“Scott and Sally…”

“For them, Michael O’Connell had created that moment. Or, perhaps, that moment was fast approaching. Could they protect Ashley?”

She suddenly put her hand to her lips, and I heard a gasp escape from her throat. She took a second to regain her composure. “Because, although no one had quite articulated it, not yet, they all knew somewhere deep within, that what they hoped to purchase would come at a high price.”

35

Hope stood uncomfortably outside the door to Michael O’Connell’s apartment with the key in her hand. Behind her, Mrs. Abramowicz lurked in her own doorway, cats circling at her feet. She gestured eagerly for Hope to go ahead.

“I’ll keep watch. It will be all right. Just hurry,” Mrs. Abramowicz whispered.

Hope took a deep breath and slipped the key into the lock. She wasn’t sure about what she was doing or what she was looking for, nor did she know precisely what she hoped to learn. But she had the key in her hand, and as it turned the lock with only the quietest of clicks, she imagined O’Connell walking down the sidewalk, turning the corner to his street, closing in on her as the night fell. She could sense his breath behind her ear, imagined the hiss of his voice. She gritted her teeth and told herself that she would fight hard, if it came to that.

“Quick, dear,” Mrs. Abramowicz said, still urging her forward. “Find out what he’s doing to my cats.”

Hope pushed the door open and stepped inside.

She did not know whether to shut the door behind her or leave it ajar, so that-what? she thought. If he comes back, I’m trapped here. No back door. No fire escape. No way to flee. She took a deep breath and closed the door almost all the way. At least, she thought, she would be able to hear a warning from Mrs. Abramowicz, if the old lady was capable of issuing one.

Hope surveyed the apartment. It was dingy and neglected. Clearly, O’Connell didn’t care about his immediate surroundings. No colorful posters on the walls, no plants in the window, no multihued throw rug on the floor. No television or stereo. Only a few tattered computer-course textbooks stuffed into a far corner. The apartment was decrepit and austere; a monk’s hideout. This unsettled Hope, the recognition that all the passion in Michael O’Connell’s life rested in his imagination. He lived in a different world from the one where he put his head down and slept.

She moved swiftly into the apartment, took a deep breath, and in that instant invented a plan.

Memorize, she told herself. Remember everything.

She reached inside her jacket pocket and found a scrap of paper. On a small desk she spotted a cheap pen. She immediately sketched a rough floor plan, then turned back to the desk.

It was a cheap wooden tabletop stretched across two black metal filing cabinets. A single wooden, stiff-backed chair was drawn up in front of a laptop computer. The setup had a naked simplicity; she could imagine Michael O’Connell seated across from the screen, its metallic light bathing his face, as he concentrated on the images in front of him. The laptop appeared new. It was open, plugged in, and the power light was lit.

Hope took a deep breath, listened for any sounds from the hallway, then sat down in front of the computer. She wrote down the computer make and model on her scratch paper. Then she eyed the black screen. Like a workman reaching for an exposed wire, she touched the mouse pad in the center. The machine whirred, then flashed as the screen saver came up.

Hope felt her lips go dry and her throat constrict.

The screen saver was a picture of Ashley.

It was a little out of focus and had clearly been hurriedly taken from a few feet away. It caught her as if she were turning suddenly, surprised at some noise that had burst from behind her. Her face was creased with fear.

Hope stared at the picture and heard her breathing grow short and shallow. The picture O’Connell had chosen for his screen saver told her several things, none of them good. O’Connell worshipped that moment when Ashley had been caught unawares and was filled with terror.

It was love, she thought. The very worst kind.

Biting down on her lip, she moved the cursor over to the My Documents file and clicked on it. There were four different listings: Ashley Love. Ashley Hate. Ashley Family. Ashley Future.

She clicked on the first, only to see a box come up: Password Required.

She moved the cursor to Ashley Hate.

The machine blinked back Password Required.

Hope shook her head. She thought she might come up with the password if she sat and considered it, but she was already worrying about the amount of time she’d spent in the apartment. Still breathing fast, she closed everything down on the computer, returning it to its original state. Then she pulled open the file drawers, but discovered they were empty, other than for a couple of stray pencils and some printer paper.

When she stood up, she was a little dizzy. Hurry, she told herself. You’re pushing your luck.

She looked about. Check the bedroom, she thought.

The room smelled of sweat and neglect. She moved quickly to a battered chest of drawers and rifled through them as quickly as she could. A single mattress was on a frame, sheets and blanket tossed haphazardly on top. She dropped to her knees and checked under the bed. Nothing. She turned to the small closet. A few jackets and shirts hung inside. A single black blazer. Two ties. One button-down shirt and a pair of gray slacks. Nothing of any note. She was about to turn away when she saw, alone in the farthest corner of the closet, a single battered work boot, with a stiff gray athletic sock crusted with dirt stuffed in the top. It was partially obscured by a pile of sweat-streaked workout clothes.

A single boot didn’t make any sense to her.

She looked around for the companion, but couldn’t spot it anywhere.

This bothered her, and she froze in position, staring hard at the boot, as if it could tell her something. Then she reached into the back, and carefully moved aside the clothing, taking hold of the boot. It was heavy, and she thought instantly that something might be inside. Like a surgeon peeling back a flap of skin, she removed the sock and looked down.

She heard herself groan.

Inside the boot was a gun.

She started to reach for it, then told herself, Don’t touch it.

She did not know why.

A part of her wanted to seize it, steal it, just take it away from Michael O’Connell. Is this the gun he will use to kill Ashley?

Hope felt trapped, as if she were being held underwater. She knew if she took the gun, O’Connell would know that one of them had been here. And he would take action. Maybe it would trigger a violent response. Maybe he had another weapon stashed somewhere. Maybe, maybe. Questions and doubts warred within her. She wished there were some way she could render the gun harmless, like removing a firing pin. She had read about that once in a thriller novel, but she had no idea how to do it. And taking the bullets would be useless. He would know someone had been there and simply replace them.

She stared at the gun. She could see on the side of the barrel the brand and the caliber,.25.

The weapon’s ugliness almost overcame her.

Not sure that she was doing the right thing, she carefully replaced the boot in the corner of the closet and rearranged the clothes so that things looked exactly as before.

She wanted to run. How long had she been inside the apartment? Five minutes? Twenty? She thought she could hear footsteps, voices, and realized that she was hallucinating. Leave now! she told herself.

Hope rose and started to exit, walking past the bathroom, which she didn’t bother to check, and the small kitchen, which made her stop.