The doorbell rang, and when Karen went to answer it, she stood fixed in surprise. “Ty…”

Samantha was in the kitchen, polishing off a yogurt, watching the tube. Alex had his feet slung over the couch in the family room, alternately groaning and exulting loudly, engrossed in the latest Wii video game.

Hauck’s face was lit up with anticipation. “There’s something I have to show you, Karen.”

“Come on in.”

Karen had tried to shield the kids from all that was going on—her shifting moods, the worry that seemed permanently etched in her face right now. Her frustrated, late-night rummaging through Charles’s old things.

But it was a losing fight. They weren’t exactly stupid. They saw the unfamiliar circumspection, the tenseness, her temper a little quicker than it had ever been before. Ty’s showing up unannounced would only arouse their suspicions even more.

“C’mon in here,” Karen said, taking him into the kitchen. “Sam, you remember Detective Hauck?”

Her daughter looked up, her knees curled on the stool, dressed in sweatpants and a Greenwich Huskies T-shirt, her expression somewhere between confused and surprised. “Hi.”

“Good to see you again,” Hauck said. “Hear you’re gearing up for graduation?”

“Yeah. Next week.” She nodded. She shot a glance toward Karen.

“Tufts, right?”

“Yeah,” she said again. “Can’t wait. What’s going on?”

“I need to speak with Detective Hauck a second, hon. Maybe we’ll just go…”

“It’s okay.” She got down from the stool. “I’m leaving.” She tossed her yogurt container into the trash and tossed the spoon into the sink. “Good to see you again,” she said to Hauck, tilting her head and screwing her eyes toward Karen, like, What’s going on?

Hauck waved. “You, too.”

Karen flicked off the kitchen TV and led him toward the sunroom. “C’mon, we’ll go in here.”

She sat down on the corner of the floral couch. Ty took a seat in the upholstered chair next to her. She had her hair up in a ponytail and was wearing a vintage heather gray Texas Longhorns T-shirt. No makeup. She knew she looked a mess. Still, she knew he wouldn’t show up like this, at night, unless it was about something important.

He asked her, “Do they know?”

“About what I found in the mail?” Karen shook her head. “No. I don’t want to worry them. I’ve got my folks coming up next week for the graduation. Charlie’s mom, coming in from PA. They’re going to Africa on safari with my folks a few days later. Sam’s graduation present. I’ll feel a whole lot better the minute I get them on that plane.”

Ty nodded. “I’m sure. Listen….” He pulled some papers out of his jacket. “I’m sorry to bother you here like this.” He dropped them on the table in front of her. “You might as well read it yourself.”

Warily, Karen picked them up. “What is it?”

“It’s a transcript. Of two Internet conversations. From one of your husband’s car sites. They took place back in February and March. One of the outfits I gave the information you found managed to pick them up.”

The tiny hairs on Karen’s arms stood on end.

She read through the transcripts. Emberglow. Concours. Greenwich. Her heart picked up a beat each time she encountered a familiar phrase. Suddenly it dawned on Karen just what this was. SunDog. The mention of a change of life, in the Caribbean. A reference to Charlie’s old screen name, CharlieBoy.

An invisible hand seemed to clutch her heart in its icy fist and not let go. She focused on the name for a long time. Then she looked up. “You think this is Charlie, don’t you?”

“What I think is that there’s an awful lot that sounds pretty familiar,” he replied.

Karen stood up, a jolt of nerves winding through her. Until now it had been safe to feel that it was all some abstract puzzle. Seeing his face on the screen; finding the safe-deposit box in New York. Even the horrible death of that person on his staff, Jonathan…It all just led somewhere nebulous, somewhere she never thought she’d actually have to confront.

But now…Her heart raced. SunDog. Karen could actually see him coming up with something like that. Now there was the possibility that everything that had happened was real. Now she could read words and phrases he might have said and almost hear his voice—familiar, alive. Out there—doing the same things, having the same conversations he’d once had with her.

A pressure throbbed in Karen’s forehead. “I don’t know what to do with this, Ty.”

“I had my contacts trace the name,” he said. “It’s a free Internet site, Karen. Hotmail. There’s no name registered against it, just a post-office box out of St. Maarten. In the Caribbean.”

Karen held her breath and nodded.

“The P.O. box was registered under the name of Steven Hanson.”

“Hanson?” Karen looked anxious.

“Does it mean anything to you?”

“No.”

Hauck shrugged. “No reason it should. But it did strike something in me. I checked it back against the list we got from Mustang World.” He handed her another sheet. “Look, there’s an S. Hanson right here. No address, but a P.O. box. This one’s in St. Kitts.”

“That doesn’t prove it’s him,” Karen said. “Only someone who’s interested in the same kind of cars—from down there. Lots of people might be.”

“Who’s keeping an awfully low profile, Karen. Post-office boxes, assumed names. I did a credit check on the name down there, and you know what came back? Nothing.”

“That still doesn’t mean it’s Charles!” Her voice carried an edge of desperation in it. “Why? Why are you doing this, Ty? Why did you quit your job?” She came back to the couch and sat down on the arm, staring at him. “What’s in it for you? Why the hell are you making me face this?”

“Karen…” He put his hand on her knee and gently squeezed.

“No!” She pulled away.

His deep-set eyes were unwavering, and for a second she thought she might just start to cry. She wanted him to hold her.

“You said there was an e-mail address?”

“Yeah. There is.” He reached over and handed her a slip of paper. Karen took it, her fingers shaking.

Oilman0716@hotmail.com.

She read it over a couple of times, the truth slowly sinking in. Then she looked up at him with a half smile, as if stung, wounded.

“Oilman…” She sniffled, feeling lifted for a second, and at the same time let down.

A moist film burned in her eye.

“It’s him.” She nodded. “That’s Charlie.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure.” She exhaled, as if fortifying herself against the dam burst of tears about to come down. “That number, 0716—we always used it for our passwords. That’s our anniversary—July sixteenth…. The date we were married. In 1989. That’s Charlie, Ty.”