Didn’t matter. Either way, she was involved.

Grace thought about what she’d already learned. Jack had taken the Windstar up the New York Thruway. Who did they know up there? Why would he have gone that way so late at night?

She had no idea.

Hold up.

Roll it back to the start: Jack comes home. Jack sees the photograph. That was what set it off. The photograph. He sees it on the kitchen counter. She starts asking him about it. He gets a call from Dan. And then he goes into his study…

Stop. His study.

Grace hurried down the hall. Study was a rather ornate word for this converted screened-in porch. The plaster was cracking in spots. There was always a draft in the winter and a stifling lack of anything approaching air in the summer. There were photographs of the kids in cheap frames and two of her paintings in expensive ones. The study felt strangely impersonal to her. Nothing in here told you about the past of the room’s main occupant-no mementos, no softball signed by friends, no photo of a golf foursome taking to the links. Other than some pharmaceutical freebies-pens, pads, a paperclip holder-there were no clues as to who Jack really was other than a husband, father, and researcher.

But maybe that was all there was.

Grace felt weird, snooping. There had been strength, she thought, in respecting one another’s privacy. They each had a room closed off to the other. Grace had always been okay with that. She’d even convinced herself it was healthy. Now she wondered about looking away. She wondered if it’d derived from a desire to give Jack privacy-needing space?!-or because she feared poking a beehive.

His computer was up and online. Jack’s default page was the “official” Grace Lawson Web site. Grace stared at the chair for a moment, the ergonomic gray from the local Staples store, imagining Jack there, turning on the computer every morning, having her face greet him. The site’s home page had a glam shot of Grace along with several examples of her work. Farley, her agent, had recently insisted that she include the photograph in all sales material because, as he put it, “You a babe.” She reluctantly acquiesced. Looks had always been used by the arts to promote the work. On stage and in movies, well, the importance of looks was obvious. Even writers, with their glossy touched-up portraits, the smoldering dark eyes of the next literati wunderkind, marketed appearances. But Grace’s world-painting-had been fairly immune to this pressure, ignoring the creator’s physical beauty, perhaps because the form itself was all about the physical.

But not anymore.

An artist appreciates the importance of the aesthetical, of course. Aesthetics do more than alter perception. They altered reality. Prime example: If Grace had been fat or homely, the TV crews would not have been monitoring her vital signs after she’d been pulled from the Boston Massacre. If she’d been physically unappealing, she would have never been adopted as the “people’s survivor,” the innocent, the “Crushed Angel,” as one tabloid headline dubbed her. The media always broadcasted her image while giving medical updates. The press-nay, the country-demanded constant updates on her condition. The families of victims visited her room, spent time with her, searched her face for ghostly wisps of their own lost children.

Would they have done the same had she been unattractive?

Grace didn’t want to speculate. But as one too-honest art critic had told her: “We have little interest in a painting that has little aesthetic appeal-why should it be different with a human being?”

Even before the Boston Massacre Grace had wanted to be an artist. But something-something elusive and impossible to explain-had been missing. The whole experience had helped take her artistic sensibilities to the next level. Yes, she knew how pretentious that sounded. She had disdained that art-school clatter: You have to suffer for your art; you need tragedy to give your work texture. It had always rung hollow before, but now she understood that there was indeed something to it.

Without changing her conscious viewpoint, her work developed that vague intangible. There was more emotion, more life, more… swirl. Her work was darker, angrier, more vivid. People often wondered if she’d ever painted any scenes from that horrible day. The simple answer was only one portrait-a young face so full of hope that you knew it would soon be crushed-but the truer answer was that the Boston Massacre shaded and colored everything she touched.

Grace sat down at Jack’s desk. The phone was to her right. She reached for it, deciding to try the simplest thing first: Hit redial on Jack’s phone.

The phone-a new Panasonic model she’d picked up at Radio Shack-had an LCD screen so she could see the redialed number come up. The 212 area code. New York City. She waited. On the third ring a woman answered and said, “ Burton and Crimstein, law office.”

Grace wasn’t sure how to proceed.

“Hello?”

“This is Grace Lawson calling.”

“How may I transfer your call?”

Good question. “How many attorneys work at the firm?”

“I really couldn’t say. Would you like me to connect you with one?”

“Yes, please.”

There was a pause. The voice had a shade of that trying-to-be-helpful impatience now. “Is there one in particular?”

Grace checked the Caller ID. There were too many numbers. She saw that now. Usually long distance calls had eleven numbers. But here there were fifteen, including an asterisk. She mulled that over. If Jack had made the call, it would have been late last night. The receptionists would not have been on duty. Jack probably hit the asterisk button and plugged in an extension.

“Ma’am?”

“Extension four-six-three,” she said, reading off the screen.

“I’ll connect you.”

The phone rang three times.

“Sandra Koval’s line.”

“Ms. Koval please.”

“May I ask who is calling?”

“My name is Grace Lawson.”

“And what is this in reference to?”

“My husband, Jack.”

“Please hold.”

Grace gripped the phone. Thirty seconds later, the voice came back on.

“I’m sorry. Ms. Koval is in a meeting.”

“It’s urgent.”

“I’m sorry-”

“I just need a second of her time. Tell her it’s very important.”

The sigh was intentionally audible. “Please hold.”

The hold music was a Muzak version of Nirvana’s “Smells Like Teen Spirit.” It was strangely calming.

“Can I help you?”

The voice was all clipped professionalism. “Ms. Koval?”

“Yes?”

“My name is Grace Lawson.”

“What do you want?”

“My husband Jack Lawson called your office yesterday.”

She did not reply.

“He’s missing.”

“Pardon?”

“My husband is missing.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, but I don’t see-”

“Do you know where he is, Ms. Koval?”

“Why on earth would I know?”

“He made a phone call last night. Before he disappeared.”

“So?”

“I hit the redial button. This number came up.”

“Ms. Lawson, this firm employs more than two hundred attorneys. He could have been calling any of them.”

“No. Your extension is here, on the redial display. He called you.”

No reply.

“Ms. Koval?”

“I’m here.”

“Why did my husband call you?”

“I have nothing more to say to you.”

“Do you know where he is?”

“Ms. Lawson, are you familiar with attorney-client privilege?”

“Of course.”

More silence.

“Are you saying my husband called you for legal advice?”

“I cannot discuss the situation with you. Good-bye.”