“Sorry, Barry, not just yet. I have a question for you.”

“Shoot.”

“When your clowns did a search of the Harwood house, did they dust for prints?”

Barry scratched his ear with the cell. “No,” he said. “They looked for any signs of violence, but not fingerprints.”

“Why not?”

“Natalie, it’s not officially a crime scene. We were looking for other things. Like what we found on the laptop.”

“Anyone could have done those Internet searches, Barry.”

He ignored that. Instead, he asked, “Why do you care about fingerprints?”

“I want a set of the wife’s,” she said. “If you’re not planning to get a set, then I’m going to have someone go into the house and pull a set.”

“It’s not exactly going to be a surprise to find the wife’s fingerprints all over that house, Natalie,” Barry said cautiously.

“I want to see if they’re in any database. I want to know who she really is.”

“So you’re buying your guy’s story. Is this the one where his wife is in the witness protection program, or is he now thinking she got replaced by a pod person?”

“You never checked the FBI angle, did you?”

“In fact, I did,” Barry said. “If she’s a witness, they’re not copping to it.”

“What about this fake name she was going by? You looked into that?”

He hadn’t, but rather than admit it, he said, “Even if she did turn out to be somebody else, it doesn’t mean her husband didn’t do her in.”

“You’re going in the wrong direction on this one, Barry. Isn’t your sizable gut telling you that yet?”

“Always a pleasure, Natalie,” Barry said and ended the call.

That last comment of hers had taken all the fun out of thinking about a Twinkie. The hell of it was, there was something going on down there, in that sizable gut of his.

FORTY

I didn’t even remember driving home from Natalie Bondurant’s office. By the time I walked out of her building, I was so shaken by her interpretation of recent events I was in a walking coma. I was traumatized, shell-shocked, dumbstruck.

Jan had set me up.

At least that was how it looked. Maybe, I kept telling myself, there was some other explanation. Something that didn’t force me to reassess my life for the last five years. Something that didn’t transform Jan from a loving wife and mother to a heartless manipulator.

But the part of me that had been trained to deal with the facts as they presented themselves-a part of me I’d been successfully suppressing lately-found it hard to reject Natalie’s theory out of hand.

If one bought into the premise that I had something to do with Jan’s disappearance, as Detective Duckworth no doubt did, the circumstantial evidence was substantial. My story that Jan had been depressed and might well have killed herself didn’t hold up to scrutiny. The more that story fell apart, the more it looked as though I’d made it up.

And suddenly I was a prime suspect.

Jan had set me up.

Those five words kept playing on a loop in my head the entire way home. Somehow, without being aware I was doing it, I’d taken the keys from my pocket, started my father’s car, driven it from one side of Promise Falls to the other, pulled into my driveway, unlocked my front door, and stepped into my home.

Our home.

I tossed Dad’s keys onto the table by the front door, and as I stood in that house it suddenly felt very different, like someplace I’d come into for the first time. If everything that had happened here for the last five years was built on a lie-on Jan’s false identity-then was this a real home? Or was this place a façade, a set, a stage where some fiction had been playing out day after day?

“Just who the fuck are you, Jan?” I said to the empty house.

I mounted the stairs and went into our bedroom, which I’d so carefully tidied after the house had been turned upside down by the police. I stood at the foot of the bed, taking in the whole room; the closet, the dresser, the end tables.

I started with the closet. I reached in and hauled out everything of Jan’s. I tore blouses and dresses and pants off their hangers and threw them on the bed. Then I attacked the shelves, tossing sweaters and shoes into the room. I don’t know what I was looking for. I don’t know what I expected to find. But I felt compelled to take everything of Jan’s and toss them, disrupt them, expose them to the light.

When I was done with the closet, I yanked out all the drawers on Jan’s half of the dresser. I flipped them over, dumped their contents onto the bed, much of the stuff falling onto the floor. Underwear, socks, hosiery. I tossed the empty drawers into a pile, then tore into the items on the bed in a frenzy.

I was venting rage as much as I was looking for anything. Why the hell had she done this? Why had she left? What was she running from? What was she running to? Why was disappearing so important to her that she was willing to sacrifice me to do it? Who was the man who’d run off with Ethan at Five Mountains? Was that why she’d left? For another man?

And the question I kept coming back to: Who the hell was she?

Abruptly, I walked out of the bedroom-leaving it in a much worse state than the police had-and traveled down two flights to the basement. I grabbed a large screwdriver and a hammer, then came back up to the second floor, taking the steps two at a time.

I opened the linen closet, hauled everything out that was on the floor, got down on my knees, and started ripping out the baseboards. I set the end of the screwdriver where the wood met the wall and drove it in with the hammer.

There was nothing delicate about the way I was going about this.

Once I had the wood partly pried from the wall, I forced the claw of the hammer in there and yanked. The wood snapped and broke off. I did it all the way around the closet, cracking wood, throwing it into the hallway behind me.

When I was finished with that closet-having found nothing-I started in on the one in Ethan’s room. I tossed out any toys and small shoes in the way and ripped out all the molding around the closet base. When I struck out there, I tackled our own bedroom and again came up empty.

I did a walkabout of the upstairs, took in all the damage I’d created so far.

I was just getting started.

Dropping down to my hands and knees again, I started tapping on the wood floors throughout the house, looking for any planks that appeared loose or disturbed. I threw back the carpet runners in the upstairs hallways and started there. A couple of the boards looked as though they might have been tampered with, so I drove the screwdriver down between them and pried up. The flooring cracked and snapped as the nails were ripped out.

I got my nose right into the hole I’d created, then rooted around with my hand. I came up with nothing.

When I was done prying up a few other boards on the top floor, I moved down to the main floor. I dragged rugs out of the way, continued to tap on boards, pried them up here and there. Then I removed the baseboards from the inside of the front hall closet. In the kitchen, I emptied every drawer, flipped it over. Pulled out the fridge and looked behind it, dumped out the flour and sugar containers, took out every saved plastic grocery store bag from a storage unit in the pantry. Opened the lids on rarely used baking dishes. Got on a chair and looked on top of all the kitchen cabinets.

Nothing.

Then I had an idea and rounded up every framed family photo in the house. Pictures of Ethan. Jan. Jan and me together, pictures of the three of us. A photo of my parents on their thirtieth anniversary.

I took apart all the frames, removed the pictures, looked to see whether anything had been slipped in between the photo and the cardboard backing.

I turned up nothing.

In the living room, I tossed cushions, unzipped and removed covers, flipped chairs over, tipped the sofa on its back and tore the filmy fabric that covered the underside, stuck my hand in and cut my palm on a staple.