Susan laughed. “The readers.”

“Oh,” said Ian. “Right.”

Susan dressed for the day in cowboy boots, jeans, a Pixies T-shirt, and a red velvet blazer. She put a reporter’s notebook in the front right pocket of the blazer and two blue Bic ballpoints in the left. She even blow-dried her pink hair and put on makeup.

When she was ready to go, she opened her notebook to a poorly scrawled list of names and telephone numbers that Archie Sheridan had given her. She paused, wondering for a moment what he would think of that first story when it ran, then quashed her anxiety. He was a subject. She was a writer. One story down. Three to go. She dialed the phone.

“Hi,” Susan said brightly. “Is this Debbie Sheridan?”

There was a slight hesitation. “Yes?”

“I’m Susan Ward. With the Herald? Did your husband tell you I might be calling?”

“He mentioned something.”

She didn’t correct the husband thing, thought Susan. She didn’t say, You mean my ex-husband. We’re divorced. I’d have the marriage annulled if I could, the son of a bitch. Susan wrote the word husband in her notebook, followed by a question mark.

She forced a big smile, hoping that Debbie could hear it in her voice. It was an old phone interview trick that Parker had taught her. “Well, I’m writing a profile about him, and I was hoping to ask you a few questions. Just to flesh him out a bit. Give the piece some personality.”

“Can you-can you call me back later?” Debbie asked.

“Sorry. You’re at work, aren’t you? Is there a better time I can call you back?”

There was a pause. “No. I just need to think about it.”

“You mean talk to Archie? Because I asked him, and he said he didn’t mind if I spoke to you.”

“No. No. I just don’t like going over all those memories. Let me give it some thought.” Debbie’s voice warmed. “Call me later, okay?”

“Okay,” Susan agreed ruefully.

She hung up, and immediately dialed the next number on the list before she lost her nerve. Archie’s doctor was unavailable, so Susan left her name and cell phone number with his receptionist.

She heaved a deep sigh, sank back down at the Great Writer’s desk and Googled Gretchen Lowell. Over eighty thousand links came up. She spent a half hour skimming through the interesting ones. It was astonishing how many Web sites were dedicated to the exploits of serial killers.

Susan was staring at an on-line case study recounting the Beauty Killer case investigation when something caught her eye. Gretchen Lowell called 911 to turn herself in and call for an ambulance.

Susan picked up the phone and dialed Ian on his cell.

“I’m in a news meeting,” he answered.

“How do I get a nine-one-one tape?” Susan asked.

“Which one?”

“Gretchen Lowell,” Susan said. “Have you heard it?”

“They didn’t release it. We ran a transcript.”

“I want the actual call. Can I get it?”

Ian made a clucking sound. “Let me try.”

Susan hung up and Googled “Oregon State Penitentiary.” She copied the address of the prison on a piece of paper beside her computer and then opened a Word document. “Dear Ms. Lowell,” she wrote. “I am writing a profile about Detective Archie Sheridan, and I am hoping to ask you a couple of questions.” She worked on the letter for almost twenty minutes. When she was done, she placed it in an envelope, stamped it, and wrote out the address.

She paid a few bills and then drove to the post office and mailed them, along with the letter to the Beauty Killer. Then she drove to Cleveland High School. She wanted to open the next story with some personal anecdote, a memory of her own days at Cleveland. And she thought that going there might bring back some details she could incorporate. But the truth was that she had been avoiding it.

The final bell had just rung and the wide main hallway was thronged with students, cramming items from their lockers into their backpacks, standing in tight groups, making out against the wall, slugging back soft drinks, talking loudly, and hurtling their way out of the building into the light. They moved with the loose-limbed ease of teenagers in their natural setting, something that Susan did not recall ever actually experiencing. The difference between the freshmen and seniors was staggering. The freshmen seemed so young. Which was funny to Susan, because at fourteen she had considered herself very much an adult.

A few of the kids sent sideways glances Susan’s way as she passed. But most didn’t even blink. In their world, pink hair was pretty ordinary. Susan took a few notes for her story, recording details and impressions of the school. Atmosphere.

When she reached the dark brown double doors that led into the theater, she paused for a moment, hand on the door, overcome by a flood of teenage memories. She had left high school behind so long ago; it was amazing to her what mixed emotions the place now conjured. She ran a hand through her hair, put on her best grown-up face, and walked through the doors.

It smelled the same. Like paint and sawdust and orange-scented carpet cleaner.

The theater sat 250 in red vinyl seats that terraced up from a small black stage. The stage lights were on, and a partially built set constructed out of plywood and canvas gave the vague impression of a turn-of-the-century parlor. She recognized the same old Queen Anne sofa that they had used in “Arsenic and Old Lace” and “Cheaper by the Dozen.” The sconces from “Murder at the Vicarage.” And the same staircase. Always the same staircase. It just switched sides.

She had hated high school, but she had loved this place. It floored her now to think of all the time she’d spent there, hours after school in rehearsal for play after play. It had been her whole world, especially after her father had died.

There wasn’t anyone in the auditorium today. The emptiness of the place made her feel a splinter of sadness. She walked to the last row of chairs and knelt down to examine the underside of the second chair in from the aisle. There, scratched in the metal, were her initials: S.W. After all these years, her name was still carved into this place. She felt a sudden wash of self-consciousness and stood up. She didn’t want someone walking in, finding her there. She didn’t want any old reunions. It was a mistake to have even come to Cleveland. The story was about Archie, not her. She took one last look around, and then turned and fled back into the hallway.

A voice called, “Ms. Ward.” She recognized it immediately. It was the voice that had launched a thousand detentions.

“Mr. McCallum,” she said.

He looked the same. He was a short barrel of a man, with an enormous mustache and a ring of keys that pulled down one side of his pants, requiring constant adjustment. “Walk with us,” he said. “I’m just escorting Mr. Schmidt to detention.” Susan then noticed the teenage boy walking behind McCallum. He smiled at her shyly, a painful trail of acne making its way up his neck.

Susan hurried along behind. The jostling kids in the hall parted for McCallum, who didn’t break stride.

“I see your byline,” he said to Susan.

Susan cringed. “Oh?” she said.

“Are you here about Lee Robinson?”

Susan brightened and opened her notebook. “Did you know her?”

“Never laid eyes on her,” McCallum said.

Susan turned hopefully to the kid. “You?”

The kid shrugged. “Not really. I mean, I knew who she was.”

McCallum whipped around. “What did I tell you, Mr. Schmidt?”

The kid reddened. “Not a word?”

“I don’t want to see your mouth open or hear words come out of your face until sixth period tomorrow,” McCallum said. He turned to Susan. “Mr. Schmidt has a talking problem.”

Susan was about to fall prey to her own talking problem, when she was distracted by a glass display case in the hallway. “Look,” Susan said, pressing a finger against the glass. “All the Knowledge Bowl trophies.”