Only then do I notice that the door is ajar.

I think: Run! Out of the house and down the porch steps, into the woods. This is our escape, this is our chance at freedom.

But Olena does not immediately flee the house. Instead she circles right, into the dining room.

“Where are you going?” I whisper.

She does not answer me, but continues into the kitchen.

“Olena!” I plead, trailing after her. “Let’s go now, before-” I stop in the doorway and clap my hand over my mouth, because I think I am going to throw up. There are splatters of blood on the walls, on the refrigerator. The Mother’s blood. She sits at the kitchen table, and the bloody remnants of her hands are stretched out before her. Her eyes are open, and for a moment, I think that maybe she can see us, but of course she cannot.

Olena moves past her, through the kitchen, to the back bedroom.

So desperate am I to escape that I think I should just leave now, without Olena. Leave her to whatever insane reason keeps her in this house. But she is moving with such purpose that I follow her to the Mother’s bedroom, which has always before been locked.

This is the first time I have ever seen the room, and I gape at the large bed with satin sheets, at a dresser that has a lace runner and a row of silver hairbrushes. Olena goes straight to the dresser, yanks open drawers, and rifles through the contents.

“What are you looking for?” I ask.

“We need money. We can’t survive out there without it. She must keep it here somewhere.” She pulls out a woolen hat from the drawer and tosses it to me. “Here. You’ll need warm clothes.”

I’m loath to even touch the hat, because it was the Mother’s, and I can see her ugly brown hairs still clinging to the wool.

Olena whisks across to the nightstand, pulls open the drawer, and finds a cell phone and a small wad of cash. “This can’t be everything,” she says. “There has to be more.”

I only want to flee, but I know she’s right; we need money. I cross to the closet, which hangs open; the killers have searched it, and several hangers have been knocked to the floor. But they were hunting for frightened girls, not money, and the shelf above has not been disturbed. I pull down a shoe box, and old photographs spill out. I see pictures of Moscow and smiling faces and a young woman whose eyes are disconcertingly familiar. And I think: Even the Mother was young once. Here is the proof.

I pull down a large tote bag. Inside is a heavy jewelry pouch and a videotape and a dozen passports. And money. A thick bundle of American cash, tied with a rubber band.

“Olena! I found it.”

She crosses to me and glances in the bag. “Take it all,” she says. “We’ll go through the bag later.” She throws in the cell phone as well. Then she snatches a sweater from the closet and thrusts it at me.

I don’t want to put on the Mother’s clothes; I can smell her scent on them, like sour yeast. I pull them on anyway, quelling my disgust. A turtleneck, a sweater, and a scarf all layered over my own blouse. We dress quickly and in silence, donning the clothes of the woman who sits dead in the next room.

At the front door we hesitate, staring out at the woods. Are the men waiting for us? Sitting in their dark car farther down the road, knowing that eventually we will show ourselves?

“Not that way,” Olena says, reading my thoughts. “Not the road.”

We slip out, circle around to the rear of the house, and plunge into the woods.

Gabriel charged into the throng of reporters, his gaze fixed on the well-coiffed blond woman who was the focus of klieg lights twenty yards away. As he pushed closer, he saw that Zoe Fossey was, at that moment, talking into the camera. She spotted him and she froze, clutching the microphone to her silent lips.

“Turn it off,” said Gabriel.

“Quiet,” said the cameraman. “We’re live-”

“Turn off the fucking microphone!”

“Hey! What the hell do you think you’re-”

Gabriel shoved the camera aside and yanked on electrical cords, killing the klieg lights.

“Get this man out of here!” Zoe yelled.

“Do you know what you’ve done?” Gabriel said. “Do you have any idea?”

“I’m doing my job,” she retorted.

He advanced on her, and something she saw in his eyes made her shrink away, until she bumped up against a news van and could back away no farther.

“You may have just executed my wife.”

“Me?” She shook her head, and said with a note of defiance: “I’m not the one holding the gun.”

“You just told them she’s a cop.”

“I only report the facts.”

“Whatever the consequences?”

“It’s news, isn’t it?”

“You know what you are?” He moved closer, and found he could barely control the urge to throttle her. “You’re a whore. No, I take that back. You’re worse than a whore. You don’t just sell out yourself. You’d sell out anyone else.”

“Bob!” she yelled at her cameraman. “Get this guy outta my face!”

“Back off, mister!” The cameraman’s heavy hand landed on Gabriel’s shoulder. Gabriel shook it away, his gaze still fixed on Zoe. “If anything happens to Jane, I swear-”

“I said, back away!” The cameraman again grasped Gabriel by the shoulder.

Suddenly all Gabriel’s fears, his despair, ignited in a blinding moment of fury. He twisted around and charged straight at the barrel chest. Heard air whoosh out of the man’s lungs, and caught a glimpse of a startled face as the man staggered backward and fell to the ground, landing on a viper’s nest of tangled electrical cords. In an instant, Gabriel was crouched above him, his fist raised, every muscle primed to deliver the blow. Then his vision abruptly came back into focus, and he registered the man cowering beneath him. Realized that a circle of bystanders had gathered to watch the spectacle. Everyone loved a spectacle.

Chest heaving, Gabriel rose to his feet. He saw Zoe standing a few yards away, her face alight with excitement.

“Did you get that?” she called to another cameraman. “Shit, did anyone get that on tape?”

In disgust, Gabriel turned and walked away. He kept walking until he was well away from the crowd, away from the glare of klieg lights. Two blocks from the hospital, he found himself standing alone on a corner. Even on this dark street, there was no relief from the summer heat, which still radiated from sidewalks that had baked all day in the sun. His feet suddenly felt rooted to the pavement, melded there by grief, by dread.

I don’t know how to save you. It’s my job to keep people out of harm’s way, but I cannot protect the one person I love most.

His cell phone rang. He recognized the number on the digital display, and did not answer it. It was Jane’s parents. They had already called him while he was in the car, right after Zoe’s newscast had aired. He’d quietly endured Angela Rizzoli’s hysterical sobs, Frank’s demands for action. I can’t deal with them now, he thought. Maybe in five minutes, or ten. But not now.

He stood alone in the night, struggling to regain his composure. He was not a man who easily lost control, yet moments ago, he’d almost slammed his fist into a man’s face. Jane would be shocked, he thought. And probably amused, too, to see her husband finally lose it. Mr. Gray Suit, she’d once called him in a fit of irritation because he was so unflappable, while her temper flared hot. You’d be proud of me, Jane, he thought. I’ve finally revealed I’m human.

But you aren’t here to see it. You don’t know that it’s all about you.

“Gabriel?”

He straightened. Turned to see Maura, who had approached so silently that he had not even noticed she was there.

“I had to get the hell away from that circus,” he said. “Or I swear, I would have wrung that woman’s neck. It’s bad enough I took it out on her cameraman.”