Butit wasn't the furnishings that nearly took Jessica's breath away. The entireroom was covered in paper. She had to look closely to believe what she wasseeing. At first she thought it might have been some kind of creativewallpaper. It was not. What she'd at first thought was wall-covering was reallyhundreds and hundreds of photographs, articles, magazine covers, newspaperclippings, drawings. All of them seemed to be about one subject. Murder.

    Hereyes were drawn to a large corkboard. To it were pinned a number of tabloidpages. The page on top stopped her cold. It was a tear sheet from the sleazylocal newspaper The Report. The headline read:

    Pummeledin Pennsport!

    Thearticle was about a brutal murder in 2002. March 21, 2002 to be exact.

    Thephotograph was of a smiling Antoinette Chan.

    Jessicalooked back down the hall, saw no one coming. She took her iPhone out of her pocket,stepped fully into the bedroom, and began to photograph the walls, hoping therewas enough light. Then she walked back down the hall. She stepped into theliving room, held up her phone.

    'Detective?'

    BothByrne and Novak turned to look at her.

    'I'msorry to interrupt, but there's a call for you.'

    Byrnegot up, walked across the living room, took a few steps down the hall. Jessicagestured to the opened bedroom door. Byrne stepped to the opening, took in theroom. He stepped back.

    Theirgazes met in silent understanding. Byrne flicked a glance toward the frontdoor. She would take the door. He would take Novak.

    Theywere out of the living room for just a few seconds, but it was long enough.They heard a loud noise. When they returned, the chair in front of the desk wason its back. Novak was gone.

    'Fuck,'Byrne yelled.

    Hewent for the window and the fire escape beyond. Jessica ran to the door.

    She peekedout into the hallway. It was not that long - there were only four apartments onthis floor - and there were stairs at only one end. She hurried over to theelevator. Silence. Novak would not have had time to call the elevator, and makeit even one floor. She ran down to the stairs, eased open the door, her hand onthe butt of her weapon.

    Thestairwell was empty.

    Jessicamoved silently down the stairs, her weapon held out front, low. She turned acorner, carried on circling downward, her ears tuned to the sounds around her.Traffic outside, television noise coming from an apartment on the first floor.No footsteps.

    Shehad to make a decision when she came to the first-floor landing. Continue on tothe basement or check the first floor? She opted for the first floor. She easedopen the door. It led to a short hallway. The lobby was straight ahead. Shestill-hunted down the hall. When she came to the lobby she saw Joseph Novaksitting uneasily on one of the chairs. His right foot was tapping nervously.

    Jessicastepped fully into the lobby and was just about to raise her weapon when shesensed another presence. She looked over. It was Josh Bontrager. He was leaningagainst the front door, a hoagie in one hand, his weapon in the other. He smiled,winked at Jessica just as Byrne came barreling into view in front of thebuilding.

    Byrneentered the lobby, caught his breath. Josh Bontrager ate his sandwich. Jessicastepped forward, holstered her weapon, and took Joseph Novak into custody.

Chapter 32

    Lucyfound herself standing in front of the door, the small red door with thetarnished golden key on it. She didn't even remember walking to Cherry Street.All she remembered was clocking out for lunch and then, magically, there shewas.

    Lucywalked down the hallway. It was a lot quieter than it had been the day before,or maybe that was because it was so noisy inside her head.

    In afew moments she was in front of the Dreamweaver's door. This time it wasclosed. She knocked, waited. She heard music coming from inside, some kind ofclassical music. She didn't know anything about classical music. She knockedagain. The music stopped. Then she heard some light footsteps. The door opened.

    'Lucinda.'

    Shewas instantly taken aback by his appearance. She might have even made some kindof involuntary noise. Mr. Costa seemed younger. Not younger as in he lookedlike a younger man, but more animated, quicker in his movements. His hair wascombed, parted in a perfectly straight line on the right side. He wore whatlooked like a fresh white shirt. His shoes were newly polished. He smelled ofgood soap.

    Lucyfound herself trembling as she walked into his room. She turned slightly as shepassed through the doorway, but found that the photograph - the one she wascertain was the one of her house when she'd been growing up, the picture thatwas hanging just above the light switch - had been replaced with a differentphotograph, this one of a valley full of flowers and a small cabin with smokecurling out of the chimney.

    Hadshe imagined it?

    Mr.Costa closed the door behind her. They walked together into the front room.

    Ifthe man looked more youthful, his place also looked improved. He hadstraightened it up a little. He had even dusted.

    Mr.Costa gestured to the green chair. Lucy took off her coat, sat down.

    'Itrust you slept well?' he asked.

    'Notreally,' Lucy said. 'I'm not sure I slept at all.'

    'Understandable.'

    'Ithink maybe you were right.'

    'Inwhat way?'

    Lucyput down her purse, arranged herself in the chair. It too seemed different.Larger, somehow. She felt like a little kid sitting in it, or maybe Alicethrough the looking glass. 'When you said I may have opened a door yesterday. Ithink maybe I did.'

    Mr.Costa smiled. 'This is wonderful news. What leads you to think this?'

    Onthe way over, Lucy had debated whether or not to tell Mr. Costa about the man inthe hotel. She decided to wait until after this session, to wait and see what,if anything, she got out of it. 'I'm not sure,' she said. 'It's just afeeling.'

    Thelook on Mr. Costa's face indicated that he might not have believed hercompletely, but that it was okay. Lucy had the feeling that a lot of peoplesaid things like this to him - half-truths about their lives, their feelings.

    'Areyou comfortable?' he asked.

    Ascomfortable as I have ever been, Lucy thought. For some reason.

    'Yes,'she said. 'I'm fine.'

    'Didyou bring the notepad with you? The hotel notepad?'

    Lucyreached into her bag, took out the notepad. She handed it to Mr. Costa but heput out his hands, palms toward her. 'No, this is for you to write on. Do you havea pen?'

    'No,'Lucy said. 'Sorry.'

    Mr.Costa reached into his coat pocket, took out a beautiful old fountain pen,uncapped it, handed it to Lucy. 'You will write something on the pad a littlelater.'

    'Okay.'

    'Areyou ready to begin our session?'

    'Iam.'

    'Now,I want you to close your eyes, and listen to the sound of my voice.'

    Lucywas not floating above the town this time. This time she was sitting. No, shewas kneeling, sort of. She was on her knees but leaning back on her heels. Andshe was afraid.

    Whereare you?

    I'min the dark. I have a blindfold on.

    Doyou know where you are?

    No.

    Areyou inside or outside?

    I'minside. Inside a building.

    Isthe room large or small?

    Small.It feels like a closet or something.

    Whereis the man?

    Idon't know.

    Hashe hurt you in any way?