“This is Detective Sheridan,” Sarah said.

The boy took the groceries from Archie’s hands.

“My son Noah,” Sarah said.

The boy nodded at Archie. “Some of my brother’s friends won’t come over here anymore,” he said. “They’re afraid of her or something. Like she’s still here. Like she’s going to get them.”

“I’m sorry,” Archie said.

He felt Gretchen everywhere around him, as if she were there next to him, her breath on his neck. The room she had used as an office was through the kitchen, on the other side of the entryway. Archie realized that he was squeezing the pillbox in his pocket, and he forced himself to release the tension in his hand.

“It looks pretty much the same,” Sarah was saying as she loaded food into a large steel fridge. “The police said that it happened in my office, right? She had moved a few things around, but it’s mostly how it was the last time you were here.” She looked at Archie meaningfully. “Feel free, if you want to take a look.”

“Yeah,” Archie said before he even realized it. “I’d like that.”

She motioned with her head that he could go alone. Archie was grateful for that. He left Sarah and Noah in the kitchen and walked to the room where Gretchen Lowell had drugged him.

The heavy green velvet curtains were closed, but the sun streamed like a knife through a gap where they didn’t quite meet. Archie turned on the chandelier and put two pills in his mouth and swallowed them.

The carpet was different. They had changed the carpet. Maybe the crime lab had cut the coffee stain out; maybe too many cops had tracked in too much mud; maybe they had just redecorated. The big wooden desk was on the other side of the room, against the wall, rather than in front of the windows, where Gretchen had placed it. Other than that, it was the same: library bookshelves stacked two deep with books, the grandfather clock with its motionless hands still pointing at 3:30, the striped overstuffed chairs. He sunk into the chair he had sat in that day with Gretchen. He could remember everything now. The black long-sleeved dress she had been wearing, the cashmere cardigan the color of butter. He had admired her legs when she had sat down. A harmless observation and an obvious one. He was male, after all, and she was beautiful; he could be forgiven for noticing that.

“I’ve seen you out there a few times.” It was Sarah, standing in the doorway.

“I’m sorry,” Archie said. “It’s just that this place, your house, it’s the last place I remember feeling all right.”

“You’ve been through a terrible ordeal,” Sarah said. “Are you seeing anyone?”

Archie closed his eyes and leaned his head on the back of the chair. “Oh God,” he said smiling. “You’re a psychiatrist.”

“A psychologist, actually,” she said with a shrug. “I also teach up at Lewis & Clark. That’s how Gretchen Lowell found us. We’d posted the house through a faculty board. But I still have a practice.” She paused. “If you’re interested, I would love to have you as a patient.”

So that was why she had invited him in. A patient who’d been through what he had would prove endlessly interesting to a shrink. “I’m seeing someone,” Archie said. He gazed at the spot on the carpet where he’d fallen, unable to move, everything suddenly, horribly clear. “Every Sunday.”

“Is it helping?”

He considered this. “Her methodology is a little unorthodox,” he said slowly. “But I think that she’d tell you it’s working.”

“I’m glad,” Sarah said.

Archie glanced around the room one last time and then looked at his watch. “I should be going. Thanks for inviting me inside. It was very kind of you.”

“I’ve always loved this room,” Sarah said, looking at the big window. “When the curtains are open, you can see the plum trees.”

“Yeah,” Archie said, and as if they shared an old mutual friend, he added, “Gretchen liked that, too.”

Archie knew that Debbie would call him when she’d seen Susan’s second story. It didn’t matter that it was before 7:00 on Sunday morning. She knew that he’d be up. There was a killer loose and the clock was ticking, and even though there was little he could actually do but wait for something to happen, sleep seemed an admission of defeat. As it was, he was sitting on his couch reading printouts of Lee Robinson’s mash-note E-mails. Nothing like going through the private thoughts of a dead teenager to make you feel like a voyeuristic asshole. He had been up long enough to have already had coffee and two runny eggs, but only to have food in his stomach so he could take some Vicodin. He always allowed himself extra Vicodin on Sundays.

“Have you seen it?” Debbie asked.

Archie leaned back and closed his eyes. “No. Tell me about it.”

“She talks about Gretchen. What she did to you.”

They don’t know half of what she did to me, thought Archie. “Good. Are there pictures?”

“One of you and one of Gretchen.”

He opened his eyes. There were Vicodin on the table. He lined them up in a little row, like teeth. “Which one of Gretchen?”

“The mug shot.”

Archie knew the one. It was the first time Gretchen had been in the system. She had been picked up for writing a bad check in Salt Lake City in 1992. She was nineteen and her hair was shoulder length and teased, her expression startled, her face gaunt. Archie allowed himself a smirk. “Good. She hates that picture. She’ll be pissed. Anything else?” He picked up a pill and rolled it between his fingers.

“Susan Ward hints at sordid details to come of your much-speculated-upon captivity.”

“Good.” He put the Vicodin in his mouth, letting the bitter chalky taste sit on his tongue for a moment before washing it down with a sip of tepid black coffee.

“You’re using her.” Debbie’s voice was low and Archie could almost feel the heat of it against his neck. “It’s not fair of you.”

“I’m using me. She’s just a vehicle.”

“What about the kids?”

The effects of the opiates made his skull feel soft, like a baby’s. He reached up and touched the back of his head, feeling his hair beneath his fingers. Ben had fallen from the changing table when he was ten months old and cracked his skull. They had spent the whole night in the emergency room. No, Archie remembered, correcting himself, Debbie had spent the whole night. He had left the hospital early in the morning. There had been a call. They had found another Beauty Killer body. Just one of dozens of times he’d left Debbie for Gretchen. He could remember every one of the crime scenes. Every detail. But he couldn’t remember how long Ben had been in the hospital. Or where exactly the fracture was.

“Are you there?” he heard Debbie’s disembodied voice ask from the receiver. “Say something, Archie.”

“Read it to them. It will help them understand.”

“It will scare the crap out of them.” She paused. “You sound really high.”

His head felt like warm water and cotton and blood. “I’m fine.” He picked up another Vicodin, rubbed it between his fingers.

“It’s Sunday. You don’t want to be high when you see her.”

He smiled at the pill. “She likes it when I’m high.”

The truth. He regretted it as soon as the words were out of his mouth.

The line was heavy with silence, and Archie could feel Debbie let him go just a little more. “I’m going to hang up now,” she said.

“I’m sorry,” he said. But she was already gone.

When the phone rang a few minutes later, Archie thought it was Debbie calling back, and he picked the phone up on the first ring. But it wasn’t Debbie.

“This is Ken, down in Salem. I’ve got a message for you. From Gretchen Lowell.”

Bombs away, thought Archie.