So, yeah, she was about as different from Carly DelVecchio as night was from day.

On the other hand, now at least she knew that she was not the sort of woman Sam was looking for, if in fact he was looking at all. Better to know now, she told herself, than run the risk of making a total fool out of herself later.

She pulled into the driveway and turned off the engine, gathered the bag of Chinese takeout she’d picked up on the way home, then took a few files from the trunk and locked the car with the remote. There was no mail to be picked up-Irene Lentini, her thoughtful next-door neighbor, brought it in for her when she was away for more than a day-and no newspapers lying on the front porch or the lawn. If she wanted a paper, it was easier and more efficient to pick one up in the morning when she stopped for coffee. Most days, she read her news online.

Next to the front door stood pots of pink petunias that cascaded over the rim in bright ribbons. Irene, who had been retired for ten years and widowed for six, planted and tended the flowers. In the winter, she hung a wreath on Fiona’s front door, and in the fall, she’d planted spring bulbs. “Otherwise,” she’d told Fiona, “folks will think the house is vacant. Then, next thing you know, we’ll have break-ins in the neighborhood because word will get out that there’s an abandoned house over on Forest Drive.”

Fiona had laughed and cheerfully reimbursed Irene for whatever seasonal display was chosen to adorn the porch or the front door.

The house welcomed Fiona home with hushed silence, as always. The light on her answering machine was blinking, but she ignored it. She went straight to the kitchen and turned on the overhead light, then dumped the mail on the counter. Later, she’d pick out the bills and toss the rest into the trash. She had no time for junk mail, and rarely got a personal letter. There were few bridges to her past that she hadn’t burned.

She grabbed a fork from a drawer and a bottle of water, and went out onto the back porch with the carton of chicken lo mein. She sat on the back step and ate while she watched the light fade from the sky as the sun set behind the trees. She saw the first stars of the evening begin to twinkle overhead and closed her eyes and wished that either she hadn’t asked Annie about Carly DelVecchio, or that the answer had been very different.

Sam pulled up in front of the one-and-a-half-story cedar-shake bungalow and checked the address Fiona had given him. Nineteen Forest Drive. This was it. Somehow the house looked cozier than he’d expected, with the pots of flowers on the front porch and the wreath of something colorful on the front door. Fiona hadn’t impressed him as being the cozy type. Which wasn’t a bad thing, he reminded himself as he walked to the front door. Not everyone did cozy. He sure didn’t.

He rang the bell but hadn’t needed to. Through the glass pane of the oak door he could see her walking toward him. She was leggy and graceful and he wished the hall had been longer. He liked watching her walk.

“Hey, you’re right on time.” Fiona opened the door with a smile. “Come on in and I’ll get my things.”

Sam stepped inside and tried not to look around with as much curiosity as he felt, but he couldn’t help himself.

“This is a great house,” he told her.

“Oh, thanks,” she called from the kitchen, where he could see her closing a window.

“How’d you find something like this?”

“I just told the realtor what I wanted, and waited until they found it.”

“Did you have to wait long?”

“No. I got lucky. I just need to run upstairs to close a few windows. We’re supposed to get some rain this afternoon.”

Sam waved her off. “Take your time.”

He wandered into the living room, which was comfortably furnished with a deeply cushioned sofa and two overstuffed chairs that flanked a stone fireplace. An oriental rug that looked like a real antique covered the hardwood floor and a simple oak table held a leather-bound book and a stained glass lamp which looked like a Tiffany to Sam but must have been a knockoff. He’d lived on a special agent’s salary, and he’d never been able to afford a real Tiffany lamp. Or, he thought, a real Turkish carpet.

A group of photos lined the mantel, and Sam stepped closer to look. Family photos, he guessed. A picture of a younger Fiona with a little girl and a younger boy-probably her siblings-and another of a very good-looking man and woman. Her parents? One of Fiona by herself, sitting on rocks overlooking the ocean, her hair swirling around her head in the breeze, and another that appeared to be a studio shot, the latter of a very different Fiona, this one with blond hair and makeup.

“Ready?” she said from behind him.

“Sure.” He turned but didn’t take a step. “Is this your family?”

“Yes.”

When she didn’t elaborate, he asked, pointing to the appropriate frames, “Your siblings? Parents?”

“Yes. Are you ready?” she repeated.

Feeling somewhat rebuffed but not understanding why, Sam walked to the front door and out onto the porch to wait while she locked the house.

“Do you want me to drive?” he asked.

“I’ll drive. You’ve already driven several hours today.”

“Do you know how to get to the prison?”

“Route 9 to Turner Highway.”

“It’s faster to go through Sanderson than around it,” he told her as they got into her car.

“I don’t know that way.”

“You can stay on this road right into Sanderson,” he said.

“All right.”

“On my way down here this morning, I spoke with the assistant Warden. He said he’d meet with us out at the prison. I think he didn’t understand why we wanted to drive out there.”

“And you told him…?”

“Like the boss always says, you have to be at the scene yourself. Breathe the same air the killer breathed. See what he saw.” He smiled. “Any boob…”

Fiona laughed. “… can look at photographs, I know. I’ve heard it too.”

“That’s John. Get out and get into it.”

“Do you miss it?” She didn’t have to explain what it was.

“I did at first. For a while, anyway. But I was traveling around so much that after a few weeks, that was my focus. The countries I traveled to. The people I met. The things that I saw.”

“What countries did you visit?”

“Ireland. Spain. Portugal. France. Poland. Greece. Turkey. Kazakhstan. And on the way back, I stopped to see my parents in Italy.”

“Your parents live in Italy?”

“They own a B and B there. It’s one of those places where you can go and take cooking lessons for a week, drink the local wine, that sort of thing.”

“Your parents are chefs?”

“Nah. They just own the place. They have a local guy do the actual teaching.”

“Sounds very cool.”

“It is very cool.” He looked out the window. “I’m really happy for them both. They’re having the time of their lives.”

Fiona turned onto Sanderson’s main road and Sam felt a tightening in his chest. He’d avoided this ride for a long time, but he knew that sooner or later he’d have to do this. It might be better, he’d reasoned, if someone else was driving, someone who wouldn’t be tempted to pull over to the side of the road. This time, the first time, just a pass-by would be enough.

“Take a right at the light,” he told her.

“The prison is that way.” She pointed straight ahead. “Just about six miles down the road.”

“I know,” he replied.

She made the turn at the light.

“Now another right,” he said after they’d gone several blocks.

Fiona stopped at the stop sign, then made the requested turn.

The street was narrow and there were cars parked here and there on either side, requiring her to slow down. The houses were small and cottagelike, with bay windows and leaded glass and flower boxes.

“Cute street,” she said.

“Yes.”

Finally, they were almost there. Sam leaned forward and craned his neck to look out the driver’s side window.