She wanted, for the first time in her professional life, to be a good reporter.

She padded over to the living area and, sitting on her bare heels, popped the tape into the stereo. She had read the transcript of the call dozens of times. But it was still thrilling to finally get a glimpse into the real-time moment. She pressed PLAY.

“Nine one one. What is the nature of your emergency?”

“My name is Gretchen Lowell. I’m calling on behalf of Detective Archie Sheridan. Do you know who I am?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“Good. Your detective needs to get to a trauma center. I’m at two three three nine Magnolia Lane in Gresham. We’re in the basement. There’s a school two blocks away where you should be able to land a helicopter. If you get people here in the next fifteen minutes, he just might live.” She hung up.

Susan sank back into a seated position on the floor and ran her hands over her forearms, which were scattered with tiny goose bumps. Gretchen had sounded so calm. When Susan had heard Gretchen’s voice in her mind, it had been more panicked, frantic. She was, in effect, turning herself into the police, giving up the ghost. She could have been killed. But she hadn’t seemed concerned at all. Her voice did not bear a single tremor. She did not stammer or search for words. She was direct, articulate, and professional. Her call almost sounded rehearsed.

Archie didn’t ask Henry to go with him to interview Reston. It was Sunday afternoon and he felt bad enough about dragging Henry to the state pen every weekend, though he knew Henry would never let him go alone. He also wanted, if at all possible, to protect Susan’s privacy. So Archie let Henry drop him off at his apartment. He was numb and tired from the pills, so he made a pot of coffee. Then he checked his voice mail for messages. There were none, which meant that Debbie had never called back. Archie didn’t blame her. It was a mistake to talk to her at all on Sundays. He had promised himself that he’d keep Debbie and Gretchen separate, compartmentalized; it was the only way this would work. But he was selfish. He needed Debbie, wanted to hear her voice, to be reminded of his old life. But the phone calls would have to stop eventually. They both knew it. They just prolonged the pain of their emotional entanglement. He would stop the calls. He just couldn’t bear to do it yet.

He called Claire and checked in. There were no leads. The tip line was quiet. Even prank callers took Sundays off. It had been four days since they had discovered Kristy Mathers’s body. Which meant that the killer was probably already looking for another victim. Archie sat alone in his kitchen and drank half the pot of coffee, pausing only long enough to refill his cup. When he felt suitably revived, he took two more Vicodin and called a cab.

Reston lived in Brooklyn, a neighborhood south of Cleveland High. It was a tangle of telephone wires and trees densely packed with little middle-class Victorians and eighties duplexes-a nice neighborhood. Safe.

Archie told the cabdriver to wait and then got out and began to climb the mossy cement steps that led up the little hill to Reston ’s one-story house. It was late afternoon, and while the houses across the street still glowed in the sun, long shadows streaked Reston ’s terraced hillside. Reston was on the porch, painting a door that he had propped up on two sawhorses. He was wearing project clothes; paint-splattered work pants, an old gray sweatshirt, a Mariners baseball cap. His expression was relaxed, showing obvious pleasure in the task. He looked up when he saw Archie, and then he went back to painting. Of course he knew Archie was a cop. Archie looked like a cop. It didn’t matter what he wore. It wasn’t always that way. The first few years, everyone had always been surprised when they found out what he did. He wasn’t sure when the change had happened. He’d just noticed one day that he made people nervous.

When Archie got to the top of the porch stairs, he sat down on the top step and leaned up against the square porch column a few feet from where Reston stooped over the door. An old wisteria, still leafless, its branches as thick as human wrists, knotted up the post and along the railing.

“Ever read Lolita?” Archie asked.

Reston dipped the brush in some white paint and slid it along the door. The wall of paint fumes pushed away every other sensation. “Who are you?” Reston asked.

Archie opened his badge and held it out. “I’m Detective Sheridan. I have some questions for you about a former student of yours, Susan Ward.”

Reston glanced at the badge. No one ever bothered to look at it up close. “She told you we had a relationship,” he said.

“Yep.”

Reston sighed and adjusted his stance so his eyes were level with the surface of the door. He applied more paint, a quick dab and drag along the wood. “Is this on the record?”

“I’m a police detective,” Archie said. “I don’t do off the record.”

“She’s confused.”

“Really.”

A rivulet of paint had collected and Reston smoothed the brush along the wood until the paint was perfectly dispersed. “You know about her father? He died her freshman year. That was very hard on her. I tried to be kind. And I think she misunderstood my interest.” He frowned. “Built it up in her mind.”

“You’re saying that you never had a sexual relationship,” Archie said.

Reston exhaled. Looked off across the yard for a minute. And then carefully placed the brush on the paint can. The can was on top of a piece of the Herald, so that the wet end of the brush hung suspended above a corner of it, a thread of paint pooling on the newsprint. He turned to Archie. “I kissed her, okay?” He shook his head sorrowfully. “Once. It was bad judgment on my part. I never let it happen again. When I rejected her, she started a rumor that I’d had an affair with another student. It could have gotten me fired. But there was nothing to it. There was never a formal investigation, because everyone knew it was bogus. Susan was just”-he searched the air with his hand for the right word-“damaged. She was distraught by her father’s death and lashed out. But I liked her. I always did. She was a charming, pissed-off, talented kid. I understood the pain she was in. And I did everything I could to help her.”

“How incomprehensibly generous of you,” Archie said.

“I’m a good teacher. For what it’s worth.” He allowed himself a wry smirk. “And it’s not worth much these days.”

“You ever kiss Lee Robinson?” Archie asked.

Reston drew back, his mouth open. “Jesus, no. I barely knew her. I was in tech rehearsal when she disappeared. It’s all been verified.”

Archie nodded to himself. “Okay, then.” He offered Reston a solicitous smile. “Can I get a glass of water?” It was a lazy way to try to get inside, but if Reston said no, it would at least indicate that he had something to hide.

Reston stared at Archie for a moment. “Okay.” He stood up, brushed some muck off his paint-splattered pants, stamped a few times on the front mat, and gestured for Archie to follow him. They walked into the house and Reston led Archie through a small coatroom, then through the living room and dining room and into the kitchen. The thing that struck Archie was the level of organization. No clutter. Everything in its place. Surfaces clean of debris. No dishes in the sink.

“Ever been married?” Archie asked.

Reston pulled a glass down from a cabinet and filled it at the sink. Above the sink hung a framed print of a blond Varga pinup girl. “She left me. Took everything I had,” he said, handing Archie the glass of water.

Archie took a sip. “Girlfriend?”

“Not currently. My last relationship ended suddenly.”

“Did you murder her?”

“Is that supposed to be funny?”

Archie took another sip. “No.” He drained the last of the water and handed the glass to Reston. He immediately rinsed it and put it in the dishwasher. Archie noticed another blond Varga girl hanging on the other side of the kitchen. She was wearing tiny shorts and a tight blouse and stood in impossibly high heels, back arched, flirtatious smile on her red lips.