And she came across a woman’s driver’s license in the name of Carol-Anne Brenner, a name that caused a buried memory to resonate softly. The next day, while shopping, she stopped at the Internet café at the mall and entered the name Carol-Anne Brenner on a search engine. She came up with a doctor, an athlete, a candidate for beatification.

And a murder victim.

Carol-Anne Brenner, a widow, fifty-three. Killed in her home in Pensacola, Alabama, three months earlier. The motive, according to the police, was robbery. They were searching for a man in connection with the crime. There was a photofit picture with the report. It showed a young man with blond hair, very pretty rather than handsome, she thought. Police believed that Carol-Anne Brenner might have been having an affair with the young man and that he had wheedled his way into her affections in order to rob her. They had no name for him. Brenner’s accounts had been emptied in the days prior to the discovery of her body, and all of her jewelry was missing.

The next day, during her attic search, she found more items of jewelry, and purses, empty, and photographs of women, sometimes alone, sometimes with their families. She also found four drivers’ licenses and two passports, each with her husband’s photograph upon it but each in a different name. The drivers’ licenses were tied together with an elastic band, while the passports were in a separate brown envelope. There was a telephone number written on the outside flap.

Marianne remembered the envelope being delivered. A woman had brought it, a woman with short, dark hair and a vaguely mannish stride. She had looked at Marianne with pity and, perhaps, a little interest. The envelope had been sealed then, and Moloch had been furious at the fact that Marianne had been entrusted with it, until he confirmed that the seal was intact.

Marianne had memorized the number.

Two days later, she called it.

The woman’s name was Karen Meyer, and she met Marianne at the mall, Danny sleeping beside them in his stroller. Marianne didn’t know why she was trusting her, but she had felt something that day when the woman called with the envelope. And for what she needed, Marianne had nowhere else to turn.

“Why did you call me?” asked Meyer.

“I need your help.”

“I can’t help you.”

“Please.”

Meyer looked around, checking faces. “I mean it. I can’t. Your husband will hurt me. He’ll hurt all of us. You, of all people, must know what he’s like.”

“I know. I mean, I don’t know. I don’t know what he is anymore.”

Karen shrugged.

“Well, I know what he is. That’s why I can’t help you.”

Marianne felt the tears begin to roll down her cheeks. She was desperate.

“I have money.”

“Not enough.”

Karen got up to leave.

“No, please.”

Marianne stretched out her hand to restrain her. It locked on her wrist. Karen stopped and looked down at the younger woman’s hand.

Marianne swallowed, but kept her eyes on Karen’s face. She released her grip, then slipped her hand into the other woman’s palm. Tentatively, she touched her gently with her fingers. For a moment, she thought that she felt Karen’s hand tremble, until it was suddenly pulled away.

“Don’t call me again,” said Karen. “You do and I swear I’ll tell him.”

Marianne didn’t watch her leave. Instead, fearful and humiliated, she hid her face in her hands until Karen was gone.

Karen came to the house three days later. Marianne answered the door to find her there, ten minutes after Moloch had left for the day.

“You said you had money.”

“Yes, I can pay you.”

“What do you need?”

“New identities for Danny and me, and maybe for my sister and her husband as well.”

“It’ll cost you fifty thousand dollars, and I’m nailing you to the wall at that price.”

Marianne smiled despite herself, and after a second’s pause, Karen smiled back.

“Yeah, well,” she said. “I’m being up front about it. You’re being charged above the going rate, but I need to cover myself. If he finds out, I’m going to have to run. You understand that?”

Marianne nodded.

“I’ll want half now, half later.”

Marianne shook her head. “I can’t do that.”

“What do you mean? You said you had money.”

“I do, but I can’t touch it until just before I leave.”

Karen stared at her.

“It’s his money, isn’t it?”

Marianne nodded.

“Shit.”

“There’s more than enough to cover what you ask. I promise you, you’ll have it as soon as I’m ready to leave.”

“I need something now.”

“I don’t have half, or anything close to it.”

“What can you give me?”

“Two hundred.”

“Two hundred?”

Karen slumped against the wall and said nothing for at least a minute.

“Give it to me,” she said at last.

Marianne went upstairs and retrieved the roll of bills from the only safe place she could find in which to keep it: the very center of a carton of tampons. It was a peculiarity of Moloch’s. He would not even sleep beside her when she had her period. She handed the roll of ones and fives to Karen.

“Do you want to count it?”

Karen weighed the roll of bills in her hand.

“I figure this is everything that you’ve hidden away, right?”

Marianne nodded, then said: “Well, I kept fifty back. That’s all.”

“Then that’ll be enough, for now.”

She moved to go.

“How long will it take?”

“They’ll be ready in two weeks. You can pick them up when you’re leaving, and I’ll take the rest of my money then.”

“Okay.”

Marianne opened the door. As she did so, the older woman reached out and brushed her cheek. Marianne didn’t flinch.

“You’d have done it too, wouldn’t you?” said Karen softly.

“Yes.”

Karen smiled.

“You need to work on your seduction technique,” she said.

“I’ve never had to use it before, under those circumstances.”

“I guess your heart just wasn’t in it.”

“I guess not.”

Karen shook her head sadly, walked to her car, and drove away.

Marianne never understood why Moloch had kept the licenses, the purses, the little personal items from the women. She suspected that they were souvenirs, or a means of recalling the women from whom they had come, a kind of aide-mémoire. Or perhaps it was simply vanity.

Moloch had never told her what he did for a living, exactly. He was, when she asked in those first days, a “businessman,” an “independent consultant,” a “salesman,” a “facilitator.” Marianne believed that the women, and what had happened to them, were only part of what he was. Now, when she read of raids on stores or banks, and saw her husband’s cash reserve increase; when she heard of a businessman being killed in his car for his briefcase, the contents later revealed to be $150,000 in under-the-counter earnings, and an amount just under that was briefly added to the bag in the shed; when a young woman disappeared in Altoona, the daughter of a moderately wealthy businessman, and her body was found in a ditch after the ransom was paid, she thought of Moloch. She thought of Moloch as she fingered the money; she thought of Moloch as she smelled the burnt powder in the gun among the nails; and she thought of Moloch as she spied the hardened dirt in the treads of his boots, carefully picking it away and placing it in a Ziploc bag that she bound tightly and squeezed into a tampon inserter.

In those last days, she became aware of an increase in the pitch of his activities. There were more calls to the home phone, the phone that she was not allowed to answer. There were more frequent, and longer, absences. The mileage on his car climbed steadily in increments of two hundred miles. He grew yet more distracted, now barely glancing at the receipts from the market and failing even to check the total spent against her allowance for the week.