I have only a short time. He did not think he would need much.

Sally and Hope lived on a meandering, older street. It was an odd mixture of architecture, some newer ranch-type houses, mingling with stately Victorians that dated back to the turn of the century. It was a curious neighborhood, in much demand because of its leafy streets and solid, middle-class outlook. Doctors, lawyers, professors, for the most part lived there. Lots of lawns and hedges and small gardens and Halloween parties. Not the sort of neighborhood where people invested heavily in security devices and state-of-the-art protection systems.

O’Connell moved swiftly up the block. He knew that Sally usually stayed late in her office and Hope held soccer practice until it was too dark to see the ball. This would delay them just long enough.

He cut across the block from tree trunk to tree trunk and, without hesitating, slid into the dark spaces adjacent to their house. There was an old wooden fence behind a driveway, which led into their backyard. He stopped for a moment when kitchen lights blinked on in their neighbor’s house, pushing himself back against the exterior wall.

The house had been built on a small hill, so that the main living area was above his head. But, like many older houses, it had a large basement, with an old door framed in neglected, rotting wood that was rarely, if ever, used. It took him less than ten seconds to jimmy it open and let himself in.

He left the door slightly ajar behind him and reached into his pocket and removed his red-taped flashlight. He took a deep breath as he realized that somewhere, within feet of the dank, musty space where he was standing, was some bit of information that would tell him precisely where Ashley was. An envelope with a return address. A telephone bill. A credit card statement. A piece of paper with her name taped to the refrigerator door. He licked his lips, excited, his hands nearly shaking with anticipation. Breaking into Murphy’s office had been a familiar job. It was simply a piece of the puzzle into Ashley’s whereabouts. He thought he had handled it carefully and professionally.

This break-in was different. This was a chore of love.

He took a second to breathe in the thick air of the basement. If she could only see what I’ve had to do to find her, to bring us together, he thought, then she would understand why we are meant to be together. Someday, he fantasized, he would be able to tell her that he had endured beatings, broken laws, risked his safety and freedom, all on her behalf.

And then he told himself, If she can’t love me then, then she doesn’t deserve to love anyone.

He could feel a twitch, a muscle spasm, running through his body, and he had to fight to keep control. He could feel his breathing getting shallow, coming in gasps. For a second, he told himself to remain calm. He pictured Sally. Hope. Scott. And as he did that, he was almost overcome by anger. He could no longer separate the entwined feelings of love and hate. When he managed to calm himself down, he started to move gingerly through the basement, heading toward some rickety old stairs that would carry him up to the living areas. He wasn’t sure what precisely he was searching for, although he knew whatever it was, it was nearly within reach.

He pushed open the door at the top of the stairs and immediately figured he was in a pantry, just off the kitchen. He wanted to douse the flashlight as quickly as possible-even covered in red, the glow was far more likely to attract a curious neighbor’s interest than the overhead light. He spotted a bank of switches on the wall and flicked the first, which lit up the kitchen. Michael O’Connell smiled and switched off the flashlight.

He told himself, Stay away from the windows and start looking. It’s here. Somewhere. What you need to know. I can feel it. I’m coming, Ashley.

He took another step forward before a low, mean growl came from the darkness of a nearby vestibule.

I suppose, like most people, I’ve had my sense of fear mostly defined by Hollywood, which likes to provide a steady diet of aliens, ghosts, vampires, monsters, and serial killers; or those electric, unforeseen moments in life when the other car runs a red light and you pound on the brakes in panic. But real, debilitating fear comes from uncertainty. It gnaws away at one’s defenses, never fading, and never far from the heart. As I sat across from the young woman, I could see every line fear had carved on her face, aging her far too fast, every tic it had delivered, to her hands, which she rubbed nervously, to the corner of her eyelid, which twitched uncontrollably, to the tremors in her voice, clearer than the words she whispered.

“I shouldn’t have agreed to meet with you,” she said.

Sometimes, it’s not so much a fear of dying as it is a fear of going on living.

She wrapped both hands around a cup of hot tea and slowly lifted it to her lips. It was brutally hot outdoors, and everyone else in the mall coffee shop was drinking iced drinks, but she seemed unaware of the heat.

“I appreciate it,” I replied. “I won’t take much of your time. I just want to confirm something.”

“I have to go. I can’t stay. I can’t be seen speaking with you. My sister has the kids, and I can’t leave them with her for too long. We’re moving. Next week, going to…” She stopped, shook her head. “No, I’m not saying where we’re going. You understand, of course?”

She bent forward slightly and I could see a thin, long white scar up near her hairline. “Of course. Let me make this really quick,” I said. “Your husband, he was a police captain, and you hired Matthew Murphy during divorce proceedings, right?”

“Yes. My ex-husband was hiding income and stiffing me and the three kids. I wanted Murphy to find out where he was putting the money. My attorney said Murphy was good at that sort of thing.”

“Your ex, he was a suspect in Murphy’s murder, correct?”

“Yes. State police detectives questioned him several times. They spoke with me, too.”

She shook her head, then added, “I was his alibi.”

“How so?”

“The night Murphy was killed, my ex-husband showed up at my house nice and early. He’d been drinking. He was morose, suicidal. Insisted on coming in, seeing the kids. I couldn’t get him to leave.”

“Didn’t you have a court order?”

“Yes. Keeping him away. One hundred yards at all times. That’s what the judge’s order said. Lot of good that did. He’s six four and two hundred forty pounds and he knows every cop in the Valley. They’re all buddies. What was I supposed to do? Fight him? Call for help? He did what he wanted to do.”

“I’m sorry. The alibi…”

“So, he started drinking. Then he started beating on me. Kept it up for hours. Until he passed out. Woke up in the morning and apologized. Said it would never happen again. And it didn’t, for a whole other week.”

“You told this to the state police detectives?”

“I didn’t want to. I wish I’d had the guts to say to them, ‘Sure, he did it. He told me he did it,’ and maybe get him out of my life that way. But I wasn’t able to.”

I hesitated. “The thing I’m interested in is-”

“I know what you’re interested in.” She reached up and touched her forehead, running her finger along the small ridge of the scar. “When he punched me, his class ring from Fitchburg State-that’s where we met-cut me pretty badly. Gave me this to remember him by. You want to know how he knew about Murphy. Right?”

I nodded.

“He threw it in my face during an argument. Screamed at me, ‘So you figured I wouldn’t find out about the private eye you hired?’ ”

I could see tears in the corners of her eyes.

“He got an anonymous letter. A plain manila envelope. It had a copy of everything Murphy had uncovered about him. All the confidential stuff that was supposed to just go to me and my attorney. Postmarked from some place in Worcester. I don’t even know anybody in that city. So, who would send this to my ex? It cost me two teeth when he knocked them out. It should have cost Murphy his life, if only I’d been lucky enough to have it be my ex-husband who got so enraged that he went after him with a gun instead of someone else. Maybe it did cost Murphy his life. Maybe somebody else got the same envelope. I don’t know. I wanted it to be my ex who did it. It would have made things so much easier.”