She did not touch the book. Instead she reached for the phone, thankful that they had ordered it to be turned on so it would be all set when they came home as Mr. and Mrs. Baskin.

She dialed T.C.’s number. But he was not there. The dispatcher told her he was out for a few hours. She left a message and glanced at the cover of the photograph album. No. She did not yet possess the strength to open the book, to see his image. Laura headed down the stairs and got into her car.

THE man stood over the patient. “Look at all those goddamn bandages. You look like a mummy or that guy in the Invisible Man movie.”

No reaction from the patient.

The man wondered if he should tell him about the latest surprise. He decided against it. The patient needed all his strength to recover. It would be a mistake to upset him with something that was beyond his control. “Are you feeling okay?”

This time, there was a nod.

Progress. “Those bandages uncomfortable?”

A shake of the head.

The nurse sat in the chair beside the bed. “That’s the way he’s been acting all week. He never speaks.”

“Maybe he’s not supposed to,” the man replied. “Maybe it’s not good for his vocal cords.”

The nurse shook her head. “That’s where you’re wrong. I’ve watched over millions of these guys. By now they’re all talking like crazy—you know, about their problems and stuff. But this guy? He doesn’t say a word. Kinda makes the job boring, you know?”

The man nodded and turned his attention back toward the patient. “I’ve got to be heading back; otherwise people will wonder. Do you need anything?”

Another shake of the head.

“I’ll be back with the doctor in a few days. Take care.”

Underneath a bandage, a tear slid from the patient’s eye.

6

T.C. turned the knob. “You left the lock just as it was?”

Laura nodded.

“Who else has a key?”

“Nobody.”

“Was it locked when you left for Australia?”

“Yes.”

They stepped into the foyer. “And nothing was disturbed down here?”

“Right.”

“Show me the upstairs.”

He followed her up the stairs and into the bedroom.

“Here’s the desk,” she said.

“You sure David didn’t mess it up?” T.C. asked. “He was never known for his tidiness.”

“I’m positive,” Laura replied. “I specifically remember that right before we left, I opened the drawer to take out our plane tickets. Everything was neat and in place.”

T.C. examined the desk. Whoever had done this had been in a rush. The intruder had rummaged through the top drawer, pulling out papers, books, whatever. But he had left the money and the ring. Why? T.C. studied the few pieces of a photograph that were in the area. Where was the rest of the photograph? Chances were the intruder had destroyed the picture and accidentally left a few pieces behind in his haste. But why? Who?

He pulled out a magnifying glass, feeling like a poor imitation of Sherlock Holmes. He placed it near the small pieces. It was an old photograph, a black-and-white that had begun to yellow from age.

“Do you know what was in this picture?” he asked.

She shook her head. “I could go through the photo album and try to figure it out.”

“If you feel up to it.”

“I do,” she lied.

“Then take it with you. We can go over it later.”

T.C. quickly checked the rest of the house. First, he scanned the upstairs, followed by the kitchen and den. Last, he went over the basement. There was nothing out of place. No sign of forced entry. When he was finished, he met up with Laura at the front door.

“I don’t mean to dwell on this,” he said, “but this is a rather sophisticated lock and alarm system. How many keys did you make up for this place?”

“Just two. I left this one in my apartment before we left.”

“And the other?”

She swallowed. “David had the other one with him in Australia.”

JUDY contemplated her sister. Despite the years and the recent anguish that had ravaged her face and body, Mary was still gorgeous by any man’s standards.

The two sisters sat in Mary’s bedroom. It was tastefully decorated in the latest style, whatever that was. Judy noticed that the furniture looked like it had been sculpted out of fiberglass. The bookshelf was jammed with all the latest reading. Mary read all the time, though Judy knew that she did not really enjoy it. Books were props to Mary—her way of telling the world that she was more than a pretty face and gorgeous body. For as long as Judy could remember, Mary had always worried about her image, sure that she had been labeled a “scatterbrain” because of her physical perfection.

In truth, Mary Ayars was neither an intellectual nor an airheaded stunner. Judy had been told that everyone had a special gift. If that was true, Mary’s was beauty and she relied heavily—too heavily—on this asset. True, it had given her much and had always made her the center of attention, but it had also made her somewhat superficial, and in the end, her beauty had caused uncontrollable disaster.

Oh, how Judy wished she could start over again. If she could somehow get her hands on a time machine, she would go back to the days when she and Mary were the little Simmons children. She would steal into Mary’s room late one night while everyone was asleep. She would approach her sleeping sister and slice up her face with a broken Coke bottle. Or maybe she would use their father’s straight razor. Or maybe she would use acid and melt Mary’s flawless features into horrible clumps of waxy organisms—something, anything to destroy the evil before it could flourish, before it could make its way out of the womb.

The thought made her blanch.

It was my fault, too. My fault as much as anyone’s.

She was being hard on herself but that was understandable. Earlier today, Judy had met with Laura. Vivacious Laura, the woman who was everything that Mary wanted to be, was still in shock. Her niece stared dazed, her eyes wondering why the world had suddenly decided to crush her very being.

What have I done to you, Laura? What have I helped cause?

Judy remained silent, letting her sister vent, watching her sister cry uncontrollably as she spoke. Then Judy asked her sister the one important question.

“Does James know?”

The words stopped Mary’s hysteria like a sharp smack. “What?”

“Does your husband know?”