“Those can be put on hold.”

“Dear, this is very confusing. What is the problem?”

Hope took a deep breath and blurted out, “It’s a man.”

When Scott first tried Ashley’s cell phone that night, he got a No longer in service recording, which pitched him into a near panic as he dialed her landline. When she answered, he felt a surge of anxiety. As he greeted her, he concentrated on keeping fear out of his voice.

“Hey, Ash,” he said briskly, “how are you doing?”

Ashley, for her part, was unsure what the answer to that question might be. She could not shake the sensation that she was being watched, that she was being followed, or that every word she spoke was being listened to. She was tentative when she left her apartment, wary when she walked down the street, leery of every shadow, every corner, every blind alleyway. Ordinary city sounds that she was so familiar with now penetrated her ears like some high-pitched whistle, almost painful in intensity.

She decided that she should partly lie. She did not want to upset her father.

“I’m okay. Things are just a bit of a mess.”

“Have you heard from O’Connell again?”

She didn’t exactly reply, except to say, “Dad, I’ve got to take some steps.”

“Yes,” he said far too quickly. “Yes. Absolutely.”

“I’ve canceled the cell phone,” she said, which explained the recording.

“Yes, and cancel this line as well. In fact, I think you’re going to have to do far more than we ever anticipated.”

“I’ve got to move,” she said sullenly. “I like this place, but…”

“I think,” Scott began tentatively, “that you’re going to have to do more than just move.”

Ashley didn’t immediately respond.

“And there are some other steps-”

“What are you saying?” Ashley blurted out.

Scott took a deep breath and adopted his most reasoned, most flat and academic tone, as if he were discussing the flaws in a senior’s paper. “I’ve done some reading and research, and I don’t want to leap to conclusions here, but I’m thinking that there exists the potential for O’Connell to get, well, even more aggressive.”

“Aggressive. That’s a euphemism. You think he might hurt me?”

“Others, in similar circumstances, have been hurt. I’m just saying we should take some precautions.”

More silence, before she responded, “What are you suggesting?”

“I think you need to disappear. That is, exit Boston, go someplace safe, hide for a while, and then resume things when O’Connell has finally moved on.”

“What makes you so sure he will move on? Maybe he will just wait it out.”

“We have resources, Ashley. If you have to leave Boston behind for good, move to L.A. or Chicago or Miami, well, that can be done. You’re still young. Plenty of time to get where you want. I think we just need to take some significant steps, so that O’Connell can’t find you again.”

Ashley could feel anger surging within her. “He doesn’t have the right,” she began, raising her voice. “Why should it be me? What have I done wrong? Why does he get to screw up my life?”

Scott let his daughter fully vent before answering. This was a quality left over from her childhood, when early on he’d learned that letting Ashley bluster and complain would settle her down, and that ultimately she would listen if not to reason, then at least to something close to it. A father’s trick.

“He doesn’t have the right. He just has the ability. So, let’s try to make some moves that he won’t anticipate. And, first among these, is getting you away from him.”

Again, Scott could sense Ashley measuring things on the other end of the phone. He had little idea that much of what he’d said had already occurred to her. Still, what he was suggesting seemed to discourage her, and Ashley found her eyes welling with tears. Nothing was fair. When she did speak, it was with resignation.

“All right, Dad. Time for Ashley to vanish.”

“So, they hired a private investigator?”

“Yes. An extremely competent and well-trained fellow.”

“That makes sense. It also seems like the sort of reasonable thing that any modestly well-educated and financially sturdy couple would arrange. Like bringing in an expert. I should go speak with him. He must have prepared some sort of report for Sally. That’s what private investigators always end up doing. It must be available, somewhere.”

“Yes. You are correct about that,” she said. “There was a report. An initial one. I have the copy that was sent to Sally.”

“Well?”

“Why don’t you try to speak with Matthew Murphy first. And then, afterwards, I’ll give it to you, should you think you still need it.”

“You could save me some trouble here.”

“Perhaps,” she replied. “I’m not sure that saving you time and effort is precisely my task in this process. And, equally, I think visiting the private investigator will be…how shall I put it? An education.”

She smiled, but humorlessly, and I had the distinct impression that she was teasing me with something. I stood up to leave, shrugging my shoulders. She sighed, seeing the discouraged look I had on my face.

“Sometimes, it’s about impressions,” she said abruptly. “You learn something, you hear something, you see something, and it leaves an imprint on your imagination. Eventually, that is what happens to Scott and Sally and Hope and Ashley, as well. A series of events, or moments of time, all taken together accumulate into a fully formed vision of what their future might be. Go see the private detective,” she said with a brisk tone. “It will add immeasurably to your understanding. And then, if you think it necessary, I’ll give you his report.”

The more Scott read, the more terrified he became.

Immediately the following morning, after the less-than-satisfactory meeting with Sally and Hope, like any proper academician he had immersed himself in a study of the phenomenon represented by Michael O’Connell. Descending upon his local library, he started researching compulsive and obsessive behaviors. Books, magazines, and newspapers crowded his desk in a corner of the reading room. An oppressive, heavy quiet filled the space, and Scott suddenly felt that he could barely breathe.

He looked up in near panic, his heart moving quickly as if it were close to bursting.

What he had absorbed that morning was a litany of despair.

Death had surrounded him. Over and over, he had read about this woman here, and that woman there, young, middle-aged, even elderly, who had been the object of some man’s driven obsession. They had all suffered. Most had been killed. Even the survivors had been crippled.

It seemed to make no difference where the women were located. North or South, in the United States or abroad. Some were young, students like Ashley. Others were older. Rich, poor, educated, or impoverished, it was all irrelevant. Some had once been married to their stalkers. Some had been coworkers. Some had been classmates. Some had been lovers. All had tried all sorts of techniques, had turned to the law, turned to their families, friends, any possible source of help, to try to extricate themselves from the unwanted, relentlessly obsessive attention. He read undaunted desire.

All had found it useless to seek help.

They were shot, stabbed, beaten. Some managed to live. Many did not.

Sometimes children died alongside them. Sometimes coworkers or neighbors died, the collateral damage of rage.

Scott reeled under the onslaught of information. It made him dizzy as he began to see the trap Ashley was in. On page after page, in every book and article, the single common denominator was love.

Of course, he understood, it wasn’t real love. It was something wildly perverse, emanating from the darkest part of a man’s imagination and heart. It was something that deserved a spot in forensic psychiatric texts, not Hallmark cards. But the sort of love that he read about seemed to have found a foothold in each case, and this scared him even more.