She announced without hesitation that the man looked exactly the same as the boy in that big eighties movie Back to the Future. She liked that movie. That mad professor made her laugh so hard! Plus, when she was old enough to get a car, she wanted one just like that, with the funny doors.

Griffin had stared at little Summer Marie. And through the haze of depression and grief and exhaustion that had kept him half-functioning for months, he had a memory as clear as day: Cindy, Griffin and David sitting on the back porch the first time David had come over. Cindy laughing, saying, “Hey, Dave, anyone ever tell you that you look exactly like Michael J. Fox?”

David, an independent contractor with flexible hours. David, whose electrical jobs took him to different neighborhoods all over the state. David, whose small build, boyish face and easy smile would seem completely nonthreatening to a child. At least until it was much too late.

The girl's description earned them a search warrant. Two hours later Griffin was back in his own neighborhood, leading a small posse of detectives that included Mike Waters into David's home, while his next-door neighbor stood by silently, a strange smile fixed upon his face.

Fifteen minutes later, the first detective opened the door to the basement. The initial waft of odor was so overwhelmingly floral the detective had actually sneezed. And then they'd all caught the smell beneath the smell. The incredibly hard to conceal odor of death.

Down into that basement, with the hard-packed dirt floor and soundproofed ceiling. Down into that basement, with its three harshly glaring bare bulbs. Down into that basement, with a stained mattress and an old workbench covered in handcuffs, dildos and porn. Down in that basement with another corner where the dirt wasn't hard-packed at all. Where instead the dark, loamy soil undulated in ten tiny lime-topped waves.

Ten heartbreaking little white-flecked waves.

David had brought each child down here, down to the odor of death. And he had done unspeakable things to them while they had inhaled the stench of death. Had it made him even more excited?

Or had that come later, when he'd gone next door to mow a state police sergeant's lawn?

Griffin should've killed David Price that day. Most nights, when he awoke drenched in sweat and choking back screams, he still wished that he had. Sometimes when people did the right thing, it was still much too wrong. He'd spent eighteen months in therapy, when frankly, he probably could've cured himself that day with one properly landed punch.

Shrinks just didn't know shit about this job.

Now Griffin looked down at the envelope in his hand. He should throw it away, toss it in the bin like so much garbage. But he didn't. In all honesty, he'd come to consider these little notes the very best in home sanity tests. The state had its fitness-for-duty diagnostic; Griffin had this.

He opened the envelope. It was short by David's standards. Generally he included several pages about his life in maximum-security prison. The carpentry classes he was taking. His newfound love of yoga-good for the body and the mind. Rumors that the ACI might win a contract soon to have inmates make American flags and wouldn't that be a heck of a lotta fun? Oh, and by the way, here's a sketch of a rose to put on Cindy's grave. I still miss her, buddy.

In contrast, this letter contained only two lines. It read: Best wishes with the new case. It's going to be a good one.

Griffin 's blood went cold. He grabbed the envelope, flipped it over. Postmarked Saturday, the eighteenth of May. But that was before Griffin had gone back to work, before Eddie Como had been shot. How could David…? What did David…?

The ringing building in his ears. Heart starting to race, blood starting to pump, sweat bursting from pores.

Griffin took a shaky breath, counted to ten, closed his eyes, and in the next moment, the anxiety attack passed. His breathing calmed. His powers of reason returned.

David was simply fucking with him. He'd probably learned of Griffin 's first day back on the job the same way he'd learned Griffin 's new address. The power of the prison rumor mill, coupled with way too many big mouths on TV.

And when Griffin returned to work, of course he was assigned a new case. He was a detective, after all. That's what he did. To read any more than that into the note was like giving a psychic all the credit for predicting that “soon, your luck will change.”

David Price didn't deserve that kind of credit. And he certainly didn't deserve that kind of power.

Griffin stepped on the foot pedal of the kitchen's white trash bin. The lid popped open and he dropped David Price's letter into the pile of used Kleenexes and sticky eggshells.

“Fuck you, too,” he murmured. Then for good measure, he looked at his hands. Not a tremor in sight. Yeah, eighteen months later, he was doing just fine. Eighteen months later, he was fucking fabulous.

Griffin grabbed his Big Case Kit and hit the road.

CAROL LEFT THE RUE DE L'ESPOIR SHORTLY AFTER 4:00 but didn't return home until nearly 6:30. First, she spent some quality time at Nordstrom. Dan would scream when he got the bill, but let him scream. It was four in the afternoon on the opening day of her rape trial, which was no longer the opening day of her rape trial, and by God, she would shop if she damn well wanted to shop.

So Carol went to Nordstrom, where a petite young thing helped her select a multitude of designer suits while trying hard not to stare. Carol didn't mind the staring. She'd gotten used to it by now. In the beginning, when Jillian had first proposed the Survivors Club, she had spelled out the side effects of going public. On the one hand, never underestimate the power of three beautiful women standing in front of a crowd of TV cameras demanding that the police ratchet up their investigation and do more to protect the female population of the great Ocean State.

On the other hand, never underestimate the power of the press to descend on three bruised and battered women like vultures on roadkill. Did they have any idea who was behind these vicious attacks? What about the slow progress of the ongoing investigation? Did they still suffer nightmares? What about their husbands, fathers, sisters, brothers? Did they have any advice for other women out there?

Jillian fielded all the questions, of course. Jillian was good at that sort of thing. Crisp, professional, never giving too much away.

Now, Carol, if she'd gotten her hands on the mike… Of course I have fucking nightmares! Women, you want to protect yourselves, buy a gun. Shoot first, question later. Fuck 'em all, ladies. It's the only way.

So, yes, I have nightmares… When I sleep… Which hasn't been for months… And by the way, when I look at my husband I see a rapist's face and when my husband touches me I feel a rapist's hands. And I hate Eddie Como, and open windows and houses that grow too quiet at night. But most of all I hate the fact that when I do fall asleep, I dream of blood and slaughtered lambs, and when I wake up I am so angry I have to press my eyeballs into my sockets to keep them from bursting out of my head.

Other than that, esteemed members of the fourth estate, I am coping just fine.

Carol dropped two thousand bucks. Dan would go ballistic. Good for him. Yes, she was definitely in a mood.

Maybe she should've stayed with Jillian and Meg. Jillian was going to drive Meg home, providing backup in case Meg's father was there and saw his little girl under the influence of not one, but two bottles of champagne. Carol wasn't even sure how Meg had gotten her hands on the second bottle. She'd gone to the restroom, and next thing she knew, a fresh bottle was on the table and half consumed. At least she'd been able to catch Jillian out in the parking lot. Of course, that had been weird, too. Jillian talking to Sergeant Blue Eyes. The two of them standing so close together, so deep in conversation… Then the way Jillian had jerked back. Startled. Guilty.