But now a question hung in the air.

Powell stared at the woman, tapping her pen on her notebook, waiting for an answer. With her hooded, eyes and unwavering gaze, Detective Desiree Powell knew she was all but impossible to read.

Powell had dealt with many social workers and behavioral therapists in her career. She knew the mindset. She knew that Sondra Arsenault had spent most of her adult life exploring people’s motives, ferreting out their agendas, divining their purpose. She was probably good at these things. Powell knew that she presented Sondra Arsenault with a cipher. By nature, social workers asked the questions. Today, it was Powell’s job.

When Sondra had called the local police department they had sent around a pair of uniformed officers to take down a report regarding the man who had broken into her home. When she told the uniformed officers that there might be a connection between the break-in at her house and the murder of a New York City lawyer named Viktor Harkov, they had wrapped things up quickly. They told her that someone would be contacting them soon.

Powell asked again. “So, the only people in the house were your daughters and yourself.”

“Yes.”

“And you didn’t hear anything? No breaking glass, no door being kicked in?”

Powell knew that the uniformed officers had looked at all the doors and windows, and written down that there had been no forced entry. It never hurt to cover it again.

“No.”

“You walked into you daughters’ room, and there he was.”

“Yes.”

“What was the man doing?”

“He was just standing there, at the foot of the bed,” Sondra said. “He was . . . he was watching them.”

“Watching them?”

“Watching them sleep.”

Powell made a note. “Was the light on in the bedroom?”

“No. Just a night light.”

“I know you described this man to the officers, but I need you to tell me. Once again, I’m sorry to put you through this. It’s just routine.”

Sondra didn’t hesitate. “He was tall, Caucasian, broad shouldered. He had close-cropped sandy hair, almost blond. He wore a black leather coat, dark jeans, white shirt, black vest. He had a small scar under his left cheekbone, a few days of stubble, light-blue eyes. He was in his thirties.”

Powell stared at her again, unblinking. “This is a remarkably precise description, Mrs Arsenault.”

Sondra remained silent.

“And you saw all this with just a night light?”

“No,” Sondra replied. “After I entered the room he turned on the overhead light.”

Powell scribbled another note, asked another question, one to which she already had the answer. “May I ask if you work outside the home?”

“Yes. I am a social worker. Part of my job is to observe people.”

Powell nodded. “Here in Putnam County?”

“Yes,” the woman said. “It’s not only people in the city who need counseling.”

Attitude, Powell thought. She left it unchallenged. “You said he spoke to you?”

“Yes.”

“What did he say?”

“He said: This is not Anna and Marya. I have made a mistake. If I have frightened you, you have my deepest apologies. You are in no danger.”

She pronounced the name Ma-RYE-a. Powell glanced at the photograph of the twins on the mantel, back. “Your daughter’s names are Lisa and Katherine?”

“Yes.”

“Who are Anna and Marya?”

Sondra said she had no idea. The look on her face, along with the way she worried one finger around another, told Powell that deep inside, where fear makes its nest, she probably had the feeling she was going to find out.

“After this you say he slipped out the window, and you never saw him again.”

“That’s correct.”

“Did you watch where he went? Did you see if he got into a car?”

“No,” Sondra said. “I did not.”

“What did you do?”

“I closed the window, drew the blinds, and turned off the light. Then I held my daughters.”

“Of course.” She made another note, took a few moments, then glanced at James. “May I ask where you were when this happened, sir?”

James cleared his throat. It sounded like a stall. Powell knew all the delay tactics – clearing the throat, scratching the lower leg, asking for a simple question to be repeated.

“I was at the school where I teach. Franklin Middle school on Sussex Avenue.”

Powell flipped a few pages back. “You were there at nine o’clock at night?”

“We had a parent-teacher meeting that night. I was helping clean up.”

Powell wrote this down. She would contact the school to see if James was telling the truth, as well as plug this information into the timeline surrounding the murder of Viktor Harkov.

“And what time did you get home?”

“I think it was just before ten.”

“The school is an hour away?”

“No,” James said. “We stopped for coffee.”

“We?”

James gave Powell the names of two of his colleagues.

“And your wife said nothing about this incident when you got home?”

“No.”

“Does this person she described sound familiar to you?”

“No.”

Powell turned back to Sondra. “Have you cleaned the bedroom since the incident, Mrs Arsenault?”

“No,” Sondra said. She looked slightly embarrassed by this, as if by implication it made her a bad housekeeper.

“I have a forensic team standing by,” Powell said. “Would it be okay if they processed the room for DNA and fingerprints?”

“Yes,” Sondra said.

Powell took out her cellphone, dialed the weather, listened. She would not be able to get her own CSU team out here for at least two hours, but the Arsenaults did not need to know that. When she got the forecast, she said a few perfunctory, official sounding phrases. She clicked off, took a sip of her coffee, which had grown cold. She leaned forward in her chair, a sure sign of intimate friendship, and continued.

“You both strike me as decent, intelligent people, so I think you know what I have to ask you next.”

Here it comes, Sondra’s face said.

“A man breaks into your house,” Powell continued. “It appears he does not steal anything, or harm anyone. It appears he thought your daughters were little girls named Anna and Marya. Have I gotten this right so far?”

Sondra nodded.

“So why do you think this has anything to do with the murder of a lawyer in Queens?”

Sondra took her time answering. “The newspaper account said that the lawyer handled foreign adoptions.”

“Yes,” Powell said. “He did.”

“And when the man – this intruder – spoke, he had an accent. Eastern European, Russian, perhaps Baltic.”

Powell pretended to consider this for a moment. “Mrs Arsenault, with all due respect, there are a lot of Russian people in New York. A lot of people from Romania, Poland, Lithuania. You’ll forgive me if I don’t see the immediate connection.”

Sondra tried to hold Powell’s gaze. She withered. “We . . . we knew Mr Harkov.”

Powell felt her pulse kick up a notch. “You mean professionally?”

“Yes.”

“He did some legal work for you and your husband?”

Sondra took James’s hand in hers. “You could say that.”

“What would you say, Mrs Arsenault?”

Tears began to gather in Sondra’s eyes. “Yes. He did some work for us.”

“I have to tell you that when we got the call from your local police department, we looked through Mr Harkov’s files, going back twelve years. We didn’t see your name.”

Powell did not wait for her to respond.

“Tell me how you came to meet Mr Harkov.”

Sondra told him about the process. How they had tried to adopt, three different times, and been rejected. How Sondra had heard about Harkov from a woman she had befriended at a medical conference in Manhattan. She recalled how Harkov said that he could get around certain things, that being their ages, and how they wanted a baby, not a child of five years. For a fee.

“Are you saying that Mr Harkov may have done something off the books? Something illegal regarding the adoption of Lisa and Katherine?”