Quincy couldnt reach any of them by telephone last night and opted not to leave messages. h.e.l.l 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 Harringtons 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. Hes sitting alone in a booth toward the back, nursing a cup of coffee.

You guys didnt 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.

Its routine, he a.s.sures Halpern, thinking that with his dark good looks and natural charisma, he doesnt 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 pa.s.s 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 Ive been in touch with Puffy, and because Isaac looks him in the eye with surprising fort.i.tude. Because Im 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 disappearedon her birthdaywhen she was living in the Zeta sorority house. Ten years later, a Zeta girl is killedon her birthday. Do you think thats a coincidence?

No,Quincy thinks, as beside him, Mike shrugs.I sure as h.e.l.l dont.

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 hes 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.Youre not telling us everything. Not by a long shot.

Brynn is momentarily disappointed to see that Garths car isnt in the driveway when she pulls in at eleven thirty Monday morning.

But, of course, she knew it wouldnt be.

When she packed up the kids and left her fathers house early this morning, she was well aware that Garths flight wouldnt 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 its not the only reason she made a hasty retreat.You didnt want to spend part of yet another day with Sue sneaking those curious little looks at you and your belly .

But now that shes 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 shes 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.

Im 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, well go in and get you some juice.

Apple?

If we have it. Brynn kisses her younger sons 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 wouldnt mind a nap myself right now.

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

Maybe sh.e.l.l take the boys to the park. There wont be many more days like this before another dismal mountain winter blows in.

Mommy! Whats 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-Nhey, thats your name! he announces, pleased with himself. I read it, Mom!

Great job!

But theres a tremble in her voice.

Which is absurd, really because its just a package.

You must have ordered something and forgotten about it.

So theres absolutely no reason for goose b.u.mps.

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. Its crazy. Everything is fine. The sun is shining and the neighbors are around and youre 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.

Lets see the label, Caleb, she says when she reaches the steps.

Theres no label. See? He tilts the package toward her and she sees that her name is scrawled in black marker.

No answer at Brynns 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 bas.e.m.e.nt.

Brynn, its me. You have to call me the second you get home. Its really important. She hesitates, wanting to say more, but she doesnt 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 doesnt mean someone isnt concealed in the shadows of a hedge or parked car, keeping an eye on her house.

Fiona shudders, drops the shade, and dials Ca.s.sies number. Again.

She probably isnt home yet either, but h.e.l.lo?

Greeted by an unfamiliar baritone, Fiona hesitates before asking, Is Ca.s.sie there?

No. Who is this?

Who is this? she counters, heart pounding.

Her fiance. Alec.

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

What were you expecting? Did you think hed say, This is the crazed psycho who killed your friend Tildy, and now Ive come for Ca.s.sie, too?

Who is this? he asks again.

Im sorry, its her friend Fiona.

From the sorority.

Right.

You were with her yesterday in Boston, then?

Yes, Fiona says, then immediately wishes she hadnt.

Where the h.e.l.l is she? Alec demands.

You mean She never came home from Boston?

No. She told me she was going away for awhile, but thats not like her, anddo you have any idea where she might be?

No, Fiona says slowly, I dont.

And, frankly, right now, considering what I just found on my doorstep, I hope n.o.body else does, either.

Ouch.

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

Who would have guessed that Ca.s.sandra Ashford, who, through the years gave in to everyones will but her own, would have fought so violently?

Not that I expected her to curl up and die for me, but still These scratches are going to take awhile to heal. A thick layer of makeup covers them somewhat, but it doesnt look natural.

It would be a good idea to lay low for a few days, at least.

All things considered, though, Ca.s.sandra Ashford was another success.

True, she was supposed to die at home, just as Tildy did.

But this was better. Much better.

Her being tucked away up in Maine, miles from civilization, has bought some time. It throws everyone off for a bit. Maintains the element of surprise.

So, thank you for running scared, Ca.s.sie. I didnt think you had it in you to shake things up that way.

Chances are, n.o.bodys going to find her for awhile. Those cabins dont have housekeeping services. Hers is one of the most secluded, and there wont be many people around there after today, anyway.

Plus, she paid rent for the rest of October. The receipt was on a table in the cabin, made out to a Marsha Johnson.