The file contained no more notes. The at-fault driver had never regained consciousness to be presented with criminal charges. Over a year later, she'd died. Case closed.

Rainie felt a chill.

She put away the notes, though the photos remained in her hands. Pictures of that poor man, out walking his dog. Pictures of the poor fox terrier who hadn't had a long enough leash. Pictures of the twisted front end of a massive vehicle, which had crumpled like paper upon impact.

The EMTs had whisked Mandy to the emergency room, sparing everyone those images. The state trooper had captured the front windshield, however, including the shattered upper left quadrant, which bore a macabre mold of Amanda Quincys face.

Quincy had studied these photos. Rainie wondered how long it had taken him to look away.

She sighed. The report didn't give her much hope. No evidence of any other vehicles involved. The lack of braking, which might bother an untrained investigator, was also consistent with DUI incidents. Also, no evidence of anyone else at the scene. The state trooper had written up a straightforward report, and at this juncture, Rainie had to agree.

But there was the issue of how Mandy came to be drunk at five-thirty in the morning when her friends had seen her sober just three hours before. And there was the "nonoperative" seat belt that had turned what should have been a survivable crash into tragedy. Finally, there was the mystery man, the supposed love of Amanda Quincys life, whom no one had ever met.

"Still not much of a case," she murmured. But Quincy must be getting to her, because she no longer sounded convinced.

Greenwich Village, New York City

Kimberly August Quincy was having one of those spells again. She stood on the corner of Washington Square in the heart of New York University 's campus. The sun was shining brightly. The sky gleamed a vast, vast blue. The grass around the square's signature arch was a deep, deep green. Residents strolled by, tidy in trendy suits and tiny John Lennon sunglasses. Summer students clad in ripped denim shorts and shrink-wrapped tank tops lay out on the green, ostensibly doing homework, but half of them sound asleep.

A nice July afternoon. A safe, charming place, even by New York City standards.

Kimberly was breathing too hard. Panting. She had a bag, once slung over her shoulder, now in a death grip in her hands. She had been on her way somewhere. She couldn't remember where. Sweat poured down her face.

A man in a business suit walked briskly down the sidewalk. He glanced casually at her, then came to a halt.

"Are you all right?"

"Go… away."

"Miss – "

"Go away!"

The man hurried away, shaking his head and no doubt sorry he'd tried to do a good deed in New York when everyone knew the city was full of nuts.

Kimberly wasn't nuts. Not yet at least. The logical part of her mind, which had taken enough psych classes to know, understood that. She was having an anxiety attack. Had been having them, in fact, for months now.

She'd go days, even weeks, when everything was perfectly normal. She'd just wrapped up her junior year at NYU and with two summer courses, an internship with her criminology professor, and volunteer work at a homeless shelter, she had places to go and people to see. Out the door at six forty-five A.M. Rarely home before ten P.M. She liked things that way.

And then…

A strange sensation at first. A tingle running up her spine. A prickle at the nape of her neck. She'd find herself stopping abruptly, halfway down a street. Or whirling around sharply in the middle of a crowded subway. She'd look for… She didn't know what she looked for. She'd just suffer the acute sensation that someone was watching. Someone she couldn't see.

Then it would go away as swiftly as it had come. Her pulse would calm, her breathing ease. She'd be fine again. For a few days, a few weeks, and then…

It had been worse since the funeral. At times almost hourly, then she'd get two or three days to catch her breath before bam, she'd step onto the subway and the world would close in on her again.

Logically she supposed it made sense. She'd lost her sister, was battling with her mother, and God knows what was going on with her father. She'd consulted Dr. Marcus Andrews, her criminology professor, and he'd assured her it was probably stress related.

"Ease up a little," he'd advised her. "Give yourself some time to rest. What you don't accomplish at twenty-one, you can always accomplish at twenty-two."

They both knew she wouldn't slow down, though. It wasn't her style. As her mother loved to tell her, Kimberly was too much like her father. And in many ways that made the anxiety attacks even worse, because just like her dad, Kimberly had never been afraid of anything.

She remembered being eight years old and going to some local fair with her father and her older sister. She and Mandy had been so excited. A whole afternoon alone with Daddy, plus cotton candy and rides. They could barely contain themselves.

They'd gone on the Tilt-A-Whirl, and the spider, and the Ferris wheel. They'd eaten caramel apples, two bags of popcorn and washed it down with well-iced Coke. Then, positively buzzing with sugar and caffeine, they'd rounded up their dad to continue the adventure.

Except their father wasn't paying attention to them anymore. He was studying some man who stood off to the side by the kiddy rides. The man wore a long, grubby overcoat and Kimberly vividly remembered Mandy crinkling her nose and saying, "Oooh, what smells?"

Their father gestured for them to be quiet. They took one look at the intent expression on his face and didn't dare disobey.

The strange man had a camera around his neck. As they all watched, he took picture after picture of little kids on the rides.

"He's a pedophile," their father murmured. "This is how he starts. With photos, lots of photos of what he wants but can't have. He's still fighting it, or he'd have his own stash of porn by now and not be into fully dressed targets. He's fighting it, but he's losing the war. So he's setting himself up to be a situational offender. Going places where there are lots of children. Then when he finally gives in to his depravity, he'll tell himself it was their fault. The kids made him do it."

Standing beside Kimberly, Mandy faltered. She looked at the strange man, snapping away furiously, and her lower lip began to tremble.

Their father continued, "If you ever see someone like him, girls, don't be afraid to leave the area. Always trust your instincts. Head straight to the nearest security booth, or if you feel that's too far away, duck in behind a woman walking with children. He'll assume she's your mother, too, and give up the chase."

"What are you going to do?" Kimberly asked him breathlessly.

"I'm going to pass along his description to security. Then I'm going to come back here tomorrow and the day after that and the day after that. If he's still coming around, we'll find an excuse to arrest him. That'll at least give him pause."

"I want to go home!" Mandy wailed and started to cry.

Kimberly looked at her older sister without comprehension. Then she turned back to her father, who was sighing at having set off good old Mandy again. Kimmy didn't blame him. Mandy always got upset. Mandy always cried. But not Kimberly.

She gazed up at her father proudly, and in September, when her new teacher asked each child what her parents did for a living, Kimberly declared that her daddy was Superman. The other kids teased her for months. She never did recant.

Her father protected happy children from horrible strange men. Someday, she wanted to do that, too.