She remembers how little baby Jonathan kept spitting up as usual, and her mother had to repeatedly hand him to the nanny to be cleaned up.

And how she got to sit on her fathers knee for hours, and how the artist commented that she was such a good little girl, never fidgeting or complaining.

Tildys mother said something like, Oh, Daddys Little Girl would be content to just sit there on his lap forever.

She sounded somewhat wistful about that, Tildy remembers. For a long time afterward, she thought that must have been because Mother regretted that Daddy was usually much too busy with his real estate empire to spend much time with his family.

But latermuch later, years after the plane crash that killed Mother and JonathanDaddy mentioned that her mother was often jealous.

She always thought you loved me more than you loved her, Matilda.

Thats because I did, Tildy thought matter-of-factly, and without guilt.

Distraught as she was to lose her mother and baby brother so suddenly and violently, she remembers how relieved she was that it wasnt Jason Harrington who died that awful night.

Daddy was her favorite, the one she always worried about; the one who traveled all over the world on business, usually on his private jet.

Ironic, then, that it was Mother and Jonathan who were killed, along with Daddys pilot, when the jet went down in a snowstorm near Baltimore. That night, Tildy was back home in Beacon Hill with Lena, her nanny; Daddy was at a business dinner with his protege and closest friend, Tildys G.o.dfather, Troy Allerson.

It wasnt even snowing in Boston that night. Tildys biggest worries were that shed lose a hand of Old Maid to Lena, and that her father wouldnt make it back home in time to tuck her in, though hed promised hed try.

But she wasnt worried about her mother and brother, even though she knew little Jonathan was very sick with some kind of degenerative disease. That was nothing new; he had been ailing since birth. Her mother took him to specialists all over the country; they were on their way to Johns Hopkins on that particular trip.

Tildy won Old Maid. She always did. She didnt realize back then that Lena always let her win.

But Daddy never made it home to tuck her in.

She woke, late, to find him sitting on her bed in her darkened room, sobbing. He held her close and he told her that Mother and Jonathan were gone. He promised her that he would always take care of her.

But youre never home, Daddy, Tildy cried.

That will change now, baby. Youll see.

And it did.

Daddys Girl. Thats Matilda Harrington, to this day.

The heels of her Dior pumps click across the hardwood floor of the hall and into the dining room, where they encounter the antique area rug that once belonged to French royalty, and then to American royalty. It had been pa.s.sed down through the Kennedy family, and one of the cousins gave it to Daddy, who later agreed that it would look beautiful in Tildys dining room.

The swinging door to the kitchen is propped open, as always, with a cast iron pineapple-shaped doorstop, also antique. Troy bought it at auction and gave it to her as a housewarming gift.

A pineapple? she asked dubiously.

Troy told her that in Colonial times, wealthy hostesses kept their dining room doors closed so their guests could only antic.i.p.ate the luscious food being prepared in the kitchen. When the elaborate, sumptuous platters were ceremoniously presentedtopped with precious, expensive pineapplesthe guests were duly impressed.

Now, according to Troy, the fruit symbolizes elegant hospitality.

Tildy decided it would be ironically fitting to use the doorstop in her own dining roomwhere, incidentally, the door to the kitchen is always kept open. She doesnt cook, though she did just install professional-grade chefs appliances.

A few more tapping footsteps across the newly lain stone floor of the just renovatedand yet-to-be-usedkitchen, and Tildy reaches the rear French door.

As she emerges into the twilight, she notes that the night is warm, much too warm to light the living room fireplace.

She hesitates on the brick patio, gazing across the small, stockade-fenced yard toward the woodpile in the far corner neatly covered by a blue tarp. She could lay a small firejust a couple of logs and some kindling.

But what if one of her Back Bay neighbors smells the wood smoke and asks her about it?

So what? Thats not going to prove anything.

Still better to avoid the slightest chance of arousing suspicion.

Tildy returns to the kitchen. This is her favorite room in the Victorian-era Commonwealth Avenue town house, which shes spent three years renovating from top to bottom. She spared no expense, and barely put a dent in her trust fund, as she pointed out to Daddy when he mentioned that sh.e.l.l never get back out of the house what shes put into it.

Who says Im selling it? she retorted.

You will when you meet someone and settle down.

I am settled, she informed him, neglecting to add that shes already metsomeone .

Pacing, she considers her next moveeven as she appreciates the aesthetics of the recently completed room.

The stunning floor is made of flat stone imported from Provence; the countertops are gray granite, the sleek new appliances stainless and black. The only splash of color in the monochromatic room is the bouquet of red tulips in a vase beside the stainless steel double sink.

Tulips. Out of season, and as out of place in her cool modern decor as that loser Ray Wilmington is in her life. But he cant seem to take a hint.

Did you get my flowers? he asked this morning, showing up beside her desk at the nonprofit organization where they both workTildy, because its something to do and the minuscule salary is inconsequential; Ray, because he fervently believes in the cause.

Yes, I got them, thank you. She offered a brief, closed-lip smile.

I saw those red tulips and of course I thought of you.

She couldnt help but wonder why. Shes not Dutch, she never wears red, and, anyway, what business does he have thinking of her?

Shenever thinks of him.

That is, she neverthought of him until the flowers arrived.

Well, she can fix that.

With a haughty toss of her flaxen hair, she marches over to the counter, wraps a fist around the red petals, and pulls the flowers from their vase. Turning on the faucet and the garbage disposal, she feeds the tulips down the sink drain stem by stem, satisfied by the subterranean rumbling as theyre devoured.

Then she grabs the vasestock florist-shop gla.s.s, not even crystaland deposits it into the empty rolling garbage bin concealed behind a white cabinet door. It makes a satisfying shattering sound as it smashes against the bottom.

Perfect.

Now that all reminders of Ray Wilmington have been obliterated from her house, she can focus again on the matter at hand.

She turns the front burner of the gas stove onHIGH , producing a satisfying orange-blue flame. Then she takes wood-handled barbecue tongs from a drawer.

She reaches into the pocket of her navy blazer, which, according to dorky Ray, exactly matches her eyes. Cant argue with that.

And she didnt.

Compliments, sh.e.l.l accept.

She removes from her pocket the envelope she took out of her mailbox when she got home, and, after a moments thought, opens the flap. She wants to give the card a final once-over.

Its as generic as a greeting card can get: a cl.u.s.ter of primary-colored balloons against a white background beneath the words Happy Birthday in gold script.

Inside, letters clipped from newspaper headlines spell out the words TO ME, and beneath that, XOXOXOXO, R.

She signed everything that way.

It stood forHugs and Kisses, Rachel.

Oh, h.e.l.l Tildy might have known this could happenthat the dark secret from her past could resurface someday.

But when year after year went by, the memory of that night fading like a photo left out in the sun, she pushed the possibility from her mind with increasing ease.

Okay, Rachel So youve come back to haunt me.

Well, guess what? I dont get spooked that easily.

The tongs steady in her hand, Tildy extends the card over the open flame and thoughtfully watches it burn.

CHAPTER 2.

Just minutes ago, Brynn was lamenting the fact that Thursday is Garths late night on campus; he has a cla.s.s until nine oclock and often stays on campus for hours afterward, doing research in the library and his office there.

A sociology professor whose concentration is the study of death and dying, hes been working for a few years on a book. The den at home was littered with macabre research materials until recently. Brynn asked him to move it all to his campus office after she caught Caleb browsing through a gruesome book on the forensics of death.

The downside of having Garth move most of his research away from home is that it takes him away, too.

Too bad, Brynn was thinking just now, that her husband couldnt be here to hear Calebs happy kindergarten chatter. As he plowed through his favorite meal of macaroni and cheese with ketchup, her older son regaled her with breathless details about snack time, potty time, lunchtime, nap time, construction-paper art time Waiting to share a more adult meal with her husband later, Brynn sat with her children at the table in her pretty blue and yellow kitchen. She was mult.i.tasking as usual: listening to Calebs ongoing account of his first day, overseeing Jeremy in his booster seat, and opening the days mail.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME.

XOXOXOXO, R.

She actually gasped aloud when she read it, dropping the card on the table like a red-hot coal. Then she s.n.a.t.c.hed it up again as if it mattered. Even if the boys could read cursive, they wouldnt understand the seemingly innocuous message.

Nor would Garth, if he stumbles across the cardwhich he wont, because she plans to hide it, just as shes hidden the dark truth about Rachel all these years.

Mommy, whats wrong? Caleb asks as she reaches for the phone.

She stammers some kind of reply, her thoughts reeling.

Her hands shaking so badly she can barely hit the right b.u.t.tons on the dial, she can only thinkthank G.o.d, thank G.o.d, thank G.o.d Garth isnt here.

Her husband doesnt know what happened that night.

n.o.body knows.

n.o.body but her three sorority sisters who were there.

Or so Brynn always tried to convince herself, despite the nagging memory of that twig snapping in the forest.

Was somebody really spying on them?

Diddoessomebody know?

As Alec pulls into the parking lot of her condo complex after a quick dinner at Mama Rossis, Ca.s.sie cradles on her lap the still-warm foil-wrapped package that contains her barely touched lasagna.

Shed have been content to leave it behind on the plate, but Alec insisted that she bring it back.

Ill eat it later, baby, he told her, as a midnight snack.

Now she debates whether or not to tell him shed rather be alone tonight. She could just come right out and say itthat shes tired, and she has to be up early, and shed rather he didnt stay over.

Then again, maybe she shouldnt be alone. Maybe shes too spooked by that card she got in the mail. Maybe shed feel more comfortable with Alec there, just in case Well, in case the bogeyman shows up.

She smiles faintly, remembering how Marcus used to torment her with bogeyman tales when they were kids, still living at home.

That was before they were both enrolled in fancy Connecticut boarding schools located well over an hour from their home in the city, and more than two hours from each other.

She was eleven when her parents sent her away. After that, she saw them and her beloved big brother only on holiday breaks and the occasional long weekend.

Summers were spent at sleepaway camp, which was fine with Ca.s.sie, actually. There were lots of horses at camp, and she would always rather ride than do anything else in the world.

She still feels that way.

Alec, she says abruptly, I think you should sleep at your place tonight. Ive got an early day tomorrow and Im just beat.

Hes silent for a moment, busy steering into a spot in front of her building. Then he says, Okay, baby, no problem.

Her momentary relief that he didnt argue is followed quickly by regret that he didnt argue.

If he did, she would relent.

Because, looking up at the dark windows of her condoshe didnt leave lights on; why didnt she leave lights on?she doesnt want to venture inside alone.

Just in case she finds that she isnt. Alone, that is.