jason Underhill. We pray for you to recognize this child of yours��

  His breath fell onto her lips, but he tasted of worms. His fingers bit so hard into her wrists that she looked down and saw only his bones, as the flesh peeled away from him.

  �Receive him into your never-ending mercy. Grant him everlasting peace, and eternal life in your light.�

  Trixie tried to swim back to the minister�s words. She craved light, too, but all she could see were the black and blue stripes of the nights when Jason came to haunt her. Or maybe she was seeing the nights when she had gone to him willingly. It was all mixed up now. She couldn�t separate the real Jason from the ghost; she couldn�t untangle what she�d wanted from what she didn�t.

  Maybe it had always been like that.

  The scream started so deep inside of her that she thought it was just a resonance, like a tuning fork that could not stop trembling. Trixie didn�t realize that the sound spilled through her seams, overflowing, bearing Jason�s coffin like a tide and sweeping it off its stanchions. She didn�t know that she�d fallen to her knees, and that every single eye in the congregation was on her, as it had been before the service began. And she didn�t trust herself to believe that the savior the minister had been summoning had reached through the very roof of the church and carried her outside where she could breathe again-not until she found the courage to open her eyes and found herself safe and away, cradled in her father�s arms.

  Trixie�s boot prints matched. Unfortunately, they were Sorels, which accounted for a large portion of all winter footwear sold in the state of Maine. They had no telltale crack of the sole, or a tack stuck into the rubber, to prove without any considerable doubt that it was Trixie�s particular boot that had been on that bridge the night Jason Underhill had died, as opposed to anyone else who wore a size seven and happened to favor the same footwear.

  As a rape victim, she had the motive to be a suspect. But a boot print alone-one that hundreds of townspeople shared-wouldn�t be enough probable cause to convince a judge to swear out a warrant for Trixie�s arrest.

  �Ernie, get out of there,� Bartholemew said, scolding the potbellied pig he�d brought out for a walk. To be perfectly honest, it wasn�t wholly professional to bring a pig to a crime scene, but he�d been working round the clock and couldn�t leave Ernestine at home alone any longer. He figured as long as he kept her away from the area that had been cordoned off by the techs, it was all right.

  �Not near the water,� Bartholemew called. The pig glanced at him and scooted down the riverbank. �Fine,� he said. �Go drown. See if I care.�

  But all the same, Bartholemew leaned over the railing of the bridge to watch the pig walk along the edge of the river. The spot where Jason�s body had broken the ice was frozen again, more translucent than the rest. A fluorescent orange flag stapled to a stake marked the northern edge of the crime scene.

  Laura Stone�s alibi had checked out: Phone records put her at the college, and then back at her residence. But several witnesses had noticed both Daniel and Trixie Stone at the Winterfest. One driver had even seen them both, in a parking lot, with Jason Underhill.

  Trixie could have murdered Jason, in spite of the size difference between them. Jason had been drunk, and a well-placed shove might have tumbled him over the bridge. It wouldn�t account for Jason�s bruised and fractured face, but Bartholemew didn�t hold Trixie responsible for that. Most likely, it had gone down this way: Jason saw Trixie in town and started to talk to her, but Daniel Stone stumbled onto their encounter. He beat the guy to a pulp, Jason ran off, and Trixie followed him to the bridge.

  Bartholemew had believed, initially, that Daniel had lied about not seeing Jason in town that night, and that Trixie had told him about the fight to cover for her father. But what if it had been the other way around? What if Trixie had told the truth, and Daniel-knowing that his daughter had been in contact with Jason already that night-had lied to protect her?

  Suddenly Ernestine began to root, her snout burrowing. God only knew what she�d found-the most she�d ever turned up was a dead mouse that had crawled under the foundation of his garage. He watched with mild interest as she created a pile of dirty snow behind her.

  Then something winked at him.

  Bartholemew slid down the steep grade of the riverbank, slipped on a plastic glove from his pocket, and pulled a man�s wristwatch out of the snow behind Ernestine.

  It was an Eddie Bauer watch with a royal blue face and a woven canvas band. The buckle was missing. Bartholemew squinted up at the bridge, trying to imagine the trajectory and the distance from there to here. Could Jason�s arm have struck the railing and snapped the buckle? The medical examiner had found splinters in the boy�s fingers-had he lost his watch while he was desperately trying to hang on?

  He took out his cell phone and dialed the medical examiner�s number. �It�s Bartholemew,� he said when Anjali answered. �Did Jason Underhill wear a watch?�

  �He wasn�t brought in wearing one.�

  �I just found one at the crime scene. Is there any way to tell if it�s his?�

  �Hang on.� Bartholemew heard her rummage through papers. �I�ve got the autopsy photos here. On the left wrist, there�s a band of skin that�s a bit lighter than the rest of his arm�s skin tone. Why don�t you see if the parents recognize it?�

  �That�s my next stop,� Bartholemew said. �Thanks.� As he hung up and started to slide the watch into a plastic evidence bag, he noticed something he hadn�t seen at first-a hair had gotten caught around the little knob used to set the time.

  It was about an inch long, and coarse. There seemed to be a root attached, as if it had been yanked out.

  Mike thought of Jason�s all-American good looks, of his dark hair and blue eyes. He held the watch up against the white canvas of his own dress shirt sleeve for comparison. In such stark relief, the hair was as red as a sunset, as red as shame, as red as any other hair on Trixie Stone�s head.

  �Twice in one week?� Daniel said, opening the door to find Detective Bartholemew standing on the porch again. �I must have won the lottery.�

  Daniel was still wearing his button-down shirt from the funeral, although he�d stripped off the tie and left it noosed around one of the kitchen chairs. He could feel the detective surveying the house over his right shoulder.

  �You got a minute, Mr. Stone?� Bartholemew asked. �And actually�is Trixie here? It would be great if she could sit down with us.�

  �She�s asleep,� Daniel said. �We went to Jason�s funeral, and she got pretty upset there. When we got home, she went straight to bed.�

  �What about your wife?�

  �She�s at the college. Guess I�m it for right now.�

  He led Bartholemew into the living room and sat across from him. �I wouldn�t have expected you to attend Jason Underhill�s funeral,� the detective said.

  �It was Trixie�s idea. I think she was looking for closure.�

  �You said she got upset during the service?�

  �I think it was too much for her, emotionally.� Daniel hesitated. �You didn�t come here to ask about this, did you?�

  The detective shook his head. �Mr. Stone, on the night of the Winterfest, you said you never ran into Jason. But Trixie told me that you and Jason had a fistfight.�

  Daniel felt the blood drain from his face. When had Bartholemew talked to Trixie?

  �Am I supposed to assume that your daughter was lying?�

  �No, I was,� Daniel said. �I was afraid you�d charge me with assault.�

  �Trixie also told me that Jason ran off.�

  �That�s right.�

  �Did she follow him, Mr. Stone?�

  Daniel blinked. �What?�

  �Did she follow Jason Underhill to the bridge?�

  He pictured the light of the turning car washing over them, and the minute Jason wrenched away. He heard himself calling for Trixie and realizing she wasn�t there. �Of course not,� he said.

  �That�s interesting. Because I�ve got boot prints, and blood, and hair that puts her at the crime scene.�

  �What crime scene?� Daniel said. �Jason Underhill committed suicide.�

  The detective just lifted his gaze. Daniel thought of the hour he�d spent searching for Trixie after she�d run away. He remembered the cuts he�d seen on Trixie�s arms the day she was washing the dishes, scratches he�d assumed had been made by her own hand, and not someone else�s, trying desperately to hold on.

  Daniel had bequeathed Trixie his dimples, his long fingers, his photographic memory. But what about the other markers of heredity? Could a parent pass along the gene for revenge, for rage, for escape? Could a trait he�d buried so long ago resurface where he least expected it: in his daughter?

  �I�d really like to speak to Trixie,� Bartholemew said.

  �She didn�t kill Jason.�

  �Terrific,� the detective replied. �Then she won�t mind giving us a blood sample to compare with the physical evidence, so that we can rule her out.� He clasped his hands together between his knees. �Why don�t you see if she�s about ready to wake up?�

  Although Daniel knew life didn�t work this way, he truly believed that he had the chance to save his daughter the way he hadn�t been able to save her the night she was raped, as if there were some running cosmic tally of victory and defeat. He could get a lawyer. He could spirit her away to Fiji or Guadalcanal or somewhere they�d never be found. He could do whatever was necessary; he just needed to formulate a plan.

  The first step was to talk to her before the detective did.

  After convincing Bartholemew to wait in the living room-Trixie was, after all, still scared of her own shadow half the time-Daniel headed upstairs. He was shaking, terrified with what he would say to Trixie, even more terrified to hear her response. With every step up the stairs, he thought of escape routes: the attic, his bedroom balcony. Sheets knotted together and tossed out a window.

  Daniel decided he�d ask her point-blank, when she was too wrapped in the silver veil of sleep to dissemble. Depending on her answer, he�d either take her down to Bartholemew to prove the detective wrong, or he�d carry Trixie to the far ends of the earth himself.

  The door to Trixie�s room was still closed; with his ear pressed against it, Daniel heard nothing but silence.

  After they had come home from the funeral, Daniel had sat on Trixie�s bed with her curled in his lap, the way he had once held her during bouts of stomach flu, rubbing her belly or her back until she slipped over the fine line of sleep. Now he turned the knob slowly, hoping to wake Trixie up by degrees.

  The first thing Daniel noticed was how cold it was. The second was the window, wide open.

  The room looked like the aftermath of a tropical storm. Clothes lay trampled on the floor. Sheets were balled at the foot of the bed. Makeup, looseleaf papers, and magazines had been dumped-the contents of a missing knapsack. Her toothbrush and hairbrush were gone. And the little clay jar where Trixie kept her cash was empty.

  Had Trixie heard the detective downstairs? Had she left before Bartholemew even arrived? She was only a teenager; how far could she get?

  Daniel moved to the window and traced the zigzag track of her flight on the snow from her room to the sloped roof, to the maple tree�s outstretched arm, across the lawn to bare pavement, at which point she simply disappeared. He thought of her words to him, a day before, when he�d seen the cuts on her arm: It�s how I run away.

  Frantic, he stared at the icy roof. She could have killed herself.

  And on the heels of that thought: She still might.

  What if Trixie managed to get someplace where, when she tried to swallow pills or cut her wrists or sleep in a cloud of carbon monoxide, nobody stopped her?

  A person was never who you thought he was. It was true for him; maybe it was true for Trixie too. Maybe-in spite of what he wanted to believe, in spite of what he hoped-she had killed Jason.

  What if Daniel wasn�t the first one to find her?