“That's right.” He nodded. “Our good friend and helpful neighbor, ‘we're going to beat this thing' David Price, would come over and sit with Cindy. As the saying goes, it seemed like a good idea at the time.

“But now we're down in the basement, with that mattress and that workbench and those dark, tiny waves. Now we're down in the basement and David is telling me exactly what he did those afternoons he sat with Cindy. Exactly what he did to my wife.”

Griffin saw the look on her face and immediately shook his head. “No, nothing like that, Jillian. Cindy was a grown woman and David's into little kids. She provided something even better for him. An audience. Yeah, a fucking audience. For over a year, see, Price has been involved in this incredible crime spree, kidnapping and murdering small children. And no one suspects a thing. Which means he has no one to talk to, no one to brag to. That kind of thing only gets you in trouble anyway, and David knows it. But now, here's Cindy. Helpless, dying, unable to speak a word. So he goes over there and tells her everything. Every tiny, terrible detail of how he finds the kids and stalks the kids and abducts the kids and hurts the kids and strangles the kids and buries the kids in his basement. On and on and on, an unending litany of depravity. And Cindy can't escape. Cindy can't repeat a word.

“You have to wonder how she must have felt, David told me, as she watched me greet him so gratefully each time I returned home. You have to wonder how desperate she must have been, he said, for me to see something in her face, or in his face. If I would just ask the right question… My smart, brilliant wife, he mused, knowing all about his horrible crimes, and unable to do a thing to stop them. My compassionate, gentle-hearted wife, he postulated, dying with all those murdered children on her conscience. And all the while, her husband never suspected a thing. All the while, her husband was so grateful to have David come visit…

“That's when I broke, started swinging my fists. I don't remember much of it after that, honestly. They tell me Waters and O'Reilly got in my way. And they tell me that David Price never stopped smiling.

“That's the kind of man we're dealing with, Jillian. He makes friends purely so he has people to betray. He seeks out children purely to have life-forms to destroy. And he is very smart, in an ingratiating, awful sort of way. He is brilliant.”

Griffin bent over the desk. He picked up the plain desk pad, and from beneath it, a piece of paper fluttered to the floor. It landed by Jillian's feet, so she picked it up first. It was a page from a notepad, and written all over it in Meg's large, round script were the words: David Price, David Price, David Price. Oh no, David Price.

“Well,” Griffin said after a moment. “Apparently Meg has finally started to remember.”

Five minutes later, Griffin and Fitz were striding out of the house, their faces carefully shuttered, but the line of their mouths grim. Tom and Laurie remained inside. They couldn't seem to move, couldn't seem to digest this new, dreadful turn of events.

Jillian was the one who followed the two detectives to their car, watched them climb in, slam the doors.

At the last minute, she knocked on the driver's-side window. Griffin lowered the glass.

“Were you with your wife the day she died?” she asked him.

“Of course.”

“Did you ask her if she loved you? What did she say?”

Griffin's voice softened. “She blinked yes.”

Jillian nodded, stepped back. “Remember that, Griffin. If David Price does get leave from prison, if you do catch up with him, remember that. He didn't win. You did.”

Griffin finally nodded. Then his window was back up, the car in gear. He and Fitz peeled away from the curb and hit the road.

GRIFFIN AND FITZ HAD MADE IT ONLY FOUR BLOCKS FROM the Pesaturo home when Fitz shouted, “Stop!”

Griffin obligingly slammed on the brakes, and Fitz obligingly hit the dash. “Ow, shit, Jesus, over there!” Griffin followed the detective's pointing finger to a mini-mart on their right. Three cars were gassing up at the pumps. Fitz, however, was fixed on a small brown Nissan parked in front of the mini-mart's glass doors. “That,” he declared, “is Meg's car. Check out the plates.”

MP 63. Griffin swung them into the parking lot.

They circled the car first. It held the usual clutter-Kleenex box, hairbrush, discarded mail, plus a variety of hair scrunchies looped over the parking brake. Griffin noted the expired Providence College parking sticker just as Fitz placed his hand on the car's hood and declared it cold.

The two men exchanged frowns. If the engine had already cooled, the car had been there a bit. They walked into the mini-mart. Two women and a clerk were in the store. The first woman, with graying hair and an oversized navy blue sweatshirt, was deep in consideration at the ice cream case. The second woman, over in the snack aisle, had bright blond hair. Definitely neither one was Meg. Fitz and Griffin exchanged more concerned looks.

They approached the cashier, a pimple-ridden teenager who could've doubled as Teen Blockbuster. Fitz badged him.

“Where's the driver of the Nissan?”

Kid gaped at Fitz's badge, swallowed audibly, gaped at the badge some more. “Don't know,” kid squeaked.

“What do you mean, you don't know?”

“I mean, she's not here. Sir,” the kid added belatedly.

“Did you see the driver of the brown Nissan?”

“Yes, sir! I mean, she was pretty, sir!”

Okay, that woman sounded like Meg. “Did she come inside, say anything to you?”

“No, sir.”

“She didn't come inside?” Fitz glared at the kid.

“No, sir. I mean, I think she was going to, sir. But then her friend pulled up and she went with him.”

“Him?” Griffin asked sharply.

The kid flicked a glance at Griffin for the first time, noticed the state detective's imposing size and promptly blanched. “Y-Y-Yes.”

Fitz leaned on the counter. Both of the female shoppers had stopped eyeing food by now and were shamelessly eavesdropping on the conversation. Fitz ignored them. He focused his amiable tone on the kid.

“Can you describe exactly what you saw for me? Take your time. Think about it.”

The kid took a deep breath. He thought about it. “Well, I saw her get out of her Nissan. And then, well, I looked again 'cause, well, she was very pretty.”

“What was she wearing?”

“Umm, some kind of brown jacket. Suede, you know, and this big purse swung over her shoulder and jeans, I guess. I don't know. Nothin' special.”

“Okay, so she's out of the car with her coat on and her purse over her shoulder. Did she close the car door?”

“Yeah. She did that.”

“And then?”

“She took a step forward, like she was coming inside. But then she suddenly stopped and turned. I saw another car pull up and this man get out. He seemed kind of urgent, you know. He ran up to her, said something, then they both got into his car.”

“Describe the man,” Fitz ordered.

“Ummm, not too tall, I guess. Maybe your height. Brown hair. Just… a guy, an average guy.” The kid shrugged.

Fitz looked at Griffin, who nodded slightly. An average guy. Everyone's favorite description of Eddie Como. Shit.

“Age?” Fitz asked.

“Ummm, older, I guess. I couldn't see him real well from here, but I remember thinking that he was too old for her. I don't know why I thought that.”

“Did you see his car?”

“Not from here. It sounded big, though. Big engine. Old. Sputtered when he pulled out. Probably needs new plugs,” the kid added helpfully.

Griffin spoke up. “Did he touch the girl?”

The kid's gaze shot toward him, then promptly plummeted to the countertop. “ Umm…”