"Does this have something to do with Bret not being in my last two cla.s.s meetings, I wonder? It's unlike him to miss a cla.s.s. It never occurred to me that it might be girl trouble. While it would be unorthodox for me to give you Bret's number, I do have it. I suppose if you really think it's urgent . . ."

Vera got the number and repeated it inwardly to herself after she'd hung up the phone; when she was sure she had it committed to memory, she dialed it and was directed, this time, straight to voicemail via an automated message. After the beep, she struggled to raise her voice over the sound of the train coming over the 125th Street platform outside. "Is this Bret? This is Vera Lundy, Jensen's English teacher. I'm in New York City now, not far from you, and I would really like to speak to you right away, if that's possible. Meet me on the stone bench right outside Jay at six o'clock. If you have a cla.s.s or a prior commitment, please cancel it, because I'll be waiting."

The message finished, she checked the time. It was five o'clock. She had no way of knowing if Bret would receive the message before six, but she could be patient if she needed to; if she needed to call again, she would call again. She would wait outside Jay all night if she had to. She felt motivated, fueled from within, as she went to the sink in Elliott's bathroom and splashed water on her face. Gently patting her skin dry with a towel, she told herself that there was nothing foolish at all about applying fresh makeup and fixing her hair for her confrontation with a sixteen-year-old boy who may or may not come to meet her.

Vera sat on the bench outside Jay Hall at the appointed time, still as a statue. She did not move or flinch when her phone vibrated, recording another message from her mother and a text message from Elliott, which included a photo of a plate of food and the following message: "Conversation's lousy, but the banh mi is d.a.m.ned good. How's old Ritchie Ouelette treating you?" She felt people moving and parting around her without actually seeing her. For once this phantomlike invisibility made her feel that she had an advantage: I may be cleverer than all of you, she thought. I may be on the verge of knowing far more than I knew before.

Then she saw Bret coming. As she had envisioned, he was hard to miss and could be mistaken for no one else. He was weedy and pale, with bangs cut straight across his forehead, framing a pair of worried-looking eyes. The worry had not been a part of Vera's mental schema. She did not know what to make of his concern. Upon spotting Vera, he stopped in front of her bench and said, "Are you the teacher?"

His voice, a slightly hoa.r.s.e tenor that suggested shyness, was lovely.

"I am," she said. "And you must be Bret. Won't you sit down?"

He did not sit at the farther end of the bench, leaving a gap as most strangers would, but sat right in the area she'd patted beside her. She could feel warmth coming from him, the hazy, humid warmth of a young boy. She willed herself not to inch away, to a.s.sert more s.p.a.ce for herself.

"This must be about Jensen," he said.

"It is." Vera resisted the urge to break eye contact with him. His gaze was so direct, and so infused with genuine solicitude, that Vera felt he could see clear through her, the way some children see clear through the facades of adults. She wasn't sure that she liked this feeling. There was no time for discomfort, however. "Bret," she said, his name sounding harsher than she meant it to as it came out of her mouth, "I have a question for you-one that I'm sure you've already been asked by police. Have you heard anything from Jensen at all since March thirtieth?"

Vera, expecting a ready no, nearly fell off her bench when Bret said, "I don't think so."

"You don't think so? You either know or you don't."

"Well, I got a postcard. It wasn't signed." The creeping flush that Jensen had written about was starting to appear on Bret's face, bright finger marks on each cheek that made him look as though he'd been slapped.

"Tell me more about this postcard."

"The front of it was a picture of Edgar Allan Poe. That famous portrait where his face looks kind of lopsided? The back of it was blank. I mean, there was nothing written on it but my address, and there was a Maine postmark. I thought maybe it was from Jensen because we talked about Poe the first time she ever came to my house."

"She told you that Poe was a little overrated, but he had his place," Vera remembered.

"How do you know that?"

"Not so important how I know. Did you tell the police about this postcard?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"I was afraid."

"I understand, I think," Vera said. "I understand that fear. I know a lot about Jensen, but I don't know everything, Bret. I need you to tell me everything-everything you know about her. Okay, maybe not everything, but anything you can think of that might be worth knowing about. But before you do that, I want you to take a look at this. Does this look like Jensen's handwriting to you?"

Bret, looking a little frightened of Vera's intensity, peered at the Salinger postcard that Vera held out. "It looks like it, but she likes to change it sometimes. Are you working with the police?"

"Not exactly," Vera said. "It's more like a parallel investigation. Same destination, different tracks. This isn't the first message I've received from Jensen, you see." She told him about her time volunteering at the BRING JENSEN HOME headquarters and the unsigned greeting card with its promise that Bret Folger knew more than he was saying.

"I don't know why she'd write that," he said. "I don't know any more than anybody else does. And aside from the postcard, I haven't had any contact with her since we broke up."

"What precipitated the breakup?"

"Huh?"

"Did your breakup have anything to do with your romantic interest in your cla.s.smate Tova, or your intimate involvement with your roommate, Max? Sorry if these questions are a little personal."

"What?" Bret's eyes widened, his blush now verging on purple. "My mother's name is Tova, but that's the only Tova I know. And Max . . . Max is my little brother. My roommate's name is Sudip. He's from Bangladesh."

"And you haven't had any such involvement with him, presumably."

"No. Oh, no, I'm not like that. Jensen is the first and only person I've ever even kissed. Did she tell you something different? She must have." He shook his head in disbelief. "I said I didn't think we should see each other anymore because I was getting weirded out by her contradictions and lies."

"I think I'm sort of getting the picture here. Can you elaborate a little more on some of these . . . contradictions?"

"Well," Bret said, chewing his lip, "I can give you some examples, I guess. She was always talking about killing herself. That's something I had a really hard time with, but I knew she'd never actually go through with it. I think she thinks too highly of herself to do a thing like that, even though she likes people to think she has low self-esteem. Is that bad of me to say? I'm not trying to make it sound like I wanted her to kill herself, because of course I would never want that." Bret was staring straight ahead now, his hands folded on his lap, his brow furrowed in thought. Vera found herself feeling pity and warmth toward him; he was, after all, just a boy-a befuddled sixteen-year-old boy-and more than the shallow, pretentious person that Jensen's journals had prepared her for. He was, on the contrary, someone she herself might have liked, if she'd been closer to Jensen's age. And he was blameless-that much was clear. More blameless than she was.

"She's clever and naive at the same time," Bret went on. "She thinks she can get away with anything, and half the time she does. She's honest, and she's not honest at all. She's pa.s.sive, but she likes to manipulate."

"Any examples of this?"

"Of the manipulation? Sure. She was trying to do to me what she did to Scotty."

Vera sat up alertly. "I thought there was no Scotty."

"What do you mean?"

"Considering she mentioned a false Tova and a false Max in one of her school journal entries, wouldn't it make sense to a.s.sume that Scotty isn't real, either? The Dorset police said most of the friends in Jensen's journal are fict.i.tious."

"Well, Scotty wasn't. I saw him once in Portland when we were walking along Monument Square. Jensen and I had stopped at the square to watch some street performers doing a show . . . they were spinning fire and stuff like that. This kid Scotty was standing off to the side near us, and Jensen pointed him out to me. He saw us, but he didn't come over to talk. I got the feeling it might have been because I was there. I'm not really sure."

"Do you know Scotty's last name, or if he's from Dorset?"

"I hardly know anything about him. But I think he and Jensen might have had something going on. She hinted it. I didn't want to believe it was true. I'd heard her talk about him plenty-her bragging about how he'd been this cheerful kid whom she'd converted. That was her word, converted. She bragged about how she changed him from a normal kid to someone who had these homicidal and suicidal thoughts. She liked thinking she had that power over people, to change their whole outlook on things."

The boy turned to Vera then, holding her gaze once more, his eyes large and imploring. "I know it sounds weird that I could ever have feelings for someone like her."

"It's not that weird to me, Bret."

"She's so dark. I liked that, at first, but she's darker than she lets on. Now I wonder if I ever really loved her or if I just thought I did. How do you know when you really love someone? I've never been able to figure that one out."

"I guess that's a good question," Vera said. "I guess that's as good a question as any. I wish I had an answer for you."

Vera was not sure how long the two of them sat next to each other in silence, thinking their separate, brooding thoughts. At last she said, "I suppose the police already asked you if you had any ideas about where Jensen might have gone."

"I didn't tell them about Aunt Miriam's house."

"Sorry?"

"My aunt Miriam has this cottage she doesn't use much. She lives in Boston, but sometimes she's in Dorset on weekends. She has a cat that she brings back and forth, and sometimes I cat-sit, so I have a key to the place. I took Jensen there a couple of times because she's not allowed to come over to my house anymore-my parents don't like her." His eyes flickered toward Vera as though this last disclosure embarra.s.sed him. "Anyway, the key disappeared. I always kind of figured Jensen stole it, but I didn't want to rat on her, so I just told Aunt Miriam I lost it. She never bothered to change the locks."

"So you think Jensen could be in this cottage, am I understanding that correctly? But you didn't tell the police this theory at all?"

"No. If I told them, she'd know I was the one who said something. And I wouldn't want that. I don't even like to think about how she'd react. Like I said, she scares me." Again, that flickering, discomposed look.

"You can tell me, though, can't you? Tell me where this cottage is. Your aunt's place."

"It's the last house at the end of Bleachery Road. The blue one on the hill."

"Would you go there with me? If I found a way to buy you a bus ticket back to Maine?"

"Me? I can't," Bret said. Something changed in his face. "I have exams. I don't think my professors would let me make them up. But if you're planning to go yourself . . ."

"Yes?"

"Nothing," he said. "I guess nothing. I was going to say be careful, but I guess that would be stupid to say. You're a grown-up, right? I really have to go now. I'm supposed to be tutoring someone . . . I'm already a little late, to tell you the truth. Are you going to be here long? In the city, I mean?"

Vera shook her head. "I don't think so."

"Have I told you enough, then?"

"You've given me something to work with. I thank you for that, Bret. Really I do."

"Good luck with your investigation," he said. "I'll be glad when you guys find her."

"Me, too," Vera said. She tried to smile at the boy in parting, but she had a feeling her smile was a sad one.

She continued to sit there after Bret Folger got up and left, and even after it had begun to grow dark and the lights of Butler Library came on, illuminating its facade from between its Italianate pillars, she did not relinquish her spot. How could I have forgotten how beautiful the library looks at night? she wondered. She felt tears stinging her eyes and was not sure why they were choosing to come just then. She knew only that she wouldn't mind sitting on this stone bench for the rest of her life, perpetually warmed by the steady glow of these lights. What a shame it is sometimes, she thought, to have to be a grown-up, and to have to try to understand why anyone ever does anything.

Back at Elliott's empty apartment, Vera checked the Internet for updates about Ritchie Ouelette and, finding none, decided to draw herself a bath. The bathroom smelled strongly of cologne-a scent so optimistic that it only heightened Vera's feelings of melancholy. She lay in the bath for a long time, the steam rising around her, occasionally sitting up to look at her distorted, pink face reflected in the steel faucets. She wondered what she would do next. Perhaps another day or two in New York was in order before she called it quits and tried to find out more of what was breaking in the Galvez case. Perhaps she could even arrange another brief meeting with Bret; there were other things that she wished, in hindsight, she had asked him.

Out of the tub and dressed in the loose-fitting yoga pants and slightly sour-smelling T-shirt she'd been sleeping in for the past few days, Vera noticed a missed message on her phone. Ferreira was the name that flashed in the screen, and before she could talk herself out of it, she hit the CALL b.u.t.ton, nervously smoothing her wet, stringy hair off her forehead as though the detective could see her.

"Vera," he said instead of a regular salutation. "Where are you?"

"Where am I? I'm out of town right now, Detective."

"Out of town where?"

"Actually, I've been out of state for the past couple of days," Vera said, winding a wet strand of hair around her finger. "I'm in New York."

"I thought I told you to stay close to home."

"I apologize. Am I in trouble?"

There was a heavy sigh on Detective Ferreira's end, which did little for Vera's peace of mind. "When's the soonest you can get yourself back to Dorset? We have some things we'd like to go over with you. You might even be of a.s.sistance to us."

"Um, I'd have to look at the bus schedule. Maybe there's a bus I could hop tonight?"

"Do that. And call me when you get in."

"Does this have anything to do with the break in the Galvez case?" Vera asked.

"Jesus Christ," the detective said. "Just call us when your bus gets in, like I said. We'll pick you up at the depot."

Vera hung up the phone, trying to process the significance of this call. The possibility of being of a.s.sistance to the police was an effective bait, too good to refuse. She checked the bus schedule on the Internet and found that a late-night bus would make its slow pa.s.sage back to Maine.

Back to ME, she thought.

She did not have a lot of time to waste. She put on her coat and shoes and began to pack what few things she had-her pajamas, her toothbrush, The Comprehensive Book of True Crime-into her tote bag. She wondered whether to interrupt Elliott's evening with a phone call to inform him of her sudden departure or to leave a note, if that wouldn't be too gauche; she decided on the note and scrawled it quickly, taping it to the bathroom mirror, where he would be sure to see it when he got home.

Elliott, you old dog, Heading back to Maine on a late bus tonight. Sorry for the lack of forewarning, but I've been ordered by higher-ups to get back there. This may or may not have to do with recent developments in Dorset, so details will follow. Thank you for the use of the couch, and for all the food and hospitality and insults. I promise it won't be too long before I come back to see you again and repay my debts.

Love, V.

Vera placed Elliott's extra keys on the sink below the mirror and took one last look around the apartment before she left. Unlike the last time she had departed from New York City, she did not feel as though this had to be good-bye. The city would always be there for her if she wanted it. There were no rules dictating how many times a life could be revisited or even started anew. After all, it seemed that things in Maine were taking on a new life, a new beginning that she could never have prepared for-and she was eager, if a little uneasy, to see what it entailed.

Chapter Thirteen.

The Dorset-bound bus pulled into the station just after 7:00 A.M., but Vera did not call Detective Ferreira first thing upon arrival. The long ride had given her plenty of time to reflect, and she had come to the solid conclusion that there was one thing left that remained undone. She called the cab company and asked for a driver to take her to a remote spot on Bleachery Road.

She had not slept during the bus ride back to Maine and was beginning to feel the scrambled, disordered thinking and the near-tearfulness that always. .h.i.t her when she was sleep-deprived. When she'd had fits of moodiness or sadness in her childhood, her mother had always clucked, Somebody's tired!, and this reductive a.s.sessment had always made her fighting mad; there is a big difference between tiredness and sadness, as any child knows. But Vera, in her current state, had to admit that there had been a germ of truth in her mother's words. She was tired. Though she could sense the fine line between her exhaustion and her sadness and even her burgeoning hysteria, she could not afford to nurse any of these just now. She sat at the edge of her seat in the back of the cab, ready to spring out at a moment's notice.

Deposited at the mouth of the long dirt road, Vera began to make her way toward her destination. She was glad that the dark was lifting. The darkness of quiet, isolated areas was always more terrifying to her than city darkness, and Miriam Folger's cottage at the end of the road was the most isolated house of all.

Aunt Miriam's cottage sat at the top of a small hill. Instead of gra.s.s, the hill was blanketed with pebbles, so Vera walked up this path feeling glad for her sensible shoes. The cottage was a compact ranch house, the sort of s.p.a.ce that probably offered very few hiding spots within; she pictured Jensen Willard inside it with Bret-their heads bowed together, speaking of concepts too big for them-and tried to visualize Jensen inside it now: asleep, alone, clutching her coat close to her body to keep warm. She could already see that the blinds in the windows were closed and that no lights were on, but that didn't mean there wasn't an occupant in there somewhere. As she approached the front door, she played out the scenario in her head, a scenario that, to her thinking, unfolded most naturally: The door opens to my knock, and Jensen Willard stands there in the exact outfit she'd worn at point last seen: the dark-gray T-shirt, the oversized pants-both of which look as though they've been slept in for consecutive nights. Her hair covers most of her face, but her eyes light up with curiosity, seeing who her visitor is; she tucks a hank of hair behind one ear, and then her expression resumes its flat neutrality.

-Hi, she says, opening the door a little wider to let me in. I'm glad it's just you.

-Just me indeed.

-This place belongs to Bret's aunt. I guess you found it because I mentioned it in one of my journal entries?

-Not exactly.

-Well, Bret and I used to come here all the time. I thought it would be a good place to stay when I just feel like being by myself. Do you remember what I wrote to you, about how I wanted an adventure or a retreat? This is it.

-You've worried a lot of people, Jensen.