Fiona slings her bag over her shoulder and strides away to open the door.

  Andrea Carson is one of those girls who will probably never take advantage of her potential—physical or otherwise. She’s about fifteen pounds overweight, with acne and stringy hair. All of which can be remedied. In fact, every time Fiona sees her, she thinks,If she were my daughter…

  But she isn’t.

  And Fiona’s got enough on her plate without offering a makeover to the neighborhood ugly duckling.

  “Hi, Mrs. Hagan.”

  Fiona’s skin crawls at the name, but she doesn’t bother to correct the girl. She’s told her, how many times now, that she prefers to be calledMs. Fitzgerald, but it never sinks in.

  “How are you today, Andrea?” She aims her key remote toward the BMW and hears it beep as she unlocks the doors.

  “I’m good.”

  “So I’ll be at the office, call me if you need—what is that?” she breaks off to ask, seeing that Andrea is holding out a package toward her.

  “I don’t know. It was propped against your door. It’s for you, see?”

  “I see,” Fiona murmurs, staring at the block letters that read FIONA.

  Quincy Hiles has never liked New York City.

  Maybe that’s because it’s unfamiliar turf; he doesn’t know his way around the vast network of streets, bridges, and tunnels.

  Or maybe it’s simply because this is the home of his hometown baseball team’s archrivals.

  Yeah, that’s it. And maybe it’s lame, but he can’t help it. As a fan, he takes the sport almost as seriously as he did when he was playing it.

  Routed off the New England Thruway by an accident, Quincy is riddled by unpleasant memories as he drives past Yankee Stadium with Connelly in the passenger’s seat.

  He finds himself telling Mike about the time, back when he was first married, that he and Bev spent a long weekend in New York and went to a ball game at Yankee Stadium.

  Quincy wore a Red Sox cap—and came out feeling lucky to be alive. The Yankees weren’t even playing the Sox that day; they were hosting the Blue Jays. But that didn’t matter. Mercilessly heckling fans welcomed the telltale redB on Quincy’s blue cap about as warmly as…

  Well, as warmly as Fenway Park would have welcomed an intertwined whiteNY on a navy one.

  Of course Quincy kept that cap on his head, no matter how much his wife begged him to take it off so they could enjoy the game in peace.

  “No wonder she dumped you.” Mike shakes his head. “You’re a stubborn S.O.B., you know that?”

  “Yeah, I know that. Comes in handy on the job.”

  But not in a marriage.

  Now that he’s on the verge of putting his career behind him, too, he wonders if he’s ready to maybe start dating again. It’s been years since his first feeble attempts after the divorce. He quickly concluded there was no room in his life for both women and work, so he chose work.

  Maybe in retirement, though, he’ll go back to women.

  By the time they’ve reached midtown Manhattan, ninety traffic-snarled minutes later, his IBS is acting up. Not just because he’s in Yankee territory, or thinking about dating again, but because of overall job stress.

  And he’s yawning so much he’d kill for a cup of coffee, but of course it’s taboo.

  He hasn’t slept much the last few nights. Insomnia sets in whenever he’s embroiled in a case like this.

  Once, when Quincy’s daughter Sondra was about ten, the two of them spent a rainy beach-vacation day working on a puzzle they found in their rented condo. No matter how hard they tried, they couldn’t put it together. Finally, they realized that an entire cluster of key pieces was missing—and that someone had dumped stray pieces from a similar puzzle into the box.

  Quincy can’t help but feel that this case is like that. He was in the process of solving one puzzle when pieces of another started popping up.

  In terms of the original questions surrounding Matilda Harrington’s death, they still haven’t been able to corroborate Ray Wilmington’s story about her secret romance.

  And Wilmington still isn’t talking. It doesn’t help that his mother keeps going on and on about the shame he’s brought to her, and that he lost his job in the wake of all this. For him, that was apparently the final straw. It’s as if some switch in his brain has cut off any willingness to communicate on any level. Of course, the detectives have him under constant surveillance, and they keep bringing him in for questioning, but no one is making any headway with Wilmington’s monosyllabic answers.

  Quincy’s gut tells him that that whole angle is a dead end, though. Why would Wilmington—or some secret boyfriend, married or dirt poor or not—leave a scrap of sorority sweater at the crime scene?

  He probably wouldn’t.

  That piece of evidence was left to taunt the police, to send some kind of message—a message that seems to be somehow tied to Matilda’s sorority-girl past.

  Yes, Quincy is stumped, despite having spent yesterday with Deb at the Zeta Delta Kappa house learning as much as they could about Matilda Harrington’s college years, and Rachel Lorent’s disappearance. The housemother was as helpful as she could be, but she doesn’t have any answers.

  She did provide the names of several of Matilda Harrington’s close friends from her sorority days: Brynn Saddler, Fiona Fitzgerald, and Cassandra Ashford.

  Quincy couldn’t reach any of them by telephone last night and opted not to leave messages. He’ll try them again.

  Meanwhile, he and Mike are going to talk to Isaac Halpern, who agreed to meet him this morning. Quincy said they were contacting everyone who attended Matilda Harrington’s memorial service, and Halpern seemed to take the interview request pretty much in stride.

  Walking into the relatively quiet diner on East Twenty-Second Street with Mike, Quincy immediately recognizes Halpern. He’s sitting alone in a booth toward the back, nursing a cup of coffee.

  “You guys didn’t drive all the way down to New York just to talk to me, did you?” he asks after the detectives have been seated, dutifully shown him their badges, and ordered: coffee for Mike, herbal tea for Quincy.

  “It’s routine,” he assures Halpern, thinking that with his dark good looks and natural charisma, he doesn’t seem like the kind of person who might have anything to do with a grisly murder.

  But then, Quincy reminds himself, neither did the notorious Scott Peterson, or Ted Bundy, or countless other depraved killers who had everyone around them fooled.

  True, only the slimmest fraction of psychopaths are cold-blooded murderers, but those who are can expertly pass themselves off as loving husbands, caring fathers, loyal sons…and, yes, concerned brothers.

  “Tell us about your sister,” he urges Isaac.

  “My sister? I thought we were going to talk about Matilda Harrington. Not that I know much about her, like I said.”

  “She was friends with your sister, though,” Mike points out.

  “Right.”

  “Have you been in touch with her since Rachel disappeared?”

  “Her, personally? No.”

  Quincy tilts his head skeptically. “But you came to her funeral anyway.”

  “Because I’ve been in touch with Puffy, and because…” Isaac looks him in the eye with surprising fortitude. “Because I’m still looking for Rachel, okay? And anyone or anything connected to her is of interest to me.”

  “Why?”

  “My sister was a tiny little thing who never hurt anybody. She disappeared—on her birthday—when she was living in the Zeta sorority house. Ten years later, a Zeta girl is killed—on her birthday. Do you think that’s a coincidence?”

  No,Quincy thinks, as beside him, Mike shrugs.I sure as hell don’t.

  “Tell us about your sister, Isaac,” Connelly suggests, leaning back.

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Everything.”

  Isaac Halpern begins to talk.

  By the time he’s finished, the detectives know a lot about Rachel Lorent.

  But not as much as you do,Quincy thinks, watching the younger man glumly sip his coffee.You’re not telling us everything. Not by a long shot.

  Brynn is momentarily disappointed to see that Garth’s car isn’t in the driveway when she pulls in at eleven thirty Monday morning.

  But, of course, she knew it wouldn’t be.

  When she packed up the kids and left her father’s house early this morning, she was well aware that Garth’s flight wouldn’t be landing until late afternoon.

  Brynn told her father and Sue she wanted to beat the holiday weekend traffic off the Cape, which is true.

  But it’s not the only reason she made a hasty retreat.You didn’t want to spend part of yet another day with Sue sneaking those curious little looks at you…and your belly .

  But now that she’s here without Garth, long hours stretching ahead in an empty house, she wishes she had waited a little longer.

  Mostly because she misses him, and not…

  Not because she’s scared.

  Yes, you are. Admit it.

  All right, sheis scared.

  Even in broad daylight, with all those dead bolts.

  Being back here in Cedar Crest is bringing back the nightmarish feeling that somebody is hiding in the shadows. Somebody who knows her darkest secret.

  “I’m thirsty,” Caleb announces, climbing out of the car as she unbuckles a snoozing Jeremy from his booster seat.

  She snaps back into mommy mode, welcoming the intrusion. “All right, we’ll go in and get you some juice.”

  “Apple?”

  “If we have it.” Brynn kisses her younger son’s head. “Hey, come on, little guy, wake up.”

  Jeremy opens his eyes sleepily and closes them again.

  Smiling, she brushes pretzel crumbs off the backseat and gathers tossed sippy cups, crumpled napkins, and the ziplock bags Sue had filled with dry cereal for the boys to snack on.

  “Come on, Jeremy.” Brynn gently tries again, this time nudging him out of his seat.

  “Tired,” he complains, rubbing his eyes.

  “I hear ya. I wouldn’t mind a nap myself right now.”

  But she really should get the kids back outdoors as soon as she unloads the car. It’s a beautiful autumn morning. Birds call from red and gold boughs overhead and the Chases’ leaf blower is humming in the background.

  Maybe she’ll take the boys to the park. There won’t be many more days like this before another dismal mountain winter blows in.

  “Mommy! What’s this?”

  She looks up to see Caleb holding up a rectangular package wrapped in brown paper.

  “Where was it?”

  “By the door. It says B-R-Y-N-N—hey, that’s your name!” he announces, pleased with himself. “I read it, Mom!”

  “Great job!”

  But there’s a tremble in her voice.

  Which is absurd, really…because it’s just a package.

  You must have ordered something and forgotten about it.

  So there’s absolutely no reason for goose bumps.

  Yet there they are, on her forearms, and each pale hair there standing on high alert.

  She looks over her shoulder. The sidewalk and the street behind her are deserted.

  Stop this. It’s crazy. Everything is fine. The sun is shining and the neighbors are around and you’re on familiar territory.

  Yes. Just like her kitchen was familiar territory, in broad daylight, when she discovered that dead cardinal.

  Brynn closes the car door with her hip and leads Jeremy toward the house with one anxious hand, holding the backseat clutter in the other.

  “Let’s see the label, Caleb,” she says when she reaches the steps.

  “There’s no label. See?” He tilts the package toward her and she sees that her name is scrawled in black marker.

  No answer at Brynn’s house, still.

  This time, Fiona leaves a message, talking in a low voice from the upstairs extension though Ashley and the babysitter are two stories below, playing Yahtzee in the basement.

  “Brynn, it’s me. You have to call me the second you get home. It’s really important.” She hesitates, wanting to say more, but she doesn’t dare. What if Garth gets the message first?

  After hanging up, Fiona paces across her bedroom again. Stopping in front of the window, she lifts a corner of the shade and peeks out onto the street.

  She half-expects to find a figure standing right there on the sidewalk, watching her.

  But she sees no one other than a couple of neighborhood kids playing hopscotch halfway down the block.

  That doesn’t mean someone isn’t concealed in the shadows of a hedge or parked car, keeping an eye on her house.

  Fiona shudders, drops the shade, and dials Cassie’s number. Again.

  She probably isn’t home yet either, but—

  “Hello?”

  Greeted by an unfamiliar baritone, Fiona hesitates before asking, “Is Cassie there?”

  “No. Who is this?”

  “Who is this?” she counters, heart pounding.

  “Her fiancé. Alec.”

  “Oh.” Fiona sinks to the edge of the bed in relief, feeling slightly foolish.

  What were you expecting? Did you think he’d say, “This is the crazed psycho who killed your friend Tildy, and now I’ve come for Cassie, too”?

  “Who is this?” he asks again.

  “I’m sorry, it’s her friend Fiona.”

  “From the sorority.”

  “Right.”

  “You were with her yesterday in Boston, then?”

  “Yes,” Fiona says, then immediately wishes she hadn’t.

  “Where the hell is she?” Alec demands.

  “You mean…She never came home from Boston?”

  “No. She told me she was going away for awhile, but that’s not like her, and—do you have any idea where she might be?”

  “No,” Fiona says slowly, “I don’t.”

  And, frankly, right now, considering what I just found on my doorstep, I hope nobody else does, either.

  “Ouch.”

  That cut, the deepest one just beneath the right eye, really smarts.

  Who would have guessed that Cassandra Ashford, who, through the years gave in to everyone’s will but her own, would have fought so violently?

  Not that I expected her to curl up and die for me, but still…