The ring of the telephone in the library did not interrupt his thought process. Pedro knew enough to tell whoever it was that he would return the call later. That was why, when Pedro came into the dining room, the cell phone in his hand, Peter Black raised his eyebrows in annoyance.

Pedro covered the mouthpiece and whispered, “Excuse me, Doctor, but I thought you might want to take this call. It is Mrs. Lasch. Mrs. Molly Lasch.”

Peter Black paused, then downed his glass of wine in a single gulp-allowing himself none of the customary time to savor the delicate taste-and reached for the phone. His hand was trembling.

Molly had given Fran a list of people she might want to begin interviewing. First on the list was Gary ’s partner, Dr. Peter Black. “He never said a word to me after Gary ’s death,” she’d told her.

Then Jenna Whitehall: “You’ll remember her from Cranden, Fran.”

Jenna’s husband, Cal: “When they needed a cash reserve to start Remington, Cal arranged the financing,” she explained.

Molly’s lawyer, Philip Matthews: “Everyone thinks he was wonderful because he got me a light sentence and then fought for early parole. I’d like him better if I thought he had even an ounce of doubt about my guilt,” she’d said.

Edna Barry: “Everything was in perfect order when I got home yesterday. It was almost as though the past five and a half years hadn’t even happened.”

Fran had asked Molly to speak to each of them and let them know she would be calling. But when Edna Barry looked in on her before she left, Molly did not feel like mentioning it to her.

Eventually Molly had gone into the kitchen and looked in the refrigerator. She saw that Mrs. Barry had stopped at the delicatessen on her way in. The rye bread with caraway seeds, Virginia ham, and Swiss cheese she had requested were there. She took them out and with careful pleasure made a sandwich, then opened the refrigerator again and found the spicy mustard she loved.

And a pickle, she thought. I haven’t wanted to eat a pickle in years. Smiling unconsciously, she brought the plate to the table, made a cup of tea, then looked around for the local newspaper she had not bothered to open earlier.

She flinched when she saw a picture of herself on the front page. The caption read “Molly Carpenter Lasch released after five and a half years in prison.” The account rehashed the details of Gary ’s death, the plea bargain, and her declaration of innocence at the prison gate.

Hardest to read was the coverage given to the background of her family. The article included a profile of her grandparents, longtime pillars of Greenwich and Palm Beach society, listing their achievements and charities. It also discussed her father’s sterling business career, Gary ’s father’s distinguished history in medicine, and the model health maintenance organization Gary had cofounded with Dr. Peter Black.

All of them good people, their accomplishments impressive, but everything is turned into juicy gossip because of me, Molly thought. No longer hungry, she pushed away the sandwich. As it had earlier in the day, the feeling of fatigue and sleepiness was overwhelming her. The psychiatrist at the prison had treated her for depression and had urged her to see the doctor who had treated her while she was awaiting trial.

“You told me you liked Dr. Daniels, Molly. You said you felt comfortable with him because he believed you when you said you had no memory of Gary ’s death. Remember, extreme fatigue can be a sign of depression.”

As Molly rubbed her forehead in an effort to ward off the beginning of a headache, she remembered that she liked Dr. Daniels very much and that she should have included his name with those she had given Fran. Maybe she would try to get an appointment with him. More important, she’d phone and tell him that if Fran Simmons called, he had permission to speak freely about her.

Molly got up from the table, dumped the rest of the sandwich in the compactor, and started upstairs, carrying her tea. The ringer on the phone was turned off, but she decided she should check the answering machine for messages.

She now had a new unlisted phone number, so only a few people knew it. They included her parents, Philip Matthews, and Jenna. Jenna had called twice. “Moll, I don’t care what you say, I’m coming over tonight,” her message said. “I’m bringing dinner over at eight.”

Once she’s here, I’ll be glad to see her, Molly acknowledged to herself as she started up the stairs again. In the bedroom, she finished the tea, kicked off her shoes, lay down on top of the coverlet, and pulled it around her. She fell asleep immediately.

Her dreams were fragmented. In them, she was in the house. She was trying to talk to Gary, but he wouldn’t acknowledge her. Then there was a sound-what was it? If she could only recognize it, then everything would be clear. That sound. That sound. What was it?

She woke at 6:30 to find tears running down her cheeks. Maybe it’s a good sign, she thought. This morning, when she spoke to Fran, had been the first time she had cried since that week she spent on Cape Cod nearly six years ago, when she’d done nothing except cry. When she first learned that Gary was dead, it was as though something inside her dried up, became permanently arid. From that day to this one, she had been tearless.

Reluctantly she got up, splashed water on her face, brushed her hair, and changed from the jeans and cotton shirt to a beige sweater and slacks. As an afterthought she put on earrings and light makeup. When Jenna had visited her in prison, she had prodded her to wear makeup in the visiting room. “Best foot forward, Moll; remember our motto.”

Downstairs again, Molly lit the gas fire in the family room off the kitchen. Family room for the family of one, she thought. On the evenings they had been home, Gary and she had loved watching old movies together. His collection of classic films still filled the shelves.

She thought of the people she had to call to ask them to cooperate with Fran Simmons. She was unsure of one of them. She did not want to call Peter Black in his office, but she did want him to agree to talk to Fran, so she decided to call him at home. And rather than putting it off, she’d do it tonight. No, she’d do it right now.

She had scarcely thought of Pedro in nearly six years, but when she heard his voice, memories of the small dinner parties Peter used to have came rushing back. Often they included just the six of them-Jenna and Cal, Peter and his current wife or date, herself and Gary.

She didn’t blame Peter for wanting nothing to do with her. She knew she probably would feel that way if someone hurt Jenna. Old friend, best friend. That was the litany they used to singsong to each other.

She half expected to be told that Peter was not available and was surprised when he did take her call. Hesitantly, then quickly, Molly said what she needed to say: “Tomorrow, Fran Simmons from NAF-TV is going to call to make an appointment with you. She’s doing a piece for the True Crime program, on Gary ’s death. I don’t care what you say about me, Peter, but please see her. I’d better warn you that Fran said it would be much better if she had your cooperation, but if not, she’d find a way to work around you.”

She waited. After a long pause, Peter Black said quietly, “I would think you would have the decency to leave well enough alone, Molly.” His voice was tight, though his words were ever so slightly slurred. “Don’t you think Gary ’s reputation deserves better than to have the Annamarie Scalli story revived? You paid a very small price for what you did. I warn you, you will be the ultimate loser if a cheap television show reenacts your crime for a national audience…”