I rocked back in my seat. I had dozens of questions, but letting her speak made more sense.

“And something else,” she added coldly.

“What is that?”

“The crime restores innocence.”

“Ashley, right?”

She smiled. “Of course.”

34

The semifinal game went to penalty kicks.

Sports, she thought, devises many cruel endings, but this was certainly among the harshest. Hope’s team had clearly been outmanned, but had found some reserve of determination that had allowed them to hang in against their opponent. The girls were obviously exhausted, their exertion worn in their eyes. They were all streaked with sweat and dirt, and more than one sported bloody knees. The goalie was pacing back and forth nervously, apart from the others. Hope considered going over to say something, but she understood that this was a moment when her player had to stand alone, and that if she had not prepared her properly in all the practices that had led to this moment, then nothing she might add in that second would make up for that deficit.

Luck was not with them. Hope’s fifth shooter, her captain, all-league and all-region, who had never missed a penalty in four years on varsity, rang her shot off the crossbar, and with that single evil noise of ball resounding against metal, the season ended. Just like that, as sudden as a heart attack. The girls on the other team all squealed with unbridled joy and rushed forward to embrace their keeper, who had not once touched the ball in the entire shoot-out. Hope saw her own player fall to her knees in the muddy field, before dropping her head into her hands and bursting into tears. The other girls were equally stricken, and Hope could feel her own emotions stretched thin, but she still managed to tell them, “Do not leave your teammate alone out there. You win as a team, you lose as a team. Go remind her.”

The girls all ran-Hope had no idea where they got the energy-to surround their captain. Hope was proud of all of them in that moment. Winning, she thought, brings out the happiness in all of us, but losing brings out the character. Hope watched the team gather in the field. She remembered that she would have another battle to fight in the days to come. She shivered and felt cold; there was nothing left between that moment and the winter. This game was over. Time now to play another.

Although she didn’t know it, the parking spot on the street that Hope slid her car into was precisely the spot Matthew Murphy had chosen to keep watch on Michael O’Connell’s apartment building. She leaned back in her seat and pulled her knit ski cap a little lower on her head. Then she adjusted a pair of new, clear eyeglasses on her nose. She did not routinely wear glasses, but she imagined that some disguise was necessary. Hope wasn’t certain that Michael O’Connell had actually ever seen her in person, but she suspected so. She believed that he had done to all of them more or less what she was doing at that moment. She wore jeans and a old navy peacoat against the late-afternoon chill. Hope might have fifteen years on most of the students in the area, but she could look young enough to be on their outer fringes. She had picked out her clothes with the same nervous intensity of someone going out on a first date, desperate to make an impression by not making an impression. She simply wanted to blend in on the Boston streets, like a chameleon taking on the color and hue of everything that surrounded her, and become invisible.

She guessed that if she stayed put in the car that after a few minutes he would undoubtedly spot her.

Assume he knows everything, she reminded herself. Assume he knows what you look like and has memorized every detail of your four-year-old compact car, right down to the license plate number.

Hope remained frozen in her seat, until she imagined she appeared so obvious that wearing fake glasses would be irrelevant. She glanced down at Murphy’s report, took another long look at the photograph of O’Connell that accompanied it, and wondered whether she would actually be able to recognize him. Not knowing what else to do, she pushed open the car door, stepping out onto the street.

She stole a look toward Michael O’Connell’s address, wishing that it would become dark enough so that she could see him turn on a light in his apartment, then realized that by staring she was far more likely to allow him to see her than she was to see him. She turned and rapidly walked down to the end of the block, imagining a set of eyes boring into her back. She turned the corner and stopped. What precisely was the purpose of staking out his apartment if the first thing she did was quick-march directly away from it?

She took a deep breath and felt utterly incompetent.

Useless, useless, she said to herself. Go back, find some spot in an alley or behind a tree, and wait him out. Have as much patience as O’Connell does.

Shaking her head, she turned and walked back around the corner, her eyes scanning the block for some spot to hide, and saw O’Connell exiting his building. He had his head back, and he was grinning, exuding a jauntiness and evil that infuriated her. She was angry; it seemed that he was mocking her, when, of course, there was no indication that he even knew she was there. She slid sideways, trying to huddle against a wall, hoping to avoid making eye contact, but still watching him. At the same moment, she saw a small, wizened elderly woman weave her way down the block, on the same side of the street as Michael O’Connell. As soon as he spotted her, Hope saw him scowl. The look on his face frightened Hope; it was as if O’Connell had transformed himself in a split second, going from devil-may-care nonchalance to intensely furious.

The old woman seemed the very definition of harmless. She was moving along painfully slowly. She was short and stumpy, and wore a dowdy black wool overcoat that was probably twenty years old and had a multihued knit hat on her head. Both her hands were gripping white plastic grocery bags, weighed down with foodstuffs. But Hope could see the old woman’s eyes flash as she spotted Michael O’Connell, and she swayed slightly in her path to block his route.

Hope clung to a tree across the narrow street from where O’Connell and the old lady confronted each other.

The woman tried to lift a hand, still clutching the grocery bag, and waggled a finger in his direction.

“I know you!” she said loudly. “I know what you’re doing!”

“You don’t know shit about me,” O’Connell replied, his own voice raised.

“I know you’re doing something to my cats. I know you’re stealing them. Or worse! You are a nasty, evil man, and I should call the police on you!”

“I haven’t done anything to your damn cats. Maybe they’ve found some other crazy old woman to feed them. Maybe they don’t like the food you leave out. Maybe they just found better accommodations elsewhere, you old bitch. Now leave me alone, and be careful that I don’t call the health authorities on you, because they will sure as hell seize all those mangy goddamn cats, take them all out, and kill them.”

“You are a cruel, heartless man,” the old woman said stiffly.

“Get out of my way and go screw yourself,” O’Connell said as he pushed past the woman, and continued to saunter down the street.

“I know what you’re doing!” the old woman repeated, shouting after him.

O’Connell turned, staring back at her. “Do you now?” he answered coldly. “Well, whatever it is you think I’m doing, you’re lucky I don’t decide to do the exact same thing to you.”

Hope saw the old woman gasp and step back as if she’d been struck. O’Connell grinned again, clearly satisfied with his response, and pivoted, heading rapidly down the street. Hope did not know where he was heading, but knew she should follow him. When she turned back to the old woman, frozen in position on the sidewalk, she got an idea. As Michael O’Connell turned the street corner at the end of the block, Hope launched herself toward the woman.