Four years of obsessing about his wife. Four years of imagining how it would feel to get his hands on her again. Four years of dreaming about the terror he'd see in her big, pretty eyes as he choked the life out of her.

He had tracked her hundreds of miles, and now stood in her new home. So close. He could smell her scent in the air, like a bouquet of flowers recently removed.

It gave him a tremendous erection.

But mingled with the scent of his wife was the manly smell of him, her illegitimate husband. His jaws clenched.

He crunched across the shards of glass he'd knocked out of the window pane and walked deeper into the house, bearing the crowbar in one gloved hand like a baton. He swiped an apple off the counter and bit into it. He'd eaten a gigantic meal that morning, but anticipation was stimulating his appetite.

Thick shadows lay everywhere around him. Rain drummed on the roof, tapped the windows like insistent fingers.

It was a roomy home. Big kitchen with Corian countertops, stainless steel appliances, an island, and a large eating area. Hardwood floors in the entry hall. Dining room and living room furnished with nice pieces. A home office with a desk, comfortable chair, computer, and filing cabinet. A two-story family room with microfiber sofas and chairs, and a large, flat-screen television bracketed by shelves full of DVDs like The Color Purple, Love and Basketball, and Friday.

The rooms were painted an array of colors, soft reds and greens and earth tones. There was no clutter-the place was as clean as if a crew of maids had visited that morning.

Other than the cleanliness of the house, everything repulsed him. It reeked of a woman's touch. A house was a man's castle, and should have been decorated as such. His wife had decorated their downtown Chicago condo to fit his tastes-not hers.

This guy, Joshua, obviously was a pussy to let a woman take over the house.

Worse than the girly interior decorating were the pictures. They were everywhere. Photos of his wife. Photos of her posing at her wedding with her illegitimate husband. Photos of people that he took as their family and friends. A photo of a beach somewhere.

It disgusted Dexter. She'd taken all of these pictures after she thought she'd gotten rid of him. They were a shrine to her unfaithfulness to their marriage.

There were no recent pictures of her family, however, which supported her aunt's claim that she didn't know where her niece had gone. Looked like his wife had relocated and hadn't told her new man anything about her true past.

Dexter would be happy to give him the 411.

A staircase led to the second level. He ascended the steps, entered the room on the left.

A study with a desk, a bookcase displaying dog figurines and more despicable pictures. It opened into a sparsely decorated jack-and-jill bathroom. The bathroom led to another room that had a simple futon and a small television; a guest bedroom.

He re-entered the hallway and headed toward the doorway at the end, idly scraping the crowbar across the wall as he walked, leaving an ugly black smear on the cream paint.

The master bedroom. King-size bed draped in wine-colored sheets, and a thick, matching comforter. Classic, cherry wood furniture: nightstands, armoire, wide dresser with an oval mirror. More of those goddamned photos.

Dexter set the crowbar on the dresser, and slid out a drawer.

He spat when he saw the contents: silky red lingerie.

The motherfuckin bitch!

He slammed the drawer shut so hard that the dresser and attached mirror shuddered. He saw his visage in the mirror-lips peeled back to show his teeth, nostrils flared, fire flashing in his eyes-and realized that he had lost his composure. He'd wanted to lurk in the shadows, play it cool until the illegitimate husband arrived, and then pounce on him like a mountain lion-but the thought of his wife prancing around the bedroom in lingerie as she prepared to fuck this guy was too much for him to take.

He grabbed the crowbar.

Chapter 45.

A freezing downpour bombarded the city. In typical Atlanta fashion, that meant everyone, from natives to area transplants to visitors, suddenly forgot how to drive. Joshua found himself mired in traffic on I-75/I-85 South, barely a mile removed from downtown, an ocean of red tail lights surrounding him.

He swore under his breath. A traffic update on the radio told of a major accident a couple of miles ahead that had resulted in the closure of three out of the six interstate highway lanes. He could try to take surface streets to bypass the wreck, but in circumstances like this, about a thousand other drivers usually had the same notion, guaranteeing gridlock at every turn.

He sighed. He was going to be stuck in his SUV for a while.

As he inched forward, windshield wipers ticking across the glass, he reflected on his conversation with LaVosha. I can tell you that Rachel loves her property dearly. It's been . . . a part of her for a very long time. A profound remark, yet he had no idea what she could be talking about. He felt that he should, however; it was as though the gears of his brain had locked up, inhibiting him from reaching the revelation that danced around the border of his thoughts.

Maybe the answer would pop into his mind later that day. As a graphic artist, he'd learned that inspiration could be cajoled and encouraged, but never forced. He had to give his subconscious a chance to work out the solution, though he was eager to get to the bottom of things, once and for all. He felt as if time were running out.

To distract himself, he switched to a music station. "This Christmas," by Donnie Hathaway, was playing. It was Rachel's favorite holiday song. Such a hard knot formed in his throat that he had to change the channel to talk radio.

A half hour later, while Joshua was still swimming in the traffic swamp, Eddie called his cell.

"Hey, man," Eddie said. "Got some answers for you."

"That was fast. What'd you find out?"

"Joy-I mean, Rachel-married Bates seven years ago, in Chi-town. She filed for divorce four years ago, after he was convicted of trying to kill her with a knife."

The image of the scar curving around Rachel's left side flashed through Joshua's mind. An accident, she had said. His suspicions of the truth had been correct.

"What else?" Joshua asked.

"Her real maiden name is Williams-Hall, the name she was using when you met her, was her mom's maiden name. And Rachel is her middle name, like her friend said. She was born in a suburb of Chicago called Waukegan, but grew up in Zion, another 'burb. She went to high school there, got her cosmetology license in Illinois. She was twenty-three when she married Bates."

"Pretty young," Joshua said. "Still, I wonder what attracted her to him? The guy's obviously an asshole."

"But he was successful. Used to be a hotshot attorney at a corporate law firm in downtown Chicago. Although Rachel doesn't seem like the type of woman who'd be drawn to someone because of his money-I mean, she married you."

"Very funny." Joshua smiled briefly. "You find out anything on her family . . . or children?"

"No record of any kids," Eddie said, and Joshua let out a grateful sigh.

"Her parents have been deceased for a while, too," Eddie said. "Didn't she tell you that?"

"She did, yeah." At least she hadn't lied about everything in her background.

"But I think Bates murdered a relative of hers a couple of days ago."

"What?"

"I found a news story that ran in the Zion area paper. Betty Leonard, an elderly black woman, was found dead in her home. Butchered."

"Jesus." Joshua shivered. "I remember Thad saying that he was sending money to an aunt Betty, for Rachel."

"Sounds like Bates got to her, then. Sick motherfucker."

It explained Rachel's mournful mood the afternoon that she had left. It explained Tanisha's account of Rachel abruptly leaving the salon, teary-eyed.

Most of all, it explained why Rachel had run away. If Bates had murdered her aunt, she rightly believed that her own life, and the life of their child, was in jeopardy.

Rachel, why didn't you tell me?

"Bates was named as a person of interest in the investigation," Eddie said. "The cops in Illinois have been searching for him. Both you and I know he's probably already in ATL."

Joshua looked warily at the cars around him, as if he would see Bates behind the wheel of one of the vehicles, slyly watching him. He wished that he had brought the gun with him, the hell with breaking the law.

"Did you find any records of Rachel owning property here?"

"None," Eddie said. "It's possible that if she owns a place, it's held in a trust, which would keep her identity concealed from publicly accessible court records. With the all the trouble she's gone through to hide from Bates, I think she'd take a precaution like that."

"I agree. But I don't know how Bates could find us. He forced Thad to tell him that she was in Atlanta, but I think that's all he knows."

"Yeah, and?"

"According to the records you found, her real maiden name is Williams. But when I met her, her last name was Hall, which you said was her mom's maiden name. I think she legally changed her name-I know for a fact that her SSN is tied to Hall."

"Bates may be a psycho, Josh, but he's no fool," Eddie said. "He's got a law degree, man. He'd know how to do research to find out whatever he needs to know. Don't underestimate this dude."

"Good point."

"Honestly, dawg, I think it's time for us to give up the amateur detective work and call the pros. The cops need to take this guy down before he gets any closer to you or Rachel."

"I'll call the cops when I get home. I'm stuck in traffic right now."

"Figures. Nothing worse than driving around ATL in the rain. Some houses over here have lost power. Winter's finally here."

"Thanks for everything, Eddie. I'll call you later."

"Be careful. I'm not a psychic, but I have a really bad feeling about Bates. Anyone who would kill an elderly lady . . . well, he's one cold-blooded motherfucker."

"I'll be fine," Joshua said, but his assurance sounded empty, even to himself. The truth, which he would never admit to anyone, was that he was scared. The swagger he'd projected that morning to Eddie had departed, and he was left with only a cold dread coagulating in the pit of his stomach like a ball of ice.

Almost an hour later, Joshua finally turned into his subdivision. Although it was only a few minutes past noon, the storm had brought a premature twilight, which normally triggered the community's streetlamps. But the lights were dead. A power line must have been down somewhere in the vicinity.

He pulled into his driveway. The rain was coming down in sheets. He hit the remote control button to open the garage door, but nothing happened. His home was without power, too.

He would have to go inside through the front door.

Chapter 46.

Cold rain beating onto his head, Joshua unlocked the door. He stepped into the foyer, dripping. Droplets had spattered the lenses of his glasses, blurring his vision. He took off the spectacles, intending to take them to the bathroom and wipe them dry with a tissue.

Joshua had been diagnosed with a bad case of nearsightedness when he was an adolescent. Without benefit of glasses or contact lenses, his surroundings were a colorful blur. Merely reading the hands on the face of his watch proved a challenge.

So when he walked through the foyer of his shadowy home, without his glasses, he did not immediately sense that anything was wrong. The house was quiet; the only sound was the pattering rain. Coco usually greeted him at the door, but she might have been asleep upstairs.

He turned to the left, where the half-bath was located. His shoulder thumped against the wall. He was even clumsier than usual without his glasses.

When he walked into the bathroom, his boot crunched across something scattered on the tile floor. It sounded like glass shards.

He looked down. The sight was hazy, but by squinting he could make out pieces of broken glass littering the floor.

Still squinting, he looked up, at the mirror above the vanity.

It had been smashed.

Someone broke in our house, he thought, with sudden clarity. And in the next breath, he thought: Bates.

The sound of a shoe squeaking against hardwood made Joshua spin around in the bathroom doorway. He looked to the entry hall, where the noise had come from.

There was no one there. But Joshua felt a presence in the house as surely as he felt the icy rain water on his jacket trickling down the nape of his neck.

What had Thad told him about Bates last night? Be . . . careful . . . we didn't see Dexter . . . till it was too late. He'd made it sound as though Bates were some kind of trained assassin, but that was insane, the man was a killer, sure, but not some damned ninja, couldn't materialize from the shadows . . . yet Joshua's heart was knocking so hard that deep down, maybe he believed all of those things about Bates to be true.

He had to get the gun. He moved out of the bathroom.

A fist came from nowhere and crashed into his jaw.

Joshua's head snapped sideways. He teetered and banged against the wall. His mouth lolled open.

In his daze, he could think, only: Where the hell had Bates come from?

Joshua had dropped his glasses while reeling from the blow. But he didn't need them to see that Bates was close now, looming near him. His appearance was so sudden that Joshua would have thought he was dreaming, if not for his swelling jaw.

Glass crunched; Bates was grinding Joshua's spectacles under his heel. Joshua had a back-up pair in the bedroom, but Bates was blocking the hallway.

The gun was in the bedroom, too.

Joshua regained his bearings, forced himself to stand. Bates watched him as coolly as a cat watching a hobbled mouse. He wasn't holding any weapons. He wanted a bare-hands brawl.

Lunging, Joshua threw a punch at him.

Bates nimbly evaded the blow, and Joshua's miss left him exposed. Bates landed a jab in Joshua's gut that felt like a detonating bomb. Joshua gasped, gagging on the pain. Bates grabbed him by the lapels of his jacket and swung him around, slamming him against the wall hard enough to chip the plaster. A quick uppercut to Joshua's chin clapped his teeth together, made him bite his tongue. A jab to Joshua's throat ripped a garbled scream out of him and sent him sliding to the floor on useless legs.

Tears wetted Joshua's cheeks. His body was a symphony of agony. He had never been in so much pain in his life.

Bates stood over him. He wasn't even breathing hard.