“He wouldn’t have done that.” Mary started working on a new working theory. “The reason I’m asking is I’d like to find a house like his.”

“Really?” Julia’s expression brightened. “You and your husband?”

“No, just me.” Mary warmed to the role. She really did want to buy a house and now she could, in an alternate reality. “I’m on my own, and I wanted something private.”

“You’ve come to the right place. We sell all around Carbon and Luzerne counties, very private Pocono properties. Let’s make an appointment, shall we?”

“I wanted to look tonight.”

“Now? It’s raining like crazy.” Julia groaned as she checked her watch, moving it faceup on a slim wrist. “I was just closing up, too.”

“If I knew the houses that have sold in Bonnyhart, let’s say in the past two years, I could go look at them myself, maybe get an idea of what I want. I don’t have a lot of time. I’m in the neighborhood only tonight.”

“I could give you the comps for Bonnyhart, but I’m not supposed to do that. I’m supposed to drive around with you.”

“What’s a comp?”

“The comparable sales for Bonnyhart. You’d use them to decide what to ask for your house, or to evaluate the asking price of a target property.” Julia sounded like she was reciting from the realtor’s exam. “Comps show the square footage, number of bedrooms and baths, lot size, like that.”

“Great. I’d like the comps.”

“I’m really not allowed to do that. If you come back tomorrow, we can go together.”

“I don’t have time for that and I’d prefer to go alone.” Mary played the part of a tough businesswoman, a partner at Rosato amp; DiNunzio. Or even DiNunzio amp; Rosato. “If you give me the comps, I’ll look at the houses and get back to you.”

“That’s not the way they do it.” Julia’s lined eyelids fluttered.

“That’s the way I do it. If you want your first sale.”

“Okay, hold on.” Julia leaned over the desk and hit a key on the computer, and Mary learned that hardball wasn’t all that hard. All you had to do was ask for what you want and shut up. Two hours later, she was driving through the rain, armed with Julia’s map of the Bonnyhart area and two pages of comps, with twenty-one houses total. Her windshield wipers worked overtime, and her high beams struggled to cut the driving rain. She wound her way along dirt roads, splashing through muddy puddles and around downed tree limbs that snapped under her car tires.

The first seven houses were occupied, all of them clapboard or brick three-bedrooms set back in the woods, priced around $100,000 to $150,000. None of them had black BMWs in the driveway, but Mary had waited at the curb in front of each one, the downpour and darkness allowing her to snoop from the car and see what was going on inside the houses. Everybody kept their curtains and blinds open, maybe because they lived in the middle of nowhere, and the first two houses got eliminated because they were filled with kids.

Inside the eighth house, an old couple watched TV, side-by-side on a plaid sofa, the lights from the screen flickering on their glasses, sudden as lightning. At the ninth house, nobody was home and the lights were off, so Mary had stolen up to the front window, covering her head from the rain with her purse, and looked inside with a flashlight. Four cats gazed at her from the back cushions of the couch, their eyes reflective in the dark, and she crossed that house off the list.

Mary got back in the car and hit the gas, heading for the next house. She told herself to stay the course. The plan made sense. It was logical that Bobby had taken Trish up here. The house could have been the surprise. If the diary was any indication, Trish didn’t know about the house. So what would’ve happened? Did he take her with him? Did he kill her up here and go back downtown? Did he lock her up in the house and then go? Could she still be alive, locked inside the house, like those schoolgirls in the Dutroux case? Or was she buried in its backyard?

Mary was slowing to a stop around a bend when she saw a large deer and two spotted fawns crossing the road, the littlest one springing from a standstill onto the hillside next to the road. She took two more right turns, then a left, following the map in the interior light, and reached the mailbox for 78 Tehanna Lane. She pulled over in front of the house, cut the headlights, and eyed the place through the trees.

There was no car in the driveway, but a light was on inside, a yellow square sliced by the trees in the front yard, their leaves dripping rainwater. The house was as nondescript as the others, and she flicked on the flashlight and scanned the comps in the car. Two bedrooms, one and a half baths, 1,320 square feet, half an acre, well water only, sold for $98,000 a year ago.

Mary shut off the flashlight and sat in the car a moment, watching to see if anyone was inside. The house was clapboard, but it must have been painted a darkish color, because it was barely visible at night. It looked like it had a front porch, because she could see an overhang sheltering a picture window and the gutter dripping water, twigs, and leaves. There were the twin shadows of two chairs sitting on the porch.

She checked the mailbox again. It was black, unlike the more decorative ones painted with fishing rods or deer heads. It had no plastic box underneath for the local paper, and there was no name on the mailbox, also unusual. Many of the other boxes had the owners’ last names in old-fashioned white stenciling or cute hand-painted script, and the houses had been given vacation names, like Hernando’s Hideaway. But if this one was a hideaway, it was well hidden.

Mary looked at the house, aware that her heart had started to beat a little harder. Raindrops pounded on the hood of her car and sluiced down the windshield in a sheet. Her shoes were still wet from last time, and her clothes felt clammy. She stalled a minute longer, in no hurry to run out in the rain or, oddly, to leave the safety of the car. She became aware that she hadn’t eaten in hours and checked her watch, its dial glowing a ghostly greenish circle. Almost ten o’clock. She was too nervous to feel the least bit hungry and edged up in the seat, keeping an eye on the house for movement.

No movement, no nothing. No other cars were on the road, and she shook off a spooky sensation, then grabbed her purse helmet and bolted out of the car. She ran around the front and scooted up the slick driveway. Cold rain hit her cheeks and splashed onto her ankles as she darted for the front porch. She clambered onto the floorboards, next to two chairs of a cheap white wire, and she kept her gaze on the picture window. There didn’t seem to be anybody inside the living room, and she walked to the front door on sopping feet, ready to knock if she got caught snooping.

The picture window revealed a small living room, furnished sparely with a brown sofa and two chairs. There were no magazines or newspapers on the coffee table, as in the other houses; in fact, there was no clutter anywhere at all. It hardly looked lived in. She walked closer to the front door, her heart beginning to hammer. She was raising her hand to knock when she noticed that inside, where the brown rug ended, a green ceramic lamp lay smashed on the hardwood floor, its shards laying about, sharp ends up.

Mary felt her senses spring to alertness. What could have knocked the lamp down? There didn’t seem to be any pets around. Why would anyone leave the broken pieces lying there? Why not pick them up? She stood at the door, wondering. Barely breathing. Listening hard. There was no sound but the rushing of the rain around her.

She knocked, then waited, telling herself to calm down. No dogs began barking inside, and no cats blinked back at her. She knocked again out of sheer nervousness. No answer. She pressed her eye to a slit in the curtain on the door, which gave her a sliver of the small dining room beyond the living room. The light was on there, too, but there was no movement, just a long wooden table, and on it, a brown shopping bag, standing upright. Something about the bag caught Mary’s attention. She squinted until she could see better, and her heart leapt to her throat. On the bag, a heavyset chef with a Super Mario mustache held a steaming plate of spaghetti and meatballs. The Biannetti’s logo.