She opened the yellow envelope and poured the watch and the keys out on her bedspread. The watch was from her, on their first anniversary. It had cost too much money-just under four hundred dollars at Saks, but she felt he needed a really good watch for his work. She wondered if she were still paying on her Visa for it. He had loved the watch, and told her that it was the best gift he'd ever received next to Livy, who had arrived a scant six months after they married. His gargantuan key set-for the house, the clinic, his car, and even keys he'd told her he'd had since he was a kid. She'd joked with him sometimes, asking him if those were keys in his pocket or if he was just happy to see her. His wallet had the normal things she knew would be in there: his credit cards, his social security card, the pictures of the kids, the pictures of her, seventy dollars cash, and a few wadded up receipts.

All I have left of you, Hut. This is it.

She switched on the little color TV above the dresser, clicking the remote to surf channels, and was afraid for a moment that the news would come on detailing the murder. But no matter what channel she went to, no one mentioned Hut's murder. We're not the news. We're not what people want to hear about. We're not the news. We're not what people want to hear about.

A gentle tapping at her bedroom door. The door slid open slightly. Mel. Mel. Her sister's face was ashen, but brightened a bit as if she had just remembered some piece of good news. "You're awake." Her voice was smooth and soft. Her sister's face was ashen, but brightened a bit as if she had just remembered some piece of good news. "You're awake." Her voice was smooth and soft.

Julie nodded, stretching. No headache. It would be back, but not just yet. She swung her feet over the edge of the bed, but was not ready to stand up.

"Can I get you some tea? Maybe some decaf chai?"

"I'm fine. Really," Julie said. She glanced over at the wide mirror that she and Hut had picked out at Pottery Barn two years before. Her face was all in brambles, to her. Not her face at all, just as the dead man on the table had not had Hut's face. "I'm fine," she repeated.

8.

She managed a shower, and while the steamy water cascaded over her, she didn't close her eyes. Didn't want to see inside her own head. Behind the opaque shower curtain, she could see the shadow coming into the bathroom.

Hut. It would be Hut. He would grin as he pulled back the curtain. Naked and happy as a puppy. In their first days. His grin infectious, his way of touching her so new and so right. Alive. Alive and fresh and younger than he should've been in his mid-thirties then. Not in a house with a mortgage too high for an in-debt doctor to the poor and an ER nurse. But in her little apartment in the city, her c.r.a.ppy little place where they'd made a nest, briefly, before her pregnancy, where they'd made love too many times and for too many hours to count. How was she to know that making love was something more than pleasure? More than making a baby? It had been a bonding between them, a clasping of hands that reminded her not of s.e.x, but of absolute love, and how he had been everything to her. Everything.

The shower beating down on her face washed the tears from her.

When she emerged from the shower, and dressed, she wasn't sure why she even cared if she was clean. She wanted to go to Livy, and to Matt, she wanted her children. She wanted them in her arms and she wanted them now.

9.

The detective showed up at six-thirty that evening.

Chapter Five.

1.

They sat in the living room. Although all the lamps were turned up, even the overly bright halogen one near the fireplace, Julie felt as if it were shadowy.

She had unb.u.t.tered whole-wheat toast and some tea with a little honey. It was all she had eaten that day, and all she had wanted to eat.

"I don't really understand," she said, after the first few questions.

"It's a pattern," McGuane said. He drank a Diet c.o.ke and refused the cookies offered by Mel, who sat near the upright piano but said nothing. Julie noticed his wedding band, and a ring that looked like a college signet ring. She didn't want to look back up at his face.

"Why haven't you gotten him yet?" she asked.

2.

McGuane took a sip from his soda, and then glanced over at Mel. Then, out the window. He nodded as if talking to himself. "I wish I had an answer for you. Can you think of anything that would connect your husband to this?"

"I don't know. I can't imagine..." Julie looked down at her teacup. Keep your fingers from trembling. Just keep the teacup still. Keep your fingers from trembling. Just keep the teacup still.

"We're hoping you might have records here. Not much to go over at the clinic."

She glanced up at his face. "He didn't bring his work home. That was important to him."

After the detective had pa.s.sed her the beige folder with the photographs, she set her cup down on the red table beside her. She opened the folder.

"You know," McGuane said, more to Mel than to her. "I live across the Hudson all my life, and I had no idea Jersey is anything but an industrial tract and you know, The Sopranos The Sopranos. Then I come out here and there are all these lakes and trees and it's like, I don't know, Pennsylvania."

"Except without the Amish," Mel said. She offered up a weak grin. Julie wished she'd had the presence of mind to thank her out loud for adding some humor to the somber atmosphere.

Death is everywhere. Death is all around, all the time, she thought. At work, and now here. In my living room. In my house. Uninvited. I don't want it. At work, and now here. In my living room. In my house. Uninvited. I don't want it.

Julie turned each photograph over.

More dead people. Just faces. Pale. Not really human anymore. Like white masks. Hollow.

"I'm sorry to do this to you," he said, his voice barely more than a mumble. "I'd rather catch this guy before he does it again."

"I've never seen these people before," she said. The sound of her own voice, weary and flat, made her feel heavier.

The pictures: two women and a man. Eyes closed. Empty sh.e.l.ls of human beings. Gone.

Her half-Catholic, half-Episcopalian upbringing reared up in her. Their spirits have flown. They are in G.o.d's hands. They are in heaven. Or some other finer place. Beyond trouble. Beyond this world. Their spirits have flown. They are in G.o.d's hands. They are in heaven. Or some other finer place. Beyond trouble. Beyond this world.

Beyond the grasp of the one who killed them.

"There's another picture," McGuane said. "Inside."

She checked the folder. Under a thin piece of onionskin paper, one last photograph.

It was a man's back. Perhaps it was Hut's. Nothing reminded her of him, but she had barely recognized him in the morgue, so she didn't expect to identify him without seeing his face. That was why pictures like this were safe. They could be of anyone and no one at the same time.

All kinds of circles and drawings were carved into the man's back, from the shoulder blades down to the small of the back, just above the b.u.t.tocks.

"Do you have any idea what this might be?"

Julie shook her head.

"He carves things into the bodies. He has a ritual. We know a little about what the symbols are. We just don't know where they lead us."

Julie remembered the carving on Matt's arm. Don't be ridiculous. It's nothing like this. Matt's arm and this man's back have different things on them. Don't let your mind go with this, Julie. Don't. Don't be ridiculous. It's nothing like this. Matt's arm and this man's back have different things on them. Don't let your mind go with this, Julie. Don't.

"No idea. What is it? They're like tattoos."

"Can I see?" Mel asked.

Julie glanced at McGuane who gave a slight shrug. Mel got up and went over to retrieve the picture. After glancing at it, Mel said, "You're making her look at this kind of stuff, now?" now?"

McGuane kept his composure. "We want to do everything we can to stop this guy."

"It's all right, Mel. Really," Julie said. "We should help. I want to. I want to see who...what kind of monster..." She covered her face with her hands.

Just go away, she thought. she thought. Everyone go away. Let it be someone else who loses their husband. Not me. Let it be anyone else. Hut, where are you? Why did you leave? Why aren't you here with me? Everyone go away. Let it be someone else who loses their husband. Not me. Let it be anyone else. Hut, where are you? Why did you leave? Why aren't you here with me?

Mel and McGuane started talking. Mel went to sit down on the two steps that led up to the dining area, at the edge of the room. Julie felt she could shut them all out. Just block them, like she were a child with her hands over her ears.

Then, she brought her hands down from her face. They were still there. They watched her as if she were something that were about to break.

"We've tried to locate the orphanage," McGuane said.

She glanced up from the pictures. "The what?"

"Orphanage. Where your husband grew up."

She hesitated before speaking. She tried to grasp his meaning. "He had parents."

McGuane glanced at her sharply.

"Tell me," she said. "What is it?"

"Nothing," McGuane said. "Nothing at all."

"I know he was adopted," Julie said. "But he was little. Three or four. I think four."

"Mrs. Hutchinson, your husband wasn't adopted until he was sixteen. Before that he was a ward of the state of New York."

"What?"

"He was part of a special program, Mrs. Hutchinson. It was the 1970s, and there was some special apt.i.tude your husband had to qualify for this program. As a boy."

"Are you sure you mean my husband? Jeff Hutchinson?"

McGuane nodded. "I'm sorry that you weren't aware. I a.s.sumed that your husband would have informed you about his past. About his childhood."

She sat there, stunned.

"Did you ever speak with his adoptive parents about his past?"

"No," she said, her face reddening. "What...what kind of program was he in?"

McGuane gave what looked to her like an ironic grin. "Not sure yet. I was hoping you could tell me, actually."

"I have no idea," she said, her voice taking on a far-away quality as if she were ransacking memories to try and remember one thing he might've said about something from childhood that seemed out of the ordinary. Her mother's annoying voice erupted in her head, the bad advice given when she got engaged to Hut: Remember, wives never really know much about their husbands. It's just the way marriage is. That's why your father and I got divorced. They keep secrets. They hold back. To h.e.l.l with it. Remember, wives never really know much about their husbands. It's just the way marriage is. That's why your father and I got divorced. They keep secrets. They hold back. To h.e.l.l with it. Then, she remembered something. "Oh. He told me he was..." she glanced at Mel as if trying to get her to confirm a memory of a conversation. "You were there. It was about some accident when he was little. He said he was in a hospital for a long time." Then, she remembered something. "Oh. He told me he was..." she glanced at Mel as if trying to get her to confirm a memory of a conversation. "You were there. It was about some accident when he was little. He said he was in a hospital for a long time."

"All we know is that it was a school called Daylight. Or the Daylight Project. And it was not an ordinary program."

"Why is that important?"

"Your husband may have known one of the other victims. All of them were there. Your husband may have known the man who killed him. We're just looking into things for now. Trying to connect the dots," McGuane said. "A man, roughly your husband's age, was attacked by the killer. But not killed. His memory, after the attack, isn't so good. But he knew about your husband. He knew about two women who were also killed. We're having trouble with his story, simply because...well, he claims to have psychic knowledge."

"Psychic?" Mel said, shooting a glance at Julie. Julie caught it: what the h.e.l.l? what the h.e.l.l?

"Wait, are you saying that some psychic is claiming things, and the NYPD is listening?"

"We've had some help, at times, from the psychic community, Mrs. Hutchinson," McGuane said, straightfaced. "I personally don't really believe in that kind of thing. But, sometimes it helps."

"So you're going to use a psychic to find who killed Hut?" Julie could not repress a laugh.

McGuane glanced down at his soda. "There are all kinds of ways to find a killer, Mrs. Hutchinson. I'm sure you would want us to use every resource at our disposal."

Mel chimed in. "Mom told me that sometimes psychics feel they see a murder scene," she said.

"Sure," Julie deadpanned. "Maybe we should ask Livy to tune in on her brain radio." Then, more seriously, to McGuane, "You think that my husband knew psychics?"

"No, nothing like that," McGuane said.

"Because he didn't. He didn't go for mumbo-jumbo. That's one thing I can say for sure about him. He was a doctor. He was fascinated by scientific research. He didn't think life was mystical," Julie said.

"That's true," Mel said, and Julie was thankful she was there.

Mel got up to go get a gla.s.s of water. McGuane made a joke about crazies who phoned in solutions to murders. "This guy may just be one of the crazies, that's true," he said. "Still, he knew some things."