Number three, search the Whitten house for anything that might suggest what happened to her.

Number four, find out if any of the murdered girls' families still lived in Colby, and figure out whether or not he could talk to them without them realizing who he was.

Number five. Keep away from Sophie Davis and her randy sister and her gaga mother with the too-sharp eyes. And try to avoid Doc Henley, as well.

And all that would only be a start. He figured he'd give it a couple of weeks if he was lucky, maybe less if the weather turned cold early. He couldn't spend too much of his life looking for answers that he might not find. He'd already lost five years he wasn't going to get back. Finding the truth would simply enable him to let go of it and get on with things. Maybe.

No time like the present to get to work. He pulled out his cell phone and punched in numbers before he realized there was no signal. Nada.

He flipped the paper over to Sophie's side, and wrote beneath her list, Get the goddamned telephone turned on. Then he shoved his cell phone back in his pocket.

"He's a reporter."

"I beg your pardon?" Marge gave her a strange look. "Who is?"

"John Smith. If that's even his name. He's doing research on serial killers, he's got law books and medical books and case studies all over his bedroom."

"His bedroom?" Marge said blankly. "How the hell did he get you in his bedroom so fast? I thought you were the Virgin Mary."

Sophie gave her an irritated look. "I was helping him out."

"Sure you were."

"He wanted my advice on what needed to be done around the Whitten camp, so I showed him. I told him to have it done and have them send the bills to you."

"Like hell you did," Marge said in horror.

"Like hell I did," Sophie agreed placidly. "Whenever the town finally decides to sell the old place you'll get the money back. In the meantime it can come out of the rent."

"The town's garnishing the rent for back taxes."

"Then tell them to sell it to me."

"You can't afford it right now."

"Good point," Sophie said morosely, stabbing her slice of peach pie. The two women sat on the porch. "And that man probably can. He said he wasn't interested in buying it, but I don't believe a word he said. There's no way a stranger would just show up here toting a bunch of books on serial killers if he didn't have some kind of agenda. And why the hell would he want to buy it? He was just trying to scare me. Though why would he want to scare me?"

"He told you he's really a reporter?" Marge broke in on her rattled musings.

"Of course not. And I could be wrong-instead of a reporter he could be writing the kind of true-crime thrillers my mother used to devour. I bet if I look through her stacks of books I'll find one with his picture on the back cover."

"As long as it's the back cover and not the front," Marge said. "You know, it seems to me that you're the one whose imagination has gone into overdrive. Lots of people read about serial killers."

"Then he's probably a very rich writer," Sophie said grimly. "Which means he can afford to buy the house out from under me."

"I think you need to take a deep breath and calm down," Marge said, pushing her empty plate away from her. "And you need to stop feeding me your food. I've gained fifteen pounds since you moved here."

"So have I," Sophie said mournfully. "And I can't afford it."

"Tell you what. Get your mother and sister to help with the cooking. That way no one will be tempted to eat much."

Sophie made a face. "Great idea. Then I'll be flat broke in a matter of weeks."

"I thought you were already flat broke."

"Close to it."

"So why are you wasting your time worrying about the Whitten place and your Mr. Smith?" Marge asked, practical as always.

"Not my Mr. Smith!" she protested. "And maybe I just want to be distracted from my problems."

"And maybe you're more interested in Mr. Smith than you want to admit. There's no question he's a very attractive man if you like that sort."

"What sort? Tall, dark and loathsome?"

Marge grinned. "Yeah, you keep on thinking that way, missy. If you ask me, the man's hot, and you'd be a fool not to do something about it."

"The only thing I'm about to do is check on my mother and sister. Mr. Smith can snoop around all he wants-I'm planning to ignore him."

"As you've ignored him so far? Good luck, babe," Marge said lazily. "If you're really not interested in him I'll have a crack at him. He's too young for me but I can be open-minded."

Sophie opened her mouth to protest, then shut it again. Marge was baiting her, and the awful truth was, Sophie was rising to it. She didn't want Marge sleeping with her mysterious neighbor. She didn't want anyone having him. She wanted him to simply disappear, as Sara Ann Whitten had so long ago, so she could concentrate on important things like her family and her extremely shaky business venture. She didn't have the time or energy to waste on a stranger with a hidden agenda.

"Feel free," Sophie said breezily. "Just don't say I didn't warn you. He's probably only here to research a new book on the Colby murders, and he doesn't care who he uses."

"I think you've got one hell of an imagination yourself, Sophie. You ought to start writing fiction instead of columns on the perfect strawberry jam and how to turn your lawn mower into a planter."

"I plead guilty to the first, but not the second. And speaking of which, I need someone to help with the garden and the mowing. Jeff Pritchard went back to college early. Can you think of anyone?"

"I'll send Patrick Laflamme over," Marge said, sounding amused at the notion. "He's the only one I can think of who's strong enough to resist Marty's siren lures."

"Is he old and ugly? Anything less would be too dangerous."

"Sorry, he's young and cute. He's also tough enough to ignore Marty. Don't worry about him-he's got good old-fashioned Yankee values and a mother who'd put the fear of God into anyone. He won't lead your sister astray."

"I'm more worried about the other way around," Sophie said grimly.

It was late afternoon by the time Sophie got back to her kitchen. The weeds in the perennial garden couldn't be ignored any longer, and then there was laundry to do and Marty to harass into eating something. Sophie was always terrified that Marty was going to become anorexic, but in fact she ate enough. Her reed-thin body just never showed it. Which just went to show how unfair heredity was. Sophie's mother Grace had always been slender and willowy, while Marty's mother had constantly battled her weight. Sophie should have been the one to inherit a skinny metabolism.

She was planning on making another peach pie, a dire mistake since she'd end up eating most of it, but she couldn't let all those wonderful peaches go to waste. Marty had left her dishes in the sink, as usual, and she was lying down by the lake, courting skin cancer at an early age. Sophie just shook her head and put the dishes in the dishwasher, then reached for the earthenware crock she kept her flour in when she noticed the yellowed newspaper on the counter.

At first she thought it was some kind of flyer, but as she looked closer she realized it was an actual copy of the Northeast Kingdom Gazette from long ago. Twenty years ago, in fact. And the headline read "Murder in the Kingdom."

Sophie's appetite for peach pie vanished. She poured herself a cup of coffee, shuddering slightly at its strength, and picked up the newspaper with careful hands. Tucking it under her arm, she went out onto the side porch, setting her coffee down on the windowsill behind her and curling up on the hanging glider. It was a beautiful day-a soft breeze was blowing across the lake, bringing with it the scent of pine resin and cool water, and the sun was bright overhead. Sophie stared down at the newspaper, at the grainy pictures, and started to read.

The account was relatively straightforward, devoid of conjecture and sensationalism, which wasn't surprising, considering the reporters and owners of the paper had lived in Colby for generations and knew all of the families involved. It was one thing to splash murder pictures all over the front page when you didn't know the helpless victims, another when they were your neighbors and friends.

There was a photo of the killer. Alleged killer, as they referred to him, and in fact, he might still be alleged since apparently he'd gotten off years later. Thomas Ingram Griffin looked like almost any drifter from twenty years ago. Long hair and beard, dazed but defiant expression on his face. The photo was faded from age, and it hadn't been the best of quality in the first place, but for some reason he looked vaguely familiar. Sophie shrugged. The man would look completely different twenty years later. He'd be clean shaven, clean cut, probably forty pounds heavier. If he was even still alive.

The three victims had been found over a two-day period. Alice Calderwood had been strangled and dumped by the side of North Road, Valette King had been stabbed to death-her killer had used his knife with savage fury. Her body had been left in a cornfield. And Lorelei Johnson had been found floating in Still Lake, near the cattails by the old Niles place, her throat cut.

Only Lorelei had a connection to Thomas Griffin. The paper didn't come right out and say it, but clearly they'd been lovers. And it didn't sound as if any of the three victims had been overly circumspect in their personal lives. The hinting was delicate, due to the sensibilities of the girls' grieving parents, but it was fairly clear that the three girls had been wild ones.

But then, wasn't everyone when they were in their late teens, early twenties? Sophie thought. Everyone except her, of course. She'd never had the chance to be particularly wild and wicked-she'd been too busy working, too busy trying to look out for her mother and her baby sister. Gracey's lifestyle had been a warning note, and she'd been too busy in college to think about boys, much to her mother's dismay. And when she'd graduated, ready to start making a full life, there was Marty on her doorstep, orphaned and miserable, and Sophie had ignored any passing hormonal flutterings to concentrate on her family.

There were times when she wanted to just toss everything to the winds, fling off her responsibilities and run wild.

But she hadn't, and if the result of sowing wild oats was to have your throat cut, then she was very happy the way she was, thank you very much. The only thirty-year-old virgin on the face of the planet.

That wasn't particularly something she liked to waste her time thinking about, but the oblique tragedy of Colby's wild daughters made it unavoidable. She glanced down at the lake, to her sister's skinny, bikini-clad form soaking up the northern Vermont sunshine. Maybe she was being too hard on Marty. Maybe her surliness was only normal.

She looked past her, to the calm, clean crescent of the beach, and then to the cattails beyond. That's where they'd found Lorelei. Where Thomas Griffin had found her, in fact. He was holding her body in his arms when they'd arrested him, and her blood had stained his body.

Sophie shivered, putting the paper down again. Where in the world had this come from, anyway? She didn't particularly want to dwell in the past, or even think about the tragedies that had occurred long ago. She wanted the bucolic peace that Colby offered, not the memories of murders disturbing her peaceful afternoon.

But then, Mr. Smith had arrived on her doorstep and suddenly the past was alive. If Grace had been her old self Sophie would have asked her about it. Grace devoured true-crime stories as if they were delicate canapes-she would have known the details of the Still Lake murders, and if anyone had written a book about them, Grace would have read it.

But Grace had lost interest in everything. She was almost a caricature of senility, sitting in her rocking chair, humming softly, that dreamy expression in her eyes. At least out here they could keep an eye on her, make sure she didn't wander into trouble. And if Sophie had errands, she could always count on Doc to stop in and make sure Grace was all right.

Richard Henley had been a gift from God. Colby was his town, and he knew each and every one of the year-round residents and most of the summer people, and he took care of all of them, as well as his quiet, unassuming wife, Rima.

Sophie glanced down at the crumbling yellow newspaper beside her. Maybe Doc had left it, in hopes that it might revive Grace's fascination with old crimes. Even a morbid interest was better than no interest at all.

He would have known all of them. He was even quoted extensively in the article, describing the causes of death in unemotional terms, adding gentle words of comfort for the grieving parents and the whole town. His kind, wise presence was probably the main reason such an awful tragedy hadn't pulled the entire town apart. That, and the fact that the murderer had been caught so swiftly.

Sophie picked up the paper again, flipping it over, but there was nothing else. No follow-up. She needed to know what had happened. Why had the killer's conviction been overturned?

She set it down. Not what she wanted to be thinking about on a beautiful late summer day, when she had more important things on her mind, like the future of her sister, the safety of her mother, the financial viability of running a bed-and-breakfast, and expecting it to support the three of them. She was worried enough-she didn't want death and horror intruding on her perfect future, her every thought. But she couldn't dismiss it.

Because if the killer wasn't really the killer, then who had murdered three teenage girls some twenty years ago, one at her very doorstep? And who was to say he wouldn't kill again? Now that another teenage girl had taken up residence. Marty had the sense of a white rabbit-like most teenagers she considered herself invulnerable and immortal. She wouldn't listen to warnings, especially vague, unfounded ones.

If they were unfounded.

Hell, she was borrowing trouble. She wasn't going to brood on old murders-peach pie was a much better concern on a hot summer day. Even if she did end up eating it all.

Better to concentrate on peach pie than murder. And better to think of peach pie than the man next door with his dark eyes and his enigmatic face. She didn't like him. She didn't trust him. When it came right down to it, she was even a tiny bit scared of him, though she wasn't sure why.

But there was one more nasty complication to John Smith's presence at the edge of her property. Not the fact that her sister might be attracted to him-that was presumably only a minor worry.

No, the nasty complication was that Sophie couldn't stop thinking about him. She was fascinated, drawn to him, when she was much too smart for that.

She wished to God that she hadn't chosen that year to give up smoking.

He could feel it rising again. The deep, powerful need that started small and spread throughout his body like a holy fire. He thought his work was done here, but the Lord had other plans. It had been three years since he'd worked God's vengeance. Three years since he'd crushed the life from that wicked child of Satan. He'd atoned, of course. He knew what he did was wrong-it was part of his punishment. To mete out God's justice, and to repent for his part in it.

It was calling to him. Calling to him in the shape of that girl, that sinful child who painted her face and exposed her body and was just looking for a way to glorify Satan.

He would save her. He would cleanse her of the wickedness that threatened her. The wickedness would be burned from her sinful body.

And she would die at his hands, a pure soul.

6.

The crash woke him up. It was pitch black outside, and the quiet sounds of the lake had lulled Griffin into a deep sleep, but something had broken through his dreams, jarring him awake. He squinted at his watch-one-thirty in the morning. He knew he was alone in the house, but he'd definitely heard a thump downstairs.

He sat up, reaching for his jeans. Whoever it was didn't seem to be making much of an effort to cover their presence, but he still dressed as quietly as he could so as not to frighten off whoever was there.

Of course it might be something as simple as one of the mice he'd evicted. That, or a nosy raccoon, or even, God help him, a skunk.

He moved toward the door, trying to be as quiet as he could so he wouldn't scare away his intruder, but the old house wasn't made for stealth, and the floorboards creaked beneath his weight. He paused, half expecting his unexpected guest to go crashing out of the house, but the quiet thumps continued, undeterred by the sound of his approach.

Someone had turned on a couple of the lights. The living room was filled with shadows when he reached the bottom of the stairs, but he could see something moving in the kitchen. He switched on the bright overhead light, but whoever it was didn't react.

It took him a moment to recognize her. The crazy old lady from next door had wandered into his house, into his kitchen, and she was rummaging around, singing beneath her breath, totally at home.

"Mrs...." Shit, he couldn't remember her name. "Grace?"

She looked up at him with those disarmingly vague eyes. She was dressed in a bathrobe, and her feet were muddy and bare. "Hello there," she said gaily. "I'm so glad you've come back. I've missed you."

He felt a frisson of horror run down his spine, and then he remembered who he was talking to. "This is the first time I've been here, Grace," he corrected her patiently.

She frowned. "Is it? I didn't realize. Do you want some ice cream?"

"No, thanks," he said. As a matter of fact, he didn't have any ice cream in the house, not even Vermont's own Ben & Jerry's. "Were you looking for something in particular?"

"Oh, no. I just thought I'd come visit." She let out a cry of triumph and emerged from the refrigerator with a can of Coke. "You don't mind, do you?"

"I don't mind," he said. "But don't you think your daughters will be worried about you?"

"Daughter," Grace corrected him amiably, handing him a can of soda as she waltzed past him. "Marty's mother is that wretched club woman Morris married after I left him. I don't blame the girl for rebelling against Eloise, though in the end they were fine parents. A tragedy they died, but Marty dealt with it quite well. I just wish Sophie wouldn't worry so much. She'll be fine."

She'd lost him. "Who will be?"

"Both of them," Grace said firmly. "I won't have it any other way. So tell me, young man," she continued with one of her rapid shifts of conversation, "why did you come here? It's the murders, isn't it?"

She'd ensconced herself on the old sofa, her fluttery garments draped around her, giving him time to school his answer.

"What murders?"

Grace's cackle verged on the macabre. "You know as well as I do what murders. You saw him."