Nat hustled to the Kia in the cold, wrapping the down jacket around her. She hadn’t learned anything from her search of Upchurch’s bedroom, which had been remarkably clean and neat, containing only a double bed, dressers full of folded clothes, and a fake-leather box of assorted jewelry. She’d looked through his desk and papers for a drug stash that didn’t exist, and his check register showed no amount greater than three figures. She’d even gone through his computer files, but they held only eBay URLs, a variety of blogs, and a modest collection of online porn. She’d thanked Mrs. Rhoden, but left with more questions than answers. And the doughnuts.

She jumped into the cold little car, started the engine, and hit the road. She picked up the cell phone, still plugged in. She couldn’t wait to tell Angus that his theory wasn’t so crazy after all, and she wanted to talk about those videotapes, too. She pressed the number for the hospital and, when the operator came on, asked for Angus’s room.

“Mr. Holt was discharged,” the operator said.

“Thank you.” Nat hung up and tried Angus’s office, but there was no answer and the voicemail machine was full. She called information, asking for Angus Holt in the Philadelphia area, but he was unlisted.

Damn. Nat went for the Wawa bag while she tried to figure out her next move. The soft glazed doughnut pinched perfectly between her fingers, tasted delicious, and left pasty sugar on her hand. The car warmed up, and the sugar rushed her brain. She’d have to wait on the videotapes, but maybe there was another way to find out what had happened in that prison room. By the time she finished the doughnut, she had another idea. But first she needed to run an errand. She hit the gas.

A half an hour later, she was slipping into a gas station bathroom with a plastic CVS bag and your basic key-on-a-gross-wooden-block, favored by the finest restrooms. She set the plastic bag in the filthy sink, covering its brown tear of rust. She wasn’t in love with this part of the plan, but she had no choice. The CVS clerk had looked at her funny, and if Mrs. Rhoden had recognized her, others would, too. She slid off the NASCAR cap and shook out her hair, which fell to her shoulders. She took a red Goody comb from the CVS bag, brushed her hair, and then bade it goodbye. She’d had the same haircut since French II, so maybe it was time for a change.

She got her new scissors from the bag and unwrapped them, then grabbed a hank of dark hair and cut it off about three inches from her head. The scissors groaned as they cut, or she did, and she went quickly around her head, chopping her hair into short, chunky pieces. Dark strands fell into the sink, and when she had cut off enough, she ruffled up her head, shedding tiny brown filaments that fell like cinders from the sky after Fourth of July fireworks.

She appraised the new face in the mirror. Large brown eyes, small nose, bad hair, and no lip gloss; she looked like herself at age three. Not a good look for a single girl, but she didn’t need a date. She shook her head and smiled. She actually liked it. Her head felt light and free, if colder. She went into the CVS bag and got her new pink glasses, the weakest prescription they had, and put them on. Funky. Cool. Artsy. Blurry. She went back into the bag one last time and extracted the big box. HIGH DIMENSION BLEACH BLONDE. High Speed Bleach Blonding! Yours in only ten to thirty minutes!

“Prove it,” Nat said aloud, and got busy.

Forty minutes later, she was back in the Kia a completely different woman, in a punky white-blond haircut, funky glasses, and more makeup than most legal historians. She checked the rearview at a stoplight, satisfied that she’d changed her appearance enough to go forward. She’d been aiming for boho art major, but was settling for nearsighted coke whore.

She got the address from Information and drove to a street off Ship Road in suburban Exton, home of the Phoenix Construction Company. She remembered the name from the trailer at the prison and she knew how construction companies worked. There had to be laborers who had demolished the room where Upchurch had been killed. Maybe she could talk to one. Or perhaps someone else from the company would know where the debris from the room had been taken, the bloody rug and even the drywall. The construction company was using a Dumpster at the site, and she remembered Machik saying that it had been taken away. Maybe she could find out where.

She ate the second doughnut for courage, then drove up to the building. She parked in a small parking lot out front, which contained only a single car, and scanned the squat, two-story brick building. It had a white-painted sign that swung on a hinged holder off the side, and the entrance was painted loden green, next to a metal garage door. She got out of the Kia and walked to the entrance in the sunny cold. A stiff wind swept past, and her hand went reflexively to hold back her hair, but it wasn’t there anymore.

She zipped up her down jacket and tried to develop a plausible cover story. She wasn’t dressed for Homeowner Seeking a Contractor and wondered if she could sell Hooker Seeking Crown Molding. She’d go with the flow. She was feeling bolder, now that she wasn’t herself anymore.

She opened the door, which set chimes ringing, and went inside.