If he really did, it wasn’t in his hands at this moment.

“My name is David Harwood! Please, I need to speak to you! It’s very important.”

There was someone else coming down the stairs now. It was Gretchen Richler, in a nightgown and robe, her hair also in disarray. I could just make out her asking her husband who it was, what was going on.

“It’s about Jan!” I said.

I thought I saw Horace Richler hesitate for a second as he reached for the door, wondering if he heard me correctly. I heard a deadbolt turn back, a chain slide, then the door opened about a foot.

“What the hell is this all about?” Horace Richler asked, his wife pressed up against his back. I didn’t know whether she was using her husband to protect herself, or to keep me from seeing her in her nightclothes. Probably both.

“I’m so sorry to wake you up, Mr. Richler, Mrs. Richler. I truly am. I wouldn’t do this if it weren’t an emergency.”

“Who are you?” Gretchen Richler asked. Her voice was high and scratchy, like an old record playing too fast.

“My name’s David Harwood. I’m Jan’s husband.”

The two of them stared at me.

“It would never have been my choice for us to meet this way, believe me. I’ve driven here tonight from Promise Falls. Jan’s missing and I’m trying to find her. I thought, maybe, there was a chance she might come here to see you.”

They were still both staring. Horace Richler’s face, at first frozen, was turning into a furious scowl.

“You’ve made some kind of mistake, mister,” he said. “You better get your ass off my goddamn porch.”

“Please,” I said. “I know there’s some history between you and your daughter, that you haven’t talked to her in a long time, but I’m worried that something bad has happened to her. I thought, if she didn’t actually come here, she might have called, or you might have an idea where she might go, some old friends she might try to get in touch with.”

Horace Richler’s face grew red with fury. His fists were clenching at his sides.

“I don’t know who you are or what the fuck your game is, but I swear to God, I may be an old man, but I’ll kick your ass all the way down Lincoln Avenue if I have to.”

I wasn’t ready to give up.

“Tell me I haven’t got the right house,” I said. “You’re Horace and Gretchen Richler and your daughter is Jan.”

Gretchen came out from behind her husband and spoke to me for the first time.

“That’s right,” she whispered.

“My daughter’s dead,” Horace said through gritted teeth.

The comment hit me like a two-by-four across the side of the head. Something horrible had happened. I’d gotten here too late.

“My God,” I said. “When? What happened?”

“She died a long time ago,” he said.

I breathed out. At first, I thought he’d meant something had just happened to Jan. Then I assumed he meant that because he and his daughter were estranged, it was as though Jan was dead to him. “I know you may feel that way, Mr. Richler. But if you ever loved your daughter, you need to help me now.”

Gretchen said, “You don’t understand. She really is dead.”

I felt the wallop all over again. I really had gotten here too late. Had Jan already been to see her parents? Had she taken her life here? Was that her final act of revenge against them? To come to Rochester and kill herself in front of them?

I managed to say, “What are you talking about?”

“She died when she was a little girl,” Gretchen said. “When she was only five years old. It was a terrible thing.”

The woman opened her eyes. She blinked a couple of times, adjusting to the darkness.

She was in bed, on her back, staring up at the ceiling. It was warm in the room-there was an air conditioner humming and rattling somewhere, but it wasn’t up to the job-and in her sleep she had thrown off her covers down to her waist.

She reached down and touched her stomach to see whether she had broken out in a sweat. Her skin was cool, but slightly clammy. She was taken aback for a moment to discover she was naked. She’d stopped sleeping in the nude a long time ago. Those first few months of marriage, sure, but after a while, you just want something on.

Light from the tall streetlamps out by the highway filtered through the bent and twisted window blinds. She listened to the relentless traffic streaming by. Big semis roaring through the night.

She tried to recall where, exactly, she was.

She slipped her legs out from under the covers, sat up, and placed her feet on the floor. The cheap industrial carpet was scratchy beneath her toes. She sat on the side of the bed for a moment, leaning over, head in her hands, her hair falling in front of her eyes.

She had a headache. She glanced over at the bedside table, as if some aspirin and a glass of water might magically be there, but all she could see in the minimal light were some crumpled bills and change, a digital clock that was reading 12:10 a.m., and a blonde wig.

That told her she’d only been asleep for an hour at the most. She’d gotten into the bed around half past ten, tossed and turned and looked up at the stained tiles overhead until well after eleven. At some point, clearly, she’d nodded off, but the last hour of sleep had not been a restful one.

Slowly she stood up, took two steps over to the window, and peered between the blinds. It wasn’t much of a view. A parking lot, about a quarter of the spots taken. A sign tall enough to be seen from the interstate advertising “Best Western.” Off in the distance, more towering signs. One for Mobil, another for McDonald’s.

The woman went to the door, checked that it was still locked.

She padded softly across the room and pushed open the door to the bathroom. She went inside and felt for the light switch, waiting until she had the door closed behind her before flicking it on.

The instant, intense illumination stung her eyes. She squinted until she got used to it, then gazed at her naked reflection in the oversized mirror above the counter.

“Yikes,” she whispered. Her black hair was stringy, her eyes dark, her lips dry.

There was a small, open canvas toiletries bag on the counter by the sink. A few things had not been returned to it, including a toothbrush, some makeup, a hairbrush. She opened the bag wider, rooted around inside.

“Yes,” she said when she had found what she wanted. She had a travel-sized bottle of aspirin. She unscrewed the cap and tapped two tablets into her palm. She put them in her mouth, then leaned over a running faucet to scoop some water into her hand. She got enough into her mouth to swallow the pills. She tilted her head back to ease their passage down her throat, then cupped more water into her hand just to drink. She reached for a towel to dry her hand and chin.

She glanced down at a bandage on the inside of her right ankle and grimaced. That cut wouldn’t have healed yet. A couple more days should do it.

At that point, her stomach growled, loud enough that it seemed to echo off the tiles of the tiny room. Maybe that was why she had the headache. She was hungry. She’d had very little to eat the whole day. Too on edge. Wasn’t sure she’d be able to keep anything down.

The McDonald’s was probably one of those twenty-four-hour ones. Truckers had to have someplace to eat in the dead of night. A Big Mac would do it. She could imagine the wonderful blandness of it. There was nothing left to eat in the motel room. Not so much as a few Doritos or half a Mars bar. They’d picked up some junk to eat along the way, but she’d hardly touched it.

Hungry as she was, she wasn’t going to venture out of this motel room. Best to stay put, at least for now. She might end up drawing more attention to herself at night, a woman alone, than she would in the middle of the day.