Peter Black hung up without saying good-bye. The prospect of something going wrong haunted him for the remainder of the day as he attended a series of high-level meetings concerning Remington’s proposed acquisition of four other HMOs, a deal that would make Remington one of the major players in the remarkably lucrative health maintenance field.

When Philip Matthews had driven Molly home from prison, he’d wanted to go into the house with her, but she wouldn’t allow it. “Please, Philip, just leave my bag at the door,” she’d directed. Then she’d added wryly, “You’ve heard that old Greta Garbo line, ‘I vant to be alone’? Well, that’s me.”

She’d looked thin and frail, standing on the porch of the handsome home she’d shared with Gary Lasch. In the two years since the inevitable break with his wife, who was now remarried, Philip Matthews had come to realize that his visits to Niantic Prison had become perhaps more frequent than was professionally appropriate.

“Molly, did you arrange for anyone to shop for you?” he’d asked. “I mean, do you even have any food in the house?”

“Mrs. Barry was to take care of that.”

“Mrs. Barry!” He knew his voice had risen two decibels. “What’s she got to do with it?”

“She’s going to start working for me again,” Molly had told him. “The couple who have been checking on the house are gone now. As soon as I knew I was getting out, my parents contacted Mrs. Barry, and she came over and supervised sprucing up the house and stocked the kitchen. She’ll begin coming in three days a week again.”

“That woman helped to put you in prison!”

“No, she told the truth.”

All through the rest of the day, even when he was in conferences with the prosecutor about his newest client, a prominent real estate dealer accused of vehicular homicide, Philip could not shake off his growing sense of apprehension over knowing that Molly was alone in that house.

At seven o’clock, as he was locking his desk and debating whether or not to call Molly, his private phone rang. His secretary was gone. It rang several times before curiosity overcame his initial inclination to let the answering machine pick up.

It was Molly. “Philip, good news. Do you remember my telling you that Fran Simmons, who was at the prison this morning, went to school with me?”

“Yes, I do. Are you okay, Molly? Do you need anything?”

“I’m fine. Philip, Fran Simmons is coming over tomorrow. She’s willing to do an investigation into Gary ’s death for a show she works on called True Crime. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if by some miracle she can help me prove there was someone else in the house that night?”

“Molly, let go of it. Please.”

A moment of silence followed. When she spoke again, the tone of Molly’s voice had changed. “I knew I shouldn’t have expected you to understand. But that’s okay. ‘Bye.”

Philip Matthews felt as well as heard the click in his ear. As he lowered the receiver, he remembered how, years ago, a Green Beret captain had cooperated with a writer who he thought would prove he was innocent of murdering his wife and children, only to have the writer later emerge as his chief accuser.

He walked to the window. His office was situated in Lower Manhattan’s Battery Park and overlooked New York ’s Upper Bay and the Statue of Liberty.

Molly, if I’d been prosecuting you, I’d have convicted you of deliberate murder, he told himself. This program will destroy you if that reporter starts digging; what she’ll find is that you got off easy.

Oh God, he thought, why can’t she just admit she was under terrible stress and lost control that night?

Molly found it difficult to believe that she finally was home, harder still to realize she’d been away over five and a half years. When she’d first gotten there, Molly had waited until Philip’s car disappeared down the road before she opened her purse and took out the key that would unlock her house.

The front door was handsome dark mahogany with a stained-glass side panel. Once inside she’d dropped her bag, closed the door, and in a reflex gesture, pushed her heel down on the floor bolt. Then she’d walked slowly through every room of the house, running her hand along the back of the couch in the living room, touching her grandmother’s ornate silver tea service in the dining room while willing herself not to think of the prison dining room, the coarse plates, the meals that had been like ashes in her mouth. Everything seemed familiar; yet she couldn’t help feeling herself to be an intruder.

She’d lingered at the door of the study, looking inside, still surprised that it was not exactly as Gary had known it, with its mahogany paneling and oversized furniture and the artifacts he’d so painstakingly acquired. The chintz sofa and love seat seemed out of place, intrusive, too feminine.

Then Molly did what she’d dreamt of doing for five and a half years. She went upstairs to the master bedroom, undressed, reached into her closet for the fleecy robe she loved, went into the bathroom, and turned on the taps in the Jacuzzi.

She’d lingered in the steaming, scented water while it foamed and swirled around her, washing over her skin until it felt clean again. She’d sighed in relief as tension began to seep from her bones and muscles. Then she’d taken a towel from the heated towel rack and wrapped herself in it, reveling in its warmth.

After that she’d drawn the drapes and gone to bed. Lying there, she had closed her eyes, listening to the insistent rapping of the sleet against the windows; gradually she had fallen asleep, remembering all the nights when she’d promised herself that this moment would come, when once more she’d be in the privacy of her own room, under the down comforter, her head sinking into the softness of the pillow.

It had been late afternoon when she awoke, and immediately she’d put on her robe and slippers and gone down to the kitchen. Tea and toast now, she’d thought. That will tide me over until dinner.

Steaming tea cup in hand, she’d made the promised call to her parents: “I’m fine,” she’d said firmly. “Yes, it’s good to be home. No, I honestly need to be alone for a while. Not too long, but for a while.”

Then she listened to the messages on the answering machine. Jenna Whitehall, her best friend, the only person other than her parents and Philip whom she’d allowed to visit her in prison, had left a message. She said she wanted to stop by for a minute that evening, just to welcome Molly home. She asked that Molly give her a quick call if that was okay.

No, Molly thought. Not tonight. I don’t want to see anyone, not even Jenna.

She watched the six o’clock news on NAF, hoping to see Fran Simmons.

When the program ended, she had called the studio and reached Fran, asking that she make her a subject for a special investigation.

Then she had called Philip. His obvious disapproval was exactly what she knew to expect from him, and she tried not to let it bother her.

After talking to him, she had gone upstairs, dressed in a sweater and slacks, and slipped her feet back into her old slippers. For a few minutes she sat at her dressing table, studying her reflection in the mirror. Her hair was too long; it needed shaping. Should she lighten it a little? she wondered. It used to be fair; it had darkened over the last years. Gary used to joke that her hair was so golden blond that half the women in town were sure she was helping it along.

She’d pushed back the vanity bench and crossed to her walk-in closet. For the next hour she’d systematically examined everything in it, switching to one side the clothes she knew she would never wear again. Some outfits brought an unconscious smile, like the pale gold gown and jacket she’d worn to the New Year’s Eve party at the country club that last year, and the black velvet suit Gary had seen in the window of Bergdorf’s and had insisted she try on.