“Jillian, you said that in the voice lineup, you and Carol could narrow it down to two men. What was it about the two?”

“I don't understand.”

“Why those two men? What made you focus on them?”

“They… they sounded alike.”

Griffin leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees. His blue eyes were intent now. Dark, penetrating. She found herself shivering, though she didn't know why. “Think back, Jillian. Take a deep breath, open up your mind. You're in the viewing room. The mirror is blacked out, but one by one, men are stepping forward and speaking into a microphone. You are listening to their voices. One strikes close to home. Then another. Why those two voices?”

Jillian cocked her head to the side. She thought she understood now. So she closed her eyes, she tilted her face up to the warmth of the sun and she allowed her mind to go back, to that dark, claustrophobic room, where she stood with just a defense attorney and Detective Fitzpatrick, dreading hearing that voice again and knowing that she must. Two voices. Two low, resonant voices sounding strangely flat as they delivered the scripted line “I'm gonna fuck you good.”

“They were both low pitched. Deep voices.”

“Good.”

“They… Accent.” Her eyes popped open. “It's the way they said fuck. Not fuck, but more like foik. You know, that thick Rhode Island accent.”

“Cranston,” Griffin said quietly.

She nodded. “Yes. They had more of a Cranston accent.”

“Como grew up in Cranston.”

“So it's consistent.” She was pleased.

“Jillian, lots of men grew up in Cranston. And most of them do butcher the English language, even by Rhode Island standards. We still can't arrest them for it.”

“But… Well, there's still the DNA.”

“Yeah,” Griffin said. “There's still the DNA. What did D'Amato tell you about it?”

She shrugged. “That it was conclusive. He'd sent it out to a lab in Virginia and they confirmed that the samples taken from the crime scenes matched Eddie Como's sample by something like one in three hundred million times the population of the entire earth. I gather it's rare to have that conclusive a match. He was excited.”

“He told you this. All three of you?”

Jillian brought up her chin. “Yes.”

“And that convinced all three of you, the Survivors Club, that Como was the College Hill Rapist?”

“Sergeant, it convinced D'Amato and Detective Fitzpatrick that Eddie was the College Hill Rapist. And if we'd been able to go to trial, I'm sure it would've convinced a jury that Eddie was the College Hill Rapist.”

“What about the Blockbuster kid?”

“What about him? Carol's never been sure about the time she was attacked. You'll have to forgive her, but while she was being brutally sodomized she didn't think to glance at a clock.”

“Jillian…” Griffin hesitated. He steepled his hands in front of him. He had long, lean fingers. Rough with calluses, probably from lifting weights. His knuckles were scuffed up, too, crisscrossed with old scars and fresh scratches. Boxing, she realized suddenly. He had a pugilist's hands. Strong. Capable. Violent. “Jillian, did they get a sample from your sister?”

Her gaze fell immediately. She had to swallow simply to get moisture back into her mouth. “Yes.”

“So he… before you came…”

“Yes.”

“I'm sorry.”

“I was late,” she said for no good reason. “I was supposed to be there an hour earlier, but I'd gotten too busy… Something silly at work. Then traffic was bad, and I couldn't find parking. So I'm driving around the city and my sister is being… I was late.”

Griffin didn't say anything, but then Jillian hadn't really expected a reply. What was there to say, after all? She was late, her sister was attacked. She couldn't find parking, her sister died. Running late shouldn't matter. Not being able to find parking in a congested city shouldn't cost someone her life. But sometimes, for reasons no one could explain, it did.

What silly mistake had Sylvia Blaire made last night? Waited too late to head home? Not paid enough attention to the bushes around her house? Or maybe the mistake had been earlier, falling in love with the wrong man or breaking up with the wrong man? Something that had probably seemed completely inconsequential at the time.

Which led her to wonder, of course, what mistakes the Survivors Club might have made with the best of intentions. Had they pressured the police too hard? Had they believed in Eddie's guilt too quickly? She honestly didn't know anymore, and this level of doubt was killing her. Trish was bad enough. She didn't know if she could stand any more blood on her conscience.

“You didn't see the man?” Griffin asked finally.

Jillian closed her eyes. “No,” she said tiredly. “As I've told Fitz, as I've told D'Amato… I didn't see anything that night. My sister had a basement apartment, the lights were turned out… He rushed me from behind.”

“But you remember his voice?”

“Yes.”

“You struggled with him?”

“Yes.”

“What did you feel? Did you grab his hands?”

“I tried to pull them away from my throat,” she said flatly.

“Were they covered with something?”

“Yes. They felt rubbery, like he was wearing latex gloves, and that made me think of Trish… worry about Trish.”

“What about his face. Did you go after his face, try to scratch him? Maybe he had a beard, mustache, facial hair?”

She had to think about it. “Nooooo. I don't remember hitting his face. But he laughed. He spoke. He didn't sound muffled. So I would say he didn't have anything over his head.”

“Did you hit him?”

“I, uh, I got him between the legs. With my hands. I had knit my fingers together, you know, as they teach you in self-defense.”

“Was he dressed?”

“Yes. He had clothes, shoes. I guess he'd already done that much.”

“What was he wearing? You said you hit him between the legs, what did the material feel like?”

“Cotton,” she said immediately. “When I hit him, the material was soft. Cotton, not denim. Khakis, maybe some kind of Dockers?”

“And higher?”

“I hit his ribs… Soft again. Cottony. A button. A button-down shirt, I guess.” She nodded firmly, her head coming back up. “That would make sense, right? For that neighborhood. When he walked away he would be nicely dressed, a typical student in khakis and a button-down shirt.”

“Like Eddie Como was fond of wearing?”

“Exactly.” She nodded her head vigorously.

He nodded, too, though his motion was more thoughtful than hers. After a moment, he twisted around on the bench, looked out onto the water. Sun was high now. The beach quiet, the sound of the water peaceful. Just them and the sandpipers, still trolling the wet sand for food.

“Must be a great place to come on weekends, recover from the demands of owning your own business,” he said presently.

“I think so.”

“Does your mom still come?”

“She likes to sit on the deck. It's a nice adventure for her and Toppi, once the weather gets hot.”

He looked at her sideways. “And Trisha?”

She kept her voice neutral. “She liked it, too.”

“Tell me about her, Jillian. Tell me one story of her, in this place.”

“Why?”

“Because memories are good. Even when they hurt.”

She didn't say anything right away, couldn't think of anything, in all honesty. And that panicked her a little. It had only been a year. May twenty-fourth of last year. Surely Trisha couldn't fade away that quickly. Surely she couldn't have lost that much. But then she got her pulse to slow, her breathing to steady. She looked out at those slowly undulating waves, and it wasn't that hard after all.

“Trisha was mischievous, energetic. She would crash through the waves like an oversized puppy, then roll on the beach until her entire body was covered in sand. Then she would run over to me or Mom and threaten us with bear hugs.”