'Let me take a look at it.'

Harper swallowed. 'But it wasn't anything a just scrap paper with numbers-'

'Wasn't?'

She winced.

'What?' Ron waited. 'You lost it?' The light turned green. A car behind them honked. Ron drove, eyes still on Harper.

'It was in my bag a now it's not.'

'You're sure?'

She nodded. 'I dumped everything out. Twice.'

Ron paused, thinking. 'OK. Can you remember what was on the paper?'

'Just numbers.'

'What numbers?'

'I don't know. There were a lot a at least a dozen.' She shut her eyes, picturing them. 'The first was one.'

'Phone numbers start with one. Was it a phone number?'

'Maybe. I thought it might be a student ID number, but there were too many digits.'

'OK. IDs have eight digits, so we know there were more than eight. And we know the first one. That's a start.'

The air conditioning blew cold air into in Harper's face, made her eyes burn. 'Who else knew about the numbers?'

She thought. Remembered. 'Larry.'

'Larry? As in dead Larry?'

Harper nodded. 'He came to my office, looking for it. He said the paper was a study guide. A list of page numbers.'

'Well, obviously, that was bull. Did you tell him you had it?' Ron turned a corner too fast. A vein stuck out in his forehead.

'Not exactly. I told him that all Graham's belongings would go to the police, and if he wanted anything a even a piece of paper a he'd have to talk to them-'

'Which sounds like an admission that you had it.' Ron's eyes narrowed; he ran a red light. 'Damn, Harper. Why didn't you give it to me right away?' His tone was harsh, accusatory.

Harper bristled. Did he think she'd lost the page deliberately? 'Hold on a sec, Ron. Who knows if the numbers even relate to your stolen drugs? Maybe the paper's a cheat sheet for a quiz or a list of lucky lottery numbers. I don't know. But as soon as I thought of it, I contacted you.'

Ron took a breath, looked ahead at the road. 'You're right; you did. I'm sorry.' The words sounded forced.

Harper waited a few beats. In anger, Ron's eyes had become snake-like. 'Apology accepted.' Kind of.

Ron reached for her hand; he no longer resembled a reptile. 'Don't lie. You're mad at me, rightfully so. I was wrong to snap. Fact is, I'm annoyed at myself, not you. Because lives are in danger, and time is critical.'

Harper understood that time was critical. Lives were in danger. She'd messed up, and, once again, people were dying.

'So.' He started over. Calmly. 'About the numbers. When did you last have them?'

Harper stared at the dashboard, remembering. 'When I found Monique's body. It was in my bag when I grabbed my phone to call nineaoneaone.' But what had she done with it? Ron was right; she should have given him the paper right away. If she had, he might have found the drugs. Monique and Larry might still be alive. She looked out the window; Marvin stood in the street, a car speeding toward him, trailing a cloud of dust.

Harper knew better than to react as it passed. Without a wince or even a cough, she endured the dry exhaust fumes, the rush of sandy wind and the acrid smell of explosives. She didn't blink as an unattached hand whizzed by, or cry out as she left the ground and flew, or cringe as she anticipated the merciless slam of her body against the rusted-out car.

Harper didn't resist, didn't let on what was happening, didn't even try to find her lemon. She simply shook her head again and said, 'I'm sorry.'

Ron didn't notice her flashback. He was pulling over, parking and putting on a CD, something monotonous and calming, and, calmly, he asked monotonous questions, trying to help Harper recall what was on the paper, what she'd done with it.

'Relax,' he told her. His voice was soft, but she sensed tension underneath. 'Close your eyes, Harper. Breathe deeply. Let air in and push it out slowly. Picture yourself back at the moment when you first found the paper. Let the memories surface.'

'What are you trying to do, hypnotize me?'

'If I have to.'

Was he serious? 'Don't bother. I can't be hypnotized. It won't work on me.'

'Fine, don't be hypnotized. Just relax and try to remember.'

Harper thought of her rapid eye movement therapy, wondered if it would help. She tried looking back and forth on her own. Left right. Left right.

'What are you doing?'

'Trying to remember stuff I haven't processed.'

Ron chuckled. 'You know about that? You're trying EMDR?' He rolled his eyes.

'What?' Harper stopped moving her eyes. 'What's funny?'

'Nothing. Sorry. I just think it's crap. Particularly when it's self-administered.'

Harper's face reddened. EMDR was crap? Really? Why would he say that? Never mind. She stopped moving her eyes and leaned back, simply trying to remember. Ron talked to her softly, coaxing her to let the tension out of her shoulders, back, legs.

Harper straightened up, shook her head. 'Sorry. I just can't remember.'

'That's OK. You did your best.' Ron grinned and started the car.

He seemed in a hurry. Harper looked at the dashboard clock; twenty minutes had passed since they'd pulled off the road. What? It seemed like only a couple. Five at most. How had she lost track of time?

'Ron? How long were we sitting there-'

His grin was smug. 'You know, you weren't entirely right. About not being able to be hypnotized.'

What? 'You hypnotized me?' Harper was astounded. She sat up, ran her hands through her hair. Appalled. Could somebody hypnotize her without her knowing it? Without her permission?

'Would I do that?' Feigned innocence. A smarmy smile.

Obviously, he would. But how? She knew how to resist suggestion.

'You must have wanted to be hypnotized, or it wouldn't have happened.'

Harper frowned, uncertain. 'Well? Did you learn anything?'

'You remembered a few details.' He stopped at a light. 'Some more numbers.'

'Seriously?' She had no recollection. 'Did you write them down? Let's go over them-'

'You've been through enough for now, Harper. Just relax. Breathe.'

Oddly, she did. His voice relaxed her. His tone. She didn't need to worry about the numbers; she could trust Ron. He'd tell her whatever she needed to know. When they pulled into the bakery parking lot, Harper picked up her bag and opened the door. Ron leaned over and kissed her. And a surprising sense of calm and optimism washed over her.

'Tomorrow,' he said. 'I'll call you.'

Riding home, Harper felt refreshed, light. Almost weightless. But she was perplexed: how had Ron been able to hypnotize her? And when? She'd been trying to remember details about the scrap of paper, to envision the digits. And then Ron started the car. She'd lost track of time, remembered nothing of the interim.

So what was that damned piece of paper, anyhow? A map a like a treasure map? The numbers counting out footsteps from a starting point to a secret hiding place? Or did each digit represent a letter, so the number was a code? Or was it simply a phone number?

She rode down the steep hill into Ithaca, passing tall trees and Victorian homes, trying to figure out when she'd last seen the paper, where she'd lost it. She'd had it in her bag continuously, hadn't taken it out a of that she was certain. And it had been there when she'd found Monique's body. So when could it have gone missing? Objects didn't just walk away. So . . .

Someone must have taken it out of her bag.

But how? It had been with her; she hadn't left it unattended.

Then again, maybe she'd been unable to attend it.

As in maybe she'd been unconscious on her front porch beside Monique's body.

Of course. Whoever had killed Larry and Monique had knocked Harper out and taken the paper from her bag. Which meant that the numbers on the paper were probably what everyone had been searching for.

And that whoever had them was the killer.

As soon as she arrived home, Harper noticed the change. The house had always felt welcoming, its intricate Victorian design genteel and proud. But not now. Now, it felt altered, sinister. People had been killed here. Someone had ripped through the place, tearing apart its insides. Its charming nooks huddled shadowed and menacing; the creaking of its ageing wooden joints sounded like groans of pain.

Nonsense, Harper told herself. Places didn't change, at least not that suddenly. The house would feel comfy again once the mess was cleaned up. And she'd begin right away, right after she called Detective Rivers.

When Rivers answered, Harper excitedly explained her news: that Graham's list of numbers had gone missing from her bag while she'd been unconscious, so the killer must have taken it. If they found the list, they'd find the killer.

Instead of appreciating the information, Detective Rivers reacted with confusion and anger. What numbers? What piece of paper? Why hadn't Harper mentioned it before? Why hadn't she turned it over to the police with the rest of Graham's property? What exactly were the numbers? What did Harper think they signified?

Harper righted a dining-room chair and sat, answering questions, feeling chastised. And afterward, she kept sitting, feeling that everything she did was wrong. Losing the numbers. Trusting Vicki. Reading Hank's email. Kissing Ron. Not stopping the bombers. Surviving the explosion. But guilt, she knew, was a paralyzing force. If she let it, it would hold her in the chair, immobilizing her permanently. And she had work to do. A ransacked house to clean.

Righting the living room sofa, she realized she should call Ron; he'd want to know what she'd figured out about the paper. But, surrounded by Hank's refinished floors, his books and photos, she couldn't call Ron. Ron could wait. For now, she needed to concentrate on rebuilding her home, and she immersed herself in the physicality of cleaning.

Harper went around front, turned on the hose and washed down the front porch, swabbing off caked blood. Inside, she donned rubber gloves and cleaned every item before replacing it, not wanting a single trace of a killer's touch to linger on a serving plate or wine glass, or even on a tin can. Throwing out shards of shattered porcelain, dumping thawed frozen foods, she numbed herself to the casualties of her kitchen, sweeping and mopping, refilling the broom closet. Finding Hank's rifle there.

She worked in silence, sweating. Occasionally, thoughts intruded. Questions about what the numbers might mean, or why someone would kill to obtain them. Visual images of the page itself, or a fleeting snapshot of scrawled digits a first a one and after that a a six? Again, she thought of calling Ron, telling him about the six.

But no. Instead, she threw herself into scrubbing, dusting, polishing, disinfecting a washing away thoughts of Ron. Of risks she couldn't afford to take, needs she couldn't afford to acknowledge. Besides, she wasn't sure she could trust Ron. He had, after all, hypnotized her. Had taken from her memory without her knowledge. No, she needed to take control, figure out what was happening between them. What she wanted to happen. Why she'd kissed him, why thinking about him made her knees dissolve. No, she wasn't going to call him, at least for a while.

When she took a break from cleaning, she made a can of soup. Opened a bag of chips. Went up to the nursery and rocked for a while. Then, dutifully, she went to see Hank, staying for a mutually tense and conflicted, mostly silent, half-hour before she escaped back home. Inside, she avoided the computer but checked her phone messages. Her mom had called again, and Vicki, twice. Harper didn't answer Vicki, but she returned her mother's call, and, though she took pains to sound cheerful and light, her mother relentlessly questioned her about the deaths on campus and advised her to take vitamins, as she'd heard that depression was related to a lack of the Bs.

Finally, just before ten, Harper took another three-minute combat shower in the downstairs bathroom, wondering if she'd ever use the one upstairs; if she and Hank would stay together long enough to finish remodeling it. Scrubbing out her anger at him, counting the seconds, again she contemplated actual baths, relaxing and soaking like a civilian. She began to rinse off with forty seconds left to go and, as hot water cascaded over her head and shoulders, unexpectedly, she again thought of Ron.

In his office at the Neurological Center, Ron stared at the digits Harper had recited under hypnosis: 1671922072. He counted the digits. Ten, like a phone number. Maybe it was that simple. He picked up the phone and called it, got a computerized 'The number you have dialed is not in service'.

OK. So it wasn't a phone number. What the hell was it?

He leaned back in his desk chair, feet up, eyes closed, thinking. Probably it was a code, the numbers each standing for something. And probably the code wouldn't be too complicated; after all, it had been put together by undergraduates. The key would be relatively obvious. Simple. He tried substituting letters for the numbers a A for '1', B for '2' and so on. '1671922072' would be afgaibb . . .

Ron stopped transposing. Maybe the first letter wasn't '1' and '6', but '16'? Then it would be 'P'. Followed by 'G'. Then either 'S' or 'A'? OK. Neither combination spelled anything. Maybe the code was more sophisticated than mere substitution. Maybe the '1's symbolized stops, like punctuation? Or maybe some of the numbers were dummies, meaningless fillers. He tried grouping the digits in clusters of three and fours, ignoring first the '2's, then the '0's, finally the '1's. And got gibberish again.

He backed up, tried rearranging the letters as puzzle pieces. Figgbbgb? Pabbfigb? No luck. He began again, arranging the letters as written, substituting others as if they were a cryptogram. Impossible. He paused, reconsidered the way he'd transferred the digits into letters, and tried different ways of combining them: '1' and '9' could be '19' or 'S'; '2' and '0' could be '20' or 'T.' P-F-S-V-G-B. Or A-F-S-T-G-B.

It wasn't working. The cryptogram a if it was a cryptogram a escaped him. He simply couldn't identify enough letters to make a clear pattern for decoding it.

Frustrated, Ron went down the hall to the vending machine, got himself a cup of awful coffee, filled it with too much awful non-dairy creamer and came back to his office. He stood, paced, sat, stood again, sat again. Sipped coffee. Looked at the original number again.

Maybe he could find help online. He logged on, Googled 'codes' and 'cryptology'. He was still searching when Wyatt came in, frazzled. 'So? Anything?'

Ron welcomed the help of another brain, even if it was Wyatt's. 'Wyatt. Good. Come take a look. I got this number when I hypnotized Harper Jennings. Maybe you can help me figure out what the hell it means.'

Friday morning, Harper stopped in to see Hank, but only briefly. He was walking with a walker, on his own, in the hall. A nurse watched from the station, waved as Harper passed. 'He's getting stronger every day, Mrs Jennings.'

'Great.' Harper forced a smile, continued down the hall.

Hank watched her approach and slowly stepped towards her. She greeted him with a hurried peck.

'Mad. You.' His eyes were wounded.

'What would you expect?'

'No. Hoppa. You.'

She didn't even try to figure out his meaning. What was the point?

'Look, let's deal with one issue at a time. For now, that issue is your recovery. The rest, even the thing with Vicki, will wait.' If only she meant that. If only she could wrap up her anger and hurt, and stuff them into a storage bin.

'No. You. I.' Or know you I?

Harper managed to meet his eyes. They were almost black, shining, twinkling at her. How could they twinkle, even now? Did he think their situation was funny? Or maybe it wasn't a twinkle of laughter. Maybe it was something else, a glower?

'You're walking well.' She changed the subject.

'Go. Three. Times. Hall.'