“I don’t know. I don’t know. Probably just coincidence. I don’t know. But, I think,” Susan said, almost whispering, close to tears, “that if it’s okay with you, I won’t be calling Ashley for a little while. Not until I get my act back together again.”

Scott hung up the phone thinking that he had a choice of possibilities: nothing. Or maybe the worst thing he could imagine.

We were meant for each other.

He tried to swallow, but his lips were completely dry.

Ashley moved down the street rapidly, as if her pace on the sidewalk could keep up with the thoughts crowding her head. The phrase You’re being followed hadn’t really fully formed in her consciousness, but a lingering sense of something being out of order dogged her. She carried a small bag of groceries in her arms, and her backpack was stuffed with art books, so she felt a little awkward every time she paused and let her eyes cruise around the street, trying to assess what was making her feel so unsettled.

Nothing that she could see was in the slightest out of the ordinary.

The city is like that, she thought to herself. Out in her home in western Massachusetts, things were a little less cluttered, and so, when something was out of place, it was a little more apparent. But Boston, with its constant flow and energy, defied her ability to see when something had changed. She felt a little hot, as if the temperature around her were rising, which confused her, because the opposite was true.

She swept the street with her eyes. Cars. Buses. Pedestrians. The same view that she was familiar with. She pricked up her ears. The same steady hum and beat of daily life. She did a small inventory of her senses and found that none were registering anything that would prompt the small electric currents of anxiety that she felt.

And so, she ignored the sensation.

She set out, at a quick march down the sidewalk, turning off the main roadway onto the side street where her apartment was located midway down the block.

There is a pretty clear distinction in Boston between apartments for students and apartments for people with actual jobs. Ashley was still in the student world. The street had an acceptable shabbiness, a little extra grime that to young eyes seemed to add character, but to those who had left it behind only spoke of impermanence. The trees planted in small swaths of grass seemed a little stunted, as if they didn’t get enough sun. It was an indecisive street, much like the people who lived there.

Ashley lurched up to her place, balanced the grocery bag on her knee, and undid the door. She felt a sudden exhaustion as she closed the door behind her and locked it.

Ashley looked around, pleased no more dead flowers were waiting for her.

It took her less than five minutes to put the granola, yogurt, spring water, and salad fixings away in the small refrigerator. She found a bottle of beer in the crisper and opened it, taking a long swig. Then she went into her small living room, relieved to see that no messages were on her answering machine. She took another drink, told herself that she was being a little foolish, because there were any number of people she did actually want to hear from. Certainly she hoped that Susan Fletcher would follow up on their dinner. And then there was the hope that Will Goodwin would call for that second date. In fact, as she went through a mental list, she thought that it was truly dumb to allow Michael O’Connell to isolate her. And, she told herself, she’d been pretty straightforward with him the other day, and maybe that would be the end of it.

The more she replayed the conversation in her mind, the more it took on a forcefulness that it probably didn’t deserve.

She kicked off her shoes, slid into her desk chair, punched on her computer, and hummed to herself as it booted up.

To her surprise, more than fifty new e-mails were waiting for her. She looked at the addresses and saw that they came from virtually everyone that she had in her electronic address book. She moved the cursor over the first, from a coworker at the museum, a girl named Anne Armstrong, and opened the e-mail. Ashley leaned forward to see what her acquaintance had to say. Except the e-mail wasn’t from Anne Armstrong.

Hello, Ashley. I’ve missed you more than you can imagine. But soon we will be together forever, and that will be great. As you can see, there are fifty-six e-mail messages after this one. Do not delete them. In them is important information that you will need.

I love you more today than yesterday. And tomorrow I will love you even more.

Forever yours,

Michael

Ashley wanted to shriek but no sound could rise through her throat.

At first, the garage owner was not particularly eager to help.

“Let me get this straight,” he said, wiping greasy, oil-stained hands on an equally filthy rag. “You want to know something about Michael O’Connell? Tell me why.”

“I’m a writer,” I said. “He figures in a book I’m working on.”

“O’Connell? In a book?” The question was followed by a short burst of forced laughter. “Must be some sort of crime story.”

“That’s right. It’s some sort. I’d appreciate any help.”

“We get fifty bucks an hour here to fix your car. How much time do you think you’re gonna need?”

“That depends on how much you can tell me.”

He snorted. “Well, that depends then on what it is you want to know. I worked side by side with O’Connell the entire time he was employed here. Of course, that was a couple of years back, and I haven’t seen him in a long time. That’s a good thing. But, hell, I was the one that gave him his job, so I could tell you some stuff. But then, I could also be fixing the transmission on this Chevy, too, you get what I mean?”

We had circled around my question, and I thought we would find ourselves nowhere in a couple of minutes. So I reached into my back pocket, grabbed my wallet, and rapidly counted out $100. I put this down on the counter in front of where I was standing. “Just the truth,” I said. “And nothing that you don’t know firsthand.”

The man at the garage eyed the money. “About that son of a bitch, sure.” He reached out his hand, and like some hard-bitten character in a million Hollywood potboiler movies, I placed my palm down on the money, holding it on the counter. The mechanic grinned, showing white teeth with gaps.

“One question first,” the man said. “You know where O’Connell is now?”

“No. Not yet. But I’m going to find him sooner or later. Why?”

“He’s not the sort of guy I necessarily want to piss off. Come looking for me with questions of his own. Like why I talked with you in the first place. He’s not someone you would want asking you those types of questions. And unhappy about it, too.”

“I’ll keep this conversation confidential.”

“Those are big, fine words. But how do I know, Mr. Writer, that you’ll do what you say?”

“I guess that’s the chance you’re going to take.”

He shook his head, but at the same time eyed the money. “Bad odds. Especially where that guy is involved. Wouldn’t want to be trading peace of mind for a lousy hundred bucks.” He took a moment, muttered, “Screw it,” under his breath, then shrugged. “Michael O’Connell. He worked here for about a year, and after about two minutes I made damn sure that he worked the same shift that I did. I didn’t much want him stealing me blind. He was the smartest bastard that ever changed some spark plugs in here, that’s for damn certain. And very cool, too, about how he stole money. Mean and charming as hell, all at the same time, if you can imagine it. Like you would hardly know it when you got taken. Most of the guys that I hire to pump gas in this place are either college kids trying to make a little extra money, or guys that couldn’t pass one of the mechanics certification courses at the big dealerships, so they end up here, instead. Either they’re too young to know how to steal or too dumb. You know what I mean?”