Jerry Philips had tried to get her to change her mind from the moment he met her on the service road that led to the boathouse until he dropped her off at the airport. He hadn’t given up until he’d handed her the dufflebag full of clothes and toiletries she’d told him to buy, and five thousand dollars. Ashley’s plane ticket was electronic, and she already had her passport.

Ashley’s plane would land in Frankfurt, Germany. Then she would take a train to a destination she would decide on in the airport lounge. By operating with spur-of-the-moment choices she hoped to avoid leaving a trail based on her past. She had no favorite places anyway. Everywhere she went would be new and exciting. And every place she went would be free of Joshua Maxfield.

Miles Van Meter closed the copy of Sleeping Beauty from which he had been reading. While the audience applauded, he drank from the bottle of water that Jill Lane had left on the podium.

“Joshua Maxfield’s home invasion devastated Ashley,” Miles said when the applause died down, “but the loss of her mother, several months later, was a killing blow. Then Maxfield made his spectacular escape from the courtroom and returned to the Oregon Academy that very night to try to murder Ashley.

“The authorities claimed that they would protect Ashley, but she had no faith in them after Maxfield’s near miss at the Academy. She fled to Europe and stayed there until the totally unforeseen events that compelled her return to Oregon.

“In the years between his escape and recapture, Joshua Maxfield went underground. The best efforts of the FBI and international police organizations were of no avail. When interest in the manhunt began to wane, I wrote Sleeping Beauty to keep my sister’s plight and the memory of her killer in the public eye. I had no idea how successful my tribute to Casey would be.

“Meanwhile, Ashley was living under assumed names and leading the life of a vagabond; staying for short periods in small towns throughout Europe, working odd jobs when she could get them, and drawing money from her account when she had to. But, of course, I didn’t know that when I wrote Sleeping Beauty, and the original book ended with Maxfield’s escape, Ashley’s disappearance, and a brief account of the efforts of the authorities to track one of history’s most diabolical serial killers.

“And now I’d be pleased to answer your questions.”

In the back of the room, a well-built young man dressed in khaki pants and a plaid shirt raised his hand. Miles pointed at him.

“I’m thinking of writing a true-crime book about a real murder case that my cousin was involved in, but I don’t know how to get started. There were some things in the case that happened in other states. Can you tell me how you did your research on the other murders that Maxfield committed around the country?”

“Sure. Researching Sleeping Beauty wasn’t that different from preparing a case for trial. When I’m litigating, I have to interview witnesses, read documents, and learn all of the facts in the case. I approached my book as if I was preparing for Maxfield’s trial.

“By the time I started writing Sleeping Beauty, the FBI had already done a pretty good job of matching up the fictional murders in Maxfield’s novel with real crimes in Connecticut, Montana, and other states. Larry Birch and Delilah Wallace were very helpful. They gave me access to the reports of the Oregon police and the FBI. I also read stories about these crimes in local newspapers. After that it was simply a question of contacting the person in charge of each case in each state. Detective Birch called these people to vouch for me. That helped me get my foot in the door.

“When I traveled to a state, I would contact the detective in charge, read the reports, then interview witnesses. I also visited the crime scenes and read autopsy reports and viewed the crime scene photographs. Some jurisdictions videotaped the crime scene, which really helped me write accurately about what went on.”

“Weren’t you working as a lawyer during all this?” an older man in a sweatshirt and jeans asked.

“Yes, but my firm was very supportive. On the few occasions I needed it, they gave me time off for my investigation. But I was fortunate, because a few of Maxfield’s crimes were committed in cities like Boston, where I traveled frequently on business.”

A young man wearing jeans and a T-shirt from a local college raised his hand.

“Mr. Van Meter, I just finished reading Sleeping Beauty. I thought it was great. One thing bothered me, though. Everyone always assumed that Joshua Maxfield murdered Ashley’s parents, but in light of what happened when Ashley returned to Portland I wonder if Randy Coleman was ever a suspect. Ashley never saw the face of the man who killed her father and tried to kill her after Maxfield escaped. Coleman fit the description of the man who invaded her home and hunted her at the Academy.”

“That’s right,” Miles agreed, “but you’re forgetting one thing: Coleman had no motive to murder Ashley until everyone discovered who she really was.”

Ashley chose San Giorgio for her meeting with Jerry Philips because tourists rarely visited the little Tuscan hill town. The narrow, dusty streets were anything but picturesque, and none of the local shops sold goods that would be of interest to vacationers from Wisconsin or Osaka. Its only possible tourist attraction, a thirteenth-century castle, was in disrepair because there wasn’t money to maintain it. Weeds had conquered battlements that had kept out human invaders for hundreds of years.

Chestnut trees shaded the piazza. There was a stone church with no famous frescos or relics at one end, and a restaurant at the other. In the center of the piazza stood an uninteresting fountain that was bone-dry at the moment. Ashley arrived an hour early and watched the square from the upper story of the church to make sure that her attorney had not been followed.

Jerry Philips had sent an email requesting an emergency meeting several weeks ago, but Ashley had not checked her messages until two days before, when she’d dropped into a cybercafé in Siena. Lawyer and client had exchanged several frantic messages. Ashley asked why Jerry needed to see her in person. Jerry swore that he should be with her when he explained a matter of the utmost importance. Time was of the essence, he had insisted, and he’d proved it by flying out of Portland the day Ashley agreed to the meeting.

Shortly after the churchbells rang in six o’clock, Philips appeared at the end of one of the cobblestone streets that emptied into the town square. He paused in the shade of a chestnut tree to catch his breath. The sun was still blazing in a clear blue Italian sky and the temperature was in the nineties. Jerry was sweating heavily. He’d had to park in a lot at the base of the hill, because the twisting streets were too narrow for ordinary traffic. The only vehicles he’d seen were small trucks delivering to the shops of the town. When one passed him on the way out of San Giorgio he’d been forced to press himself against a wall to avoid being hit.

Ashley watched Jerry drag himself across the piazza to the restaurant. She’d always liked her lawyer. She remembered how young she thought he was when they first met. Maybe that was it. He’d never seemed that much older than she was, even though he was an adult. She studied him as he scanned the piazza. He was dressing better than he had when they’d first met; he’d switched to contacts, and his hair was shorter. He looked handsome. Ashley smiled. Despite her reservations about meeting anyone who could lead Joshua Maxfield to her, it felt good to see a familiar face.