20

Does anyone have any real idea what we’re dealing with here?”

Sally’s question hung in the air.

“I mean, other than what Ashley has told us, which admittedly isn’t a hell of a lot, what do we know about this fellow who’s screwing up her life?”

Sally turned toward her ex-husband. She was still nursing her way through the glass of Scotch and should have been drunk, but was far too much on edge to have lost her sobriety.

“Scott, you’re the only one of us, outside of Ashley, of course, who has even seen this guy. I imagine that you drew some conclusions during your meeting in Boston. Got some sort of feeling for the man. Maybe that’s where we can start.”

Scott hesitated. He was far more accustomed to leading the conversation in a seminar room, and suddenly being asked his opinions took him a little aback. “He didn’t seem like anyone any of us might be familiar with,” he said slowly.

“What do you mean?” Sally asked.

“Well, he was well built, good-looking, and obviously smart enough, but he was also rough, sort of what you’d expect from a guy who maybe drives a motorcycle, works a blue-collar job punching a time clock somewhere, takes night classes at a community college after high school. My impression was that he came from a pretty deprived background-not the sort of guy that you ordinarily find at my college, or at Hope’s school, either, for that matter. And not anywhere like the sort of guy that Ashley usually drags in, professes undying love for, and breaks up with four weeks later. Those guys always seem to be artistic types. Thin-chested, long-haired, and nervous. O’Connell seemed tough and street-smart. Maybe you’ve run into a few like him in your practice, but my thinking is that you’re a bit more high end.”

“And this guy…”

“Low end. But that may not be a disadvantage.”

Sally paused. “What the hell was Ashley doing with him in the first place?”

“Making a mistake,” Hope said. She had been seated quietly, her hand on Nameless’s back, seething inwardly. At first she felt unsure whether she deserved a place in the conversation, then decided that she sure as hell did. She did not understand why Sally seemed so detached. It was as if she were outside of what was happening-including their own finances being screwed up in a major fashion.

“Everyone makes bad choices every so often. Things we later regret. The difference is, we move on. This guy isn’t letting Ashley move on.” Hope looked over at Scott, then back at Sally. “Maybe Scott was your mistake. Maybe I am. Or maybe there was someone else that neither of us knows about and who you’ve kept secret for years. But regardless, you’ve moved forward. This guy is in a whole different world.”

“Okay,” Sally said cautiously, after an uncomfortable silence, “how do we proceed?”

“Well, for starters, let’s get Ashley the hell out of there,” Scott said.

“But Boston is where her studies are. That’s where her life is. What, you think we should bring her back here, like she’s some homesick camper at her first sleepaway camp?”

“Yes. Exactly.”

“Do you think she’ll come?” Hope interjected.

“Do we have that right?” Sally asked, speaking rapidly. “She’s a grown-up. She’s not a little girl anymore.”

“I know that,” Scott replied testily. “But if we are reasonable-”

“Is any of this reasonable?” Hope asked abruptly. “I mean, why is it fair for Ashley to run back to her home at the first sign of trouble? She has the right to live where she wants to, and she has the right to her own life. And this guy, O’Connell, doesn’t have the right to force her to flee.”

“True. But we’re not talking about rights. We’re talking about realities.”

“Well,” Sally said, “the reality is that we will have to do what Ashley wants, and we don’t know what that is.”

“She’s my daughter. I think that if I ask her to do something, she damn well will do it,” Scott replied stiffly, an edge of anger in his voice.

“You’re her father. You don’t own her,” Sally said.

There was an unhappy silence in the room.

“We should determine what Ashley wants.”

“That seems like a pretty wishy-washy, politically correct, and generally wimpy thing to do,” Scott said. “I think we need to be more aggressive. At least until we really understand what we are up against.”

Again they were quiet.

“I’m with Scott,” Hope said abruptly. Sally spun in her direction, a look of surprise on her face.

“I think we should be, what? Proactive,” Hope continued. “At least in a modest fashion.”

“So, what are you two suggesting?”

“I think,” Scott said slowly, “we should find out a bit about Michael O’Connell, at the same time that we get Ashley away from his immediate reach. So, we do what we’re all capable of. Maybe one of us should start looking at him.”

Sally held up her hand. “We should engage a professional. I know a private investigator or two who do this sort of inquiry routinely. Moderately priced, as well.”

“Okay,” Scott said, “you hire someone and let’s see what they come up with. In the meantime, we need to get Ashley physically away from O’Connell.”

“Bring her home? That seems juvenile and cowardly,” Sally said.

“It also seems to make sense. Maybe what she needs right now is someone looking over her.”

Scott and Sally glared at each other, clearly revisiting some moment from their past.

“My mother,” Hope said, interrupting.

“Your mother?”

“Yes. Ashley has always gotten along well with her, and she lives in the sort of small town where a stranger coming to ask questions would be noticed. It would be tricky for O’Connell to follow her there. It’s close enough, but far enough. And I doubt he could figure out where she was.”

“But her school…” Sally said again.

“She can always repair a screwed-up semester,” Hope said briskly.

“I agree,” Scott said. “Okay, we have a plan. Now we just need to engage Ashley in it.”

Michael O’Connell was listening to the Rolling Stones on his iPod. As Mick Jagger sang, “All your love is just sweet addiction…,” he half-danced down the street, oblivious to the stares of the occasional passerby, his feet tapping the drumbeat on the sidewalk. It was a little before midnight, but the music brought flashes of light into his path. He was letting the sounds guide his thoughts, imagining a rhythm to what his next step with Ashley would be. Something that she didn’t expect, he thought to himself, something that underscored for her just how total his presence truly was.

He did not think she fully understood. Not yet.

He had waited outside her apartment until he saw the lights all go out and he knew that she had gone to bed. Ashley didn’t understand, he thought, how it is far easier to see in the darkness. A light only carves out a specific area. Far wiser, he believed, to learn to pick shapes and movement out of the night.

The best predators work at night, O’Connell reminded himself.

The song came to an end, and he stopped on the sidewalk. Across the street, he saw a small, art-house-type cinema, showing a French film called Nid de guêpes. He slid back into a shadow and watched people come out of the theater. As he expected, they were mainly young couples. They seemed energized, not that uniquely somber, I’ve just seen something meaningful look that so often accompanies people emerging from what O’Connell contemptuously considered artsy cinema. His eyes settled on one young couple that came out arm in arm, laughing together.

They immediately irritated him. He could feel his heart rate accelerate slightly, and he watched them closely as they passed in front of a neon light on the sidewalk opposite him. His jaw clenched tightly and he had an acid taste on his tongue.