On the west side of Broadway between Seventy-third and Seventy-fourth Streets, the eighteen-story Ansonia is, as Maman has always liked to say, as close as she could get to home without hopping an Air France flight to Charles de Gaulle.

Constructed during the Belle Epoque, the massive historical landmark—with its elaborate balconies, arches, masonry curls, and iron grillwork—evokes a romantic Parisian flair befitting the Champs-Élysées.

To Elsa, as a little girl, it looked more like an oversized haunted mansion, with its looming turrets and mansard roof. There was a time when she dreaded her after-school journey from the lobby to her door. Leery of the creaky old elevators, she’d race instead up the dizzying stack of marble stairways and through the yawning maze of corridors on their floor, lined with shadowy nooks where sinister bad guys and ghosts might be lurking.

Breathless by the time she reached her own door, she’d unlock it in a hurry and slam it closed behind her—only to be scolded by Maman’s longtime maid, Monique, or by Maman herself, who had no patience for what she considered silly, childish paranoia.

Looking back now, from a maternal standpoint, Elsa finds it hard to believe that her mother hadn’t simply met her in the lobby—or better yet, at school several blocks away—to escort her safely home in the afternoons.

But, then, it was a different world back then; less threatening. And parenting wasn’t as hands-on…

And let’s face it, Maman wasn’t the most nurturing mother.

Then again, maybe she did me a favor.

Forced to deal with her daily childhood anxieties, Elsa eventually got over them. Had she been coddled, she might never have developed the strength that allowed her to survive her worst fears becoming reality in adulthood.

How ironic that Maman largely left Elsa to her own devices in the big, bad city, and nothing terrible ever happened. Yet Elsa herself—the ultra-vigilant parent—couldn’t prevent the tragic loss of her child in their own bucolic suburban backyard.

“It’s spooky here,” Renny whispers as they climb endless flights of wrought-iron-railed stairs. The elevators have been renovated, but they’re out of the question for claustrophobic Renny.

“When I was your age, I thought so, too.” Still do—but it’s probably not a good idea to admit it. Her goal is to make Renny feel safe—like they’re on a fun adventure.

A far cry from Disney World, that’s for sure.

A familiar unease steals over Elsa.

The vast stairwell is deserted, as it often seems to be, and their footsteps echo as they ascend toward the shadowy domed ceiling seventeen stories above. Once, it was probably a dazzling glass skylight, though nobody knows for sure. Presumably, it’s a relic of the Second World War, covered in blackout paint for almost seventy years.

At every floor, a wide balcony landing houses the main elevator banks, shut off from the rest of the building by closed doors.

When they reach Maman’s floor, Elsa is thoroughly winded—thanks in part to having to carry her bag and Renny’s, along with a shopping bag from the Fairway market across the street.

There’s no way I could run down these halls the way I used to, even if my life depended on it.

She cringes at the thought, and forces herself to note that the wide corridors are much less foreboding now, thanks to new carpet, wallpaper, and paint.

Still, there are twists and turns, and plenty of niches along the walls that would make perfect hiding places if someone wanted to lurk here. Heart racing—and not just from the strenuous climb—she reminds herself that whoever sent those photographs of Renny can’t possibly know they’re here.

Not only that, but it would be impossible for a random person off the street to even get up here. If Elsa hadn’t been recognized by both Ralph the doorman and Ozzy, the longtime security guard, she and Renny would never have gotten beyond the lobby.

Trying to sound cheerful as they reach Maman’s door, she tells Renny, “This is it!”

Yet her voice sounds hollow even to her own ears, echoing through the deserted corridors, and Renny all but cowers at her side.

The sprawling apartment lies in a far-flung corner of a high floor, creating as private a residence as possible in an immense urban apartment building. Like many other residents, Maman bought and combined several apartments as their tenants vacated after the building went condo. The original entrance doors remain intact along the hallway, but only one is in use. The others, their knobs removed, have become nothing more than recessed decorative panels.

It takes Elsa a few tries to get the key into the lock, all the while fighting the urge to grab Renny and flee.

Her malaise doesn’t make sense, really. This is supposed to be a safe haven.

But what if…?

There you go again, being ridiculous. There’s no way anyone could be lying in wait for you here. Absolutely no way.

Though she’s careful not to slam the door, the noise seems to echo loudly through the rooms. She half expects a French-accented voice to reprimand her, but of course, no one does. The place is deserted and has been for months, other than the cleaning service that comes in once a week.

She sets down their luggage and flips a light switch to illuminate the overhead crystal chandelier. “There, that’s better, isn’t it?”

“I guess.” Renny takes in the circular foyer with its seventeenth-century paintings, wall-sized gilt-framed mirror, and French Classical Baroque chairs that always seemed to Elsa as though they might as well have a velvet rope across the seats. “How come this room is round?”

“It’s special. A lot of rooms in this building are round,” she tells Renny, who seems more suspicious than intrigued as they make their way across the room.

“It was so loud outside, and it’s so quiet in here,” Renny whispers as their footsteps tap on the herringbone hardwoods. The only other sound is the hum of the refrigerator.

“That’s because the walls in this building are three feet thick,” Elsa tells her, repeating a bit of Ansonia lore she frequently heard as a child.

Maybe the measurement was exaggerated a bit, but the apartment is undeniably soundproof.

Evidence: Temperamental Maman’s equally temperamental across-the-hall neighbor Lucia—a soprano at the Met ten blocks down Broadway—liked to practice her arias at the same hour Maman needed her afternoon beauty sleep. The dueling divas had their share of confrontations over the years, but never about noise.

“Can I have my snack now?”

“Sure. Come on. And you don’t have to whisper.”

“Okay,” Renny whispers, then, with a faint smile, “I mean, okay. Why can’t I see out that window?” She points to a large opaque pane in the wall of the hallway just beyond the foyer.

“Oh, that’s actually an airshaft.” Remembering how her mother explained it to her when she was little, Elsa tells Renny, “It’s like a vertical alley that comes all the way up through the middle of the building from the ground to the sky. On hot days, back before there was air conditioning, people would open these panels and let the fresh air in.”

“Can I see?”

“Sure…if it still works.” It’s been years since Elsa opened the airshaft. Maman hasn’t used it in decades, squeamishly convinced roaches would crawl in from other apartments.

Surprisingly, it takes little more than a tug to raise the window.

“It’s like a tunnel,” Renny comments, standing on her tiptoes to peer into the shadowy column.

“Exactly. When I was your age, there weren’t many kids in the building. I always wished I had a friend living in one of the other apartments on the airshaft, so we could sneak back and forth along the ledges.”

“That would be dangerous! What if you fell all the way down?”

“Ouch!” Elsa says lightly, and closes the airshaft.

As they move on down the hall, Renny asks, “What’s behind all those doors?”

“A bathroom and a bunch of closets.” This place has more storage than the Cavalons have had in any house they’ve ever lived in. Maman needs it, too, for storing half a century’s couture and modeling portfolios.

Leading Renny to the kitchen, Elsa can’t help but note the utter absence of oohs and aahs and ooh-la-las Maman would have expected if she herself were escorting a first-time guest into her home. Lacking any frame of reference, Renny can’t possibly grasp the fabulousness of Maman’s quarters in comparison to the traditional cookie-cutter Manhattan apartment.

At two thousand square feet, it feels more like a house, really, with its unique oval living room, ornate moldings, antique hardware, and turn-of-the-century cabinetry. Twelve-foot ceilings and tall French windows make it feel extra-spacious—very important for a small, claustrophobic houseguest. Beyond many of the windows are narrow Juliet balconies with lacy ironwork railings.

The kitchen is outfitted with professional-quality appliances, including a custom-designed Gaggenau fridge and a built-to-order La Cornue range. A collection of shiny Mauviel copper cookware hangs from an overhead rack, and the granite countertop holds a block of Michel Bras chef’s knives—none of which, Elsa suspects, has ever been used.

What a waste of a great kitchen.

She opens a cabinet and finds a juice glass. Baccarat, of course.

Behind her, Renny announces, “I don’t like it here.”

“Why not?”

“I like regular square rooms.”

Elsa can’t help but smile.

“I like home.”

Elsa’s smile promptly fades. “I know you do. But…”

But home is supposed to be a haven, and ours has been violated.

“This place is too fancy, right?” she asks Renny, who shrugs.

Elsa herself isn’t particularly fond of the elegant Louis XIV decor: velvet and damask upholstery and draperies, fringe and tassels galore, marble and gilded wood, scrollwork and marquetry…

Growing up in a showplace that rivaled the Palace of Versailles, Elsa used to dream of the kind of home that was comfortable and lived-in.

Now she has it, and she’ll take it any day over this—aging Sears appliances and all.

I like home, too, Renny. I know you wish we were there right now, and so do I.

 

“…and the girls really want to stay on the Upper West Side”—Marin toys with the braided piping on a throw pillow—“but I’d almost prefer to start over in a new neighborhood.”

Lauren frowns. “You mean the Upper East Side, don’t you?”

“Hmm?”

“You live on the Upper East Side, right?”

“Right.” Marin lets go of the pillow and picks up the mug of coffee she’s been nursing. It’s good coffee—Lauren ground fresh beans to make it—yet she’s found herself forcing it down like bitter medicine.

“You said Upper West.”

She blinks and looks up to see Lauren watching her, looking concerned.

“Did I? I meant to say Upper East. I guess I’m distracted.”

She guesses? The truth is, all afternoon, she’s been spacey, her mind a million miles away.

She shouldn’t have come here.

She keeps thinking about what happened yesterday, with the rat, and the text message…

Maybe she should just come right out and tell Lauren about it. Maybe Lauren will convince her that it was just a prank, or a fluke, or a mistake.

That was nothing, Mrs. Quinn. Stay tuned.

It doesn’t sound like a mistake.

But kids can be cruel, and she knows Caroline’s classmates have been giving her a hard time all year. There’s no reason to think there’s anything more to what happened than some stupid kids with too much time on their hands now that summer vacation is here.

She should go. She needs to get home, make sure the girls are okay.

Earlier, she called to check in on them, and of course, no one answered the home phone. Annie must have been on her cell, because it went straight to voice mail, and Caroline didn’t pick up hers. No surprise there.

Groggy as she was when Marin left this morning, Caroline still managed to express resentment at having to spend the day at home with Annie.

They’ve probably been making each other miserable.

Yes, Marin definitely has to get back there.

Before she can make a move, there’s a jangling of dog tags from Chauncey, curled at Lauren’s feet. Head cocked, he looks expectantly toward the foyer.

A split second later, the front door opens.

Lauren glances at her watch. “That must be Lucy.”

“Oh…I should get going. I don’t want to get stuck in rush hour traffic.”

Marin carefully sets her mug on a coaster and prepares to make a speedy exit, hoping Lauren doesn’t point out that the bulk of the traffic will be coming out of the city, not headed into it.

“Mom? Whose car is that out front?” a female voice calls from the foyer.

Lauren’s daughter arrives in the doorway a moment later, and it’s clear from the look on her face that she immediately recognizes Marin.

“Lucy…” Lauren seems apprehensive. “This is Mrs. Quinn. She’s…”

She’s the woman whose husband had you kidnapped and nearly killed, and—

And why, oh why, did Marin come here today? This was such a stupid idea. Poor Lucy. Poor Lauren.

Poor me.

“She’s a friend of mine,” Lauren concludes innocuously.

“Hi, Lucy.” Marin does her best to offer a friendly smile and holds her breath, unsure she can hold up if Lucy says something hurtful. Caroline certainly would, under the circumstances.

But Lucy smiles and holds out her hand to Marin. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“It’s nice to meet you, too,” Marin manages to say around the sudden lump in her throat, gratefully shaking Lucy’s hand.

“How’d your math final go?” Lauren asks.

“Oh, you know…”

“Mmm, actually, I don’t know, or I wouldn’t have asked.”

“I would say that it went as well as could be expected,” Lucy replies, with all the confidence of a surgeon delivering dubious news.

Lauren points to the stairway. “Then get moving. Go on up and study for the physics final.”

“It’s not until Monday. I have all weekend to study.”

“Dad’s mother is coming, remember?”

“Oh. Right.” Clearly, Lucy isn’t thrilled by the prospect of meeting her grandmother for the first time. “Well, can’t I have, like, two seconds to decompress, Mom?”

“Sure. One, two…go.”

Lucy goes, with a groan.

Lauren looks at Marin. “It’s never easy.”

“No,” Marin agrees with a faint smile, “it never is. Listen, I really need to get going, so…”

“Wait, Marin, before you do…is everything okay?”

Marin shifts her weight on the sofa. “Everything is…” Not okay. That would be a ridiculous claim, and Lauren knows it.

She settles on, “Everything is as well as can be expected.”

“Are you sure?”

Should I tell her about the e-mail, and the rat?

Will she think I’m crazy and paranoid if I do?

Or, even worse, will she think that Caroline is crazy and paranoid?

“I’m positive, Lauren. I’m hanging in there. We all are. But thanks for asking.” She stands up, her car keys already in hand.

“Wait, I know you didn’t just come here to drink coffee and check out my new kitchen. I know something’s bugging you…and I think I know what it is.”

Marin raises an eyebrow. “I doubt it…but try me.”

 

Meg Warren’s car is sorely in need of some routine maintenance—not that she’ll be needing it anymore, but still…

It’s a wonder the thing even made it to New York City, what with the horrible creaking beneath the pedals every time the steering wheel makes the slightest turn.

Oh well. This Bronx neighborhood is the end of the road. Other than being a great place to abandon a stolen car, the area has very little going for it. But at least it’s right off the highway, and there’s a subway station with a southbound express train.

Oh, and one more perk: On this rainy day, the streets are teeming with furtive-looking, backpack-carrying young people wearing baggy jeans and hoodies. It’s easy to blend into the crowd here and on the downtown Number Five train.

It won’t be the same in Manhattan, though. Rush hour will be under way on this summer Friday; well-dressed office workers will have begun their mad dash toward home. That means it’ll be a good idea to slip into the bathroom at Grand Central Terminal and swap out the black hoodie and baggy jeans for something more suitable for midtown.

And after that…East Side, to Marin, or West Side, to Elsa?

Guess I’ll just have to start walking uptown and see which way the wind blows.

 

Elsa looks at her watch.

Does she dare call Brett at the office again? She’d spoken to him when they first arrived at Penn Station, just before hailing a cab to take them uptown. The conversation was harried, and she could tell he wasn’t alone in the room on his end. Maybe he is now.

She settles Renny at the table with the fresh orange juice and organic granola cookies they picked up at the Fairway.

“Wait, Mommy, where are you going?” Renny protests as Elsa starts for the hallway, fishing her cell phone from her bag.

“Just into the bedroom to…to make sure there are clean sheets on the beds. I’ll be right back.”

“Can I watch TV?” Renny gestures at the flat screen mounted in the custom cabinetry.

There are probably a dozen good reasons not to park her daughter in front of the television again, but Elsa decides they’re far outweighed by the need for some semblance of familiarity to put her at ease.

As the silence gives way to the reassuring cartoon commotion, even she finds herself breathing a little easier.

“Okay, holler if you need me.”

Fixated on the screen, Renny barely nods.

In her childhood bedroom, Elsa sits on the white Matelasse coverlet—something she’d never been allowed to do as a girl—and takes out her phone.

Uh-oh—she’s down to one battery bar. Did she even remember to pack her charger? She thought of it, amid the scramble to get out of the house—but did she actually do it?

She dials Brett’s cell phone, promising herself she’ll make it a quick call, then check her bag for her charger. If it’s not here, she’s going to have to go buy one.

He picks up on the first ring. “Are you okay?”

“Yes. No.” The sound of his voice makes her homesick. “I mean, nothing happened to us…I just want this to be over. It’s crazy.”

There’s a pause before he says, “I know,” and she wonders if he’s not alone.

“Did you hear from Mike yet?”

“No. I’ve left him a couple of messages now, but he hasn’t called back.”

“That isn’t like him, Brett.”

“I know.”

“When you left those messages for him, did you say where Renny and I were going?”

“No!”

“I was just worried you might have left it on his voice mail, or…”

“All I told him was to call me, and that it was important.” Brett clears his throat. “Listen, I’m in the middle of something, so…”

Oh. Okay, she gets it. “Is someone right there?”

“Yes.”

“Call me when you get home.”

“I will.”

As she hangs up, frustrated, her gaze falls on an antique Mardi Gras eye mask sitting on top of a gilded bombé chest across the room. She remembers being severely reprimanded at Renny’s age for parading around wearing it. Like so many of Maman’s objets d’art, the mask was meant to be admired, not touched.

Back in the kitchen, she finds Renny staring bleakly off into space, cartoon gone to commercials, cookies and juice untouched.

Time for a new distraction. “Hey, Renny, want to see my old bedroom? I had a collection of dolls when I was your age, and they’re still here.”

“Can I play with them?”

“Definitely,” Elsa tells her with a touch of smug satisfaction. When she herself was young, Maman insisted on keeping the antique Jumeau porcelain dolls displayed well out of her reach, behind protective glass.

She leads Renny back down the hall to her room and shows her the dolls. “What do you think? Should we take them out and play with them?”

“I don’t know…maybe later.”

“I guess Barbies would probably be more fun, huh?”

“Pro’ly.”

Renny is equally unenthusiastic when Elsa points out the row of first edition leather-bound storybooks in her bookcase, offering to read to her.

“Maybe later.” She wanders across the room.

Watching her stop abruptly at the bombé chest, Elsa sees that she’s staring at the Mardi Gras mask. She can’t recall ever having mentioned that she herself got into trouble once for touching the mask, but she must have, because her daughter takes a wary step back, dark eyes troubled.

“Don’t worry, Renny. You can touch it if you want to.”

“No, thank you.”

“What’s wrong?”

“The monster.”

“What?” Startled, Elsa looks around. The room is empty, and Renny is fixated on the mask.

“Renny? What monster?”

“The one in my room, back at home.” She shudders, and Elsa feels sick inside. “He had on a mask.”

“Are you sure? You mean it covered his eyes?”

“No, it covered his whole face. Like a scary monster on Halloween.”

“You mean he was wearing a rubber mask?”

Renny nods vehemently.

Dear God. It never occurred to Elsa that the intruder really was masquerading as a monster.

“I’m afraid, Mommy.”

“Don’t be afraid.” The words are automatic, but it’s such a stupid thing to say. Don’t be afraid?

“You are, and so is Daddy.” As if sensing that Elsa is about to deny it, Renny adds, “I heard you talking.”

Oh no. How much did she hear? There’s no use denying anything now. Renny’s a smart kid. Smarter, perhaps, than Elsa even suspected.

“Tell me about the monster, Renny. What was he wearing?”

“A mask.”

“What else?”

“A jacket.” Renny responds so readily that Elsa realizes the vivid image is fresh in her mind, poor little thing.

She wants more than anything to drop the subject, but now that it’s out in the open, she has to get as much information as possible. She has to let Brett know, and Mike, too, as soon as they reach him.

“What kind of jacket was he wearing?”

“The kind with a zipper and a hood. It was black.”

“Did you see his hair?”

“No. The hood was up.”

“Was he tall or short?”

“Tall.”

That doesn’t help. Anyone would seem tall, looming over a child in the dead of night.

And anyone who would do such a thing really is a sick, twisted monster.

 

Last October, around Halloween, Jeremy found his way from Groton back to Nottingshire, in the Boston suburbs.

Thanks to all the news accounts that recapped his kidnapping, he knew where he’d lived—not just the town, but the street as well. He was pretty sure that if he drove along Twin Ponds Lane, he’d recognize the two-story house where he’d lived with the Cavalons.

He didn’t know why it seemed so important to return to the scene of the crime, but it was all he could think about.

He drove around and around Nottingshire that day, checking street signs, looking for landmarks. He found a few that seemed familiar: a big blue water tower, a redbrick library, a Shell gas station.

The gas station had—and still has—an attached mini-mart where Elsa once bought Jeremy an ice cream Drumstick on a hot summer day. She told him it wouldn’t drip out the bottom of the cone because the point was plugged with a chunk of fudge.

“I always loved to eat my way down to it,” she told him. “It was like a bonus treat at the end.”

Intrigued, Jeremy couldn’t wait; he bit off the bottom of the cone first. Somehow, it didn’t taste as good as he’d expected. He spit it out on the ground, dismayed.

When they went to get back into the car, Elsa saw the melted ice cream dripping all over his hands and realized what he’d done.

He’d expected her to get angry. But she didn’t. She just seemed disappointed that he hadn’t saved the fudge for last the way she used to, and that he hadn’t even liked it. Her disappointment made him feel worse, probably, than he would have if she’d yelled at him for making a mess.

It was so long ago, it’s pretty amazing that he even remembers the incident—especially since he didn’t even remember her until recently.

But ever since the dam burst, he’d been piecing together his childhood, the only childhood he ever had, even though it was another decade—an endless, excruciating decade—before he actually became an adult.

That day, his first back in Nottingshire, Jeremy parked the car and went into the mini-mart. There, he found a freezer full of Good Humor novelties…but no Drumsticks.

“Can I help you find something?” asked the middle-aged woman behind the register, who was eyeing him suspiciously, as if he were going to shoplift a Popsicle or something.

“Just this.” He grabbed a chocolate chip sandwich and plunked it down on the counter.

“Sure that’s all?” she asked, obviously wary of a grown man who’d wander in for ice cream on a blustery autumn day.

“Actually, there is something else you can help me find—but it’s not in the store.”

“What’s that?”

He hesitated. What if something clicked when he mentioned it, and she recognized him?

That’s nuts. You don’t even recognize yourself these days when you look into the mirror.

“Twin Ponds Lane,” he told her, and she looked relieved that he only wanted directions. “I thought it was around here someplace, but…”

“Oh, it used to be. But that’s been gone for a few years now. They tore down all those houses and built a new development back there. McMansions…you know.”

Maybe that was just as well, Jeremy decided as he drove away, eating his ice cream sandwich. He’d already figured out that you can’t go home again.

Funny, the things you remember—and the things you forget.

On his way out of town that day, he passed a sign that read “Harbor Hills Golf.” It jogged something in his brain.

Harbor Hills…

Something had happened here.

Something important.

Something bad.

 

“You’re thinking about divorcing Garvey, right?”

Seeing Marin’s salon-arched brows disappear beneath her blond bangs, Lauren immediately wishes she hadn’t said it.

Judging by Marin’s expression, her hunch is way off base—and even if it isn’t, she, of all people, has no business doling out advice on the state of Marin’s marriage to a cold-blooded murderer. What was she thinking?

She wasn’t thinking. She was feeling—feeling sorry for Marin, and worried about her.

“At some point, I will—but I can’t deal with it just yet.”

“I don’t blame you. One day at a time—that’s all you need to face.”

Marin nods, picks up the pillow, begins twisting the fringe again.

“Look, you don’t have to tell me what’s bothering you, but it might help. Does it have to do with the girls?”

Bingo. Marin looks up at her and nods. “Caroline.”

“What’s going on?”

“Yesterday, she was out, and she thinks someone put a rat into her handbag.”

“What?”

“I know it sounds kind of…out there. But then I got this text message last night, and it made me think…” She pulls her cell phone from her pocket, presses a few buttons, and hands it to Lauren. “What does this look like to you?”

She examines the screen, frowns.

“It’s an emoticon. A rat.” Marin takes the phone from her, presses a couple more buttons on the keypad, then hands it back. “Read this.”

Lauren does. “Who sent it?”

“I have no idea, but…it’s scaring me.”

“I don’t know…it looks like something my kids do.”

“Mine, too. But it’s really bothering me.”

“Maybe you should go to the police.”

“And tell them…?”

“And tell them you’re getting menacing text messages, and someone put a rat in your daughter’s purse.”

“And they’ll tell me it goes with the territory. This isn’t the first time since last fall that some jerk has tried to get us worked up.”

“I know…we’ve had to deal with gossip and the press, too—and we’ve had some crank calls, that sort of thing.”

Marin sighs. “You’re right. If I call the police, they’ll just chalk it up to one more loser with nothing better to do trying to make our lives miserable.”

“I didn’t say that. And if you don’t call the police, then what other option do you have? Ignoring it?”

“I guess so.” Marin tilts her head thoughtfully. “Do you think she’s dealing with this kind of thing, too?”

“Who?”

“Elsa Cavalon.”

It’s Lauren’s turn to raise her eyebrows. “I don’t know…why? Do you?”

“I wonder. I feel like maybe we should ask her.”

“Are you serious?”

Marin nods.

“But—look, Marin, it’s all I can do to handle my ex-mother-in-law showing up here this weekend. I don’t think I could deal with—”

“No, I know. It’s just me. It’s just—she was raising my son.”

But he wasn’t your son anymore, Marin. He was hers.

Does Lauren dare say it? Does she really even have to? Surely Marin doesn’t think of Jeremy Cavalon as her son.

“It sounds crazy, but sometimes I feel like she’s the only one who can relate to my loss.”

It does sound crazy.

“That was different, though,” Lauren tells her gently. “You lost him so long ago, and it was your choice to give him up…”

She trails off, seeing the flash of anger in Marin’s blue eyes.

“You’re wrong about that. It wasn’t my choice. It was Garvey’s.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean you wanted—”

“No. I didn’t. I never wanted to give him up, but I was too weak, and Garvey was too strong.”

“I’m sorry,” Lauren says again.

“It killed me. Handing over that baby to a stranger…I wish I could tell Jeremy that, but now it’s too late, and…”

“And you need to tell someone.”

“Maybe I do. You said it yourself, Lauren. When you were talking about Nick’s mother. It doesn’t matter that she hasn’t seen him in years—she’s still his mother.”

Lauren swallows hard and leans over to put an arm around Marin, half expecting her friend to crumple at the contact. But Marin stoically keeps her composure: the epitome of grace under pressure, courtesy of all those years in the spotlight.

“So what do you think?” she asks Lauren after a moment.

I think it’s a huge mistake. I think you’re setting yourself up for more heartache. I think you’re on the verge of a nervous breakdown as it is, and…

And I don’t think it matters what I think.

“Just be careful, Marin. If you decide to reach out to her, it won’t be easy—for either of you.”

“Yeah, well, you know what they say. Whatever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.”

For some reason, those last words linger ominously in Lauren’s mind long after Marin has driven off into the pouring rain.

 

It all came back to Jeremy as he drove out of Nottingshire that day last fall, past the familiar sign: “Harbor Hills Golf.”

That was where he’d bashed in a little girl’s head with a seven-iron.

He didn’t remember her last name, or even her first—not her real one, anyway. He remembered only that she had some silly nickname everyone called her—Cha Cha or Lulu or something—and he remembered her blond braids.

He remembered other things, too: how angry he felt about having to take golf lessons. How impossible it was to get the ball into that tiny, faraway hole—only for him, though, not for the others. How mercilessly the little girl with the blond braids had taunted him about it…

He remembered her mean-spirited laughter every time he’d cry out in frustration after his turn; remembered how he’d sort of waved the seven-iron at her as a threat; remembered her scoffing at that, saying his swing was so bad there was no way he could hit her with the golf club.

He remembered proving her wrong. Over and over again.

He remembered her screams, then her moans; remembered the blood in her hair and on the club and spattered all over him, blood everywhere; remembered the voices as people came rushing.

“What happened to her?”

“Is she breathing?”

“Does anyone know CPR?”

He remembered Brett Cavalon grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him, shouting, “What did you do?”

And he remembered the look on Elsa’s face.

The memories were relentless. They haunted him. Finally, he had to do something about them.

It was November when he returned to Nottingshire and snuck onto the grounds of Harbor Hills. Dressed in a golf shirt and khakis, Jeremy meandered his way to the clubhouse, where he hit pay dirt: a series of framed photographs of junior golfers over the years. He didn’t recognize any of the faces, but one name jumped out at him from a photo caption: La La. That was it. Not Cha Cha or Lulu. It was La La. La La Montgomery.

The picture must have been taken maybe a year or two after he’d known her. He never would have recognized her, and not just because her blond braids had been exchanged for a pixie cut. Her whole face looked different—and he wondered if that was because of what he’d done to her.

Probably.

Well, she wasn’t the only one who’d been beaten beyond recognition. She wasn’t the only one who’d had plastic surgery.

Suddenly, Jeremy wanted to see her…even if she didn’t want to see him. No, he didn’t just want to see her…he had to see her.

Luckily for him, she wasn’t hard to find.