Sally told herself to ignore the tricks fear was playing on her, and she pushed her way out of the apartment. She swept her eyes right, then left, and saw that she was alone. Still, her hand twitched, and she thought she could hear telltale sounds approaching from every direction. She steeled herself, told herself to hold it all together.

Just as she had done earlier, she locked the door and made her way down the hallway. Again, she chose the stairs. Again, she made her way through the vestibule and out into the night. Suddenly she was flooded with a glow of success. She crossed the street, embracing anonymity.

In the street just in front of her car was a storm drain. She dropped Mrs. Abramowicz’s key between the grate spaces, hearing it plop into muddy water at the bottom.

Not until she got into her car, closed the door, and pushed her head back did she feel tears welling up within her. For a second, she believed it would all work, and she told herself, She’s safe. We’ve done it, Ashley is safe.

And then she remembered Hope and a new panic set in. One that seemed to rise up out of some black space deep within her, rushing forward inexorably, threatening to sweep her up in some new, shapeless fear. Sally gasped out loud, catching her breath. She reached for the cell phone and punched the number for Hope’s phone.

Scott felt relief as he pulled into his driveway. He tucked the truck back behind the house, to its usual spot, where it was hard to see from the roadway, or by any of the neighbors. He grabbed all his clothing from that night, got into the Porsche, and pulled back out into the street. He revved the engine, making sure that he made enough noise to be noticed by anyone still up and watching television or reading.

In the center of town was a pizza restaurant favored by students. This late-it was closing in on midnight-the presence of a professor was likely to be noted. It wasn’t that unusual-teachers correcting papers were known to seek out the occasional late-night burst of energy. It was as good a place as any to be seen.

He parked directly in front, and the sports car caught the attention of some of the young men seated at a counter by the window. The car always got noticed.

He bought a slice of grilled-chicken-and-pineapple pizza and deliberately used his ATM debit card to pay for it.

If asked, he would not be able to account for his presence earlier that night. Home, grading papers, he would say. And, no, I don’t answer the phone when I’m going over student work. But it would not have been possible for him to drive from O’Connell’s father’s home, all the way to Boston, and then back to western Massachusetts in the relevant time. Kill someone and then buy a slice of pizza? Detective, that’s absurd. It was not the best of alibis, but it was at least something. It was dependent, in more than a small way, upon Sally doing what she had promised she would with the weapon. So much hinged on that gun being discovered in the same spot that Scott almost coughed out loud as he choked with tension.

He took his slice over to an empty spot at the counter and ate slowly. He tried not to think of that day, tried not to replay every scene in his head. But a picture of the murdered man slid into his consciousness as he stared at his pizza. When he thought he smelled the unmistakable odor of gasoline, and then the equally sickening scent of burning flesh, he almost gagged. He told himself, You were at war again. He breathed in, continued to eat, and concentrated on what remained for him to accomplish. He had to drop off every item of clothing that he’d worn inside O’Connell’s father’s house at the local Salvation Army clothing dump, where it would disappear into the maw of charity. He reminded himself not to forget the shoes. They might have blood on their soles. He recognized the double entendre that had inadvertently scoured his mind: we all might have blood on our souls.

He looked down at the slice and saw that his hand trembled as he lifted the food to his mouth.

What have I done?

He refused to answer his own question. Instead, he found himself thinking about Hope. The more he envisioned her situation, the wound in her side, the more he understood there was a long way to go before he could breathe easily again.

Scott looked around the restaurant wildly, staring at the other late-night diners, almost all of whom kept to themselves, their eyes dutifully fixed ahead, looking beyond the window or gazing at the wall. For a moment, he thought they would all be able to see the truth about him that night, that somehow he wore guilt like a vibrant streak of crimson paint.

He felt his leg twitch spastically.

It will all fall apart, he thought. We are all going to prison.

Except Ashley. He tried to keep a vision of her firmly in his head as a way out of the overwhelming despair that threatened to overcome him.

The pizza suddenly tasted like chalk. His throat was dry. He desperately wanted to be alone, yet did not, both at the same time.

He pushed the paper plate away.

For the first time, Scott realized that everything that they had done, designed to return certainty to Ashley’s life, had thrown all of them into a black hole of doubt.

Scott slowly walked out of the restaurant, returned to his car, and wondered whether he would ever be able to sleep peacefully again. He did not think so.

Hope was still seated in her rental car, but the engine was off, the lights were extinguished, and she was resting with her head against the wheel. She had pulled into the deepest part of the small parking lot at the entrance to the seaside park, farthest away from the main road, as hidden as she could manage.

She felt light-headed, but exhausted, and she wondered whether she would have the strength to complete the night. Her breathing was shallow and labored.

On the seat next to her, she had the knife that had done so much damage, a cheap ballpoint pen, and a sheet of paper. She ransacked her mind, trying to think if there was anything else that might compromise her. She saw the cell phone, told herself that she had to get rid of it, and as she reached out, it rang.

Hope knew it would be Sally.

She picked it up, lifted the phone to her ear, and shut her eyes.

“Hope?” Sally’s voice came across the line, scratchy with anxiety. “Hope?”

She did not reply.

“Are you there?”

Again, she did not answer.

“Where are you? Are you all right?”

Hope thought of many things she could say, but none would form on her tongue, pass through her lips. She breathed in heavily.

“Please, Hope, tell me where you are.”

Hope shook her head, but did not say anything.

“Are you hurt? Is it bad?”

Yes.

“Please, Hope, answer me,” Sally pleaded. “I have to know you’re all right. Are you heading home? Are you going to a hospital? Where are you? I’ll come there. I’ll help you, just tell me what to do.”

There’s nothing you can do, Hope thought. No, just keep talking. It’s wonderful to hear your voice. Do you remember when we first met? Our fingertips touched when we shook hands, and I thought we were going to catch on fire, right there, in the gallery, in front of everyone.

“Are you unable to talk? Is there someone else around?”

No. I’m alone. Except I’m not. You’re here with me now. Ashley is with me. Catherine and my father, too. I can hear Nameless barking because he wants to go to the soccer fields. My memories are surrounding me.

Sally wanted more than anything else to panic, to give in to all the fear that blew around her with hurricane force, but she managed to grip tight to something within her, containing all the winds of tension.

“Hope, I know you’re listening to me. I know it. I’ll talk. If you can say something, please do. Just tell me where to go, and I will be there. Please.”