Making my way through the pungent stench to the kitchen, I found the oven on and some sort of concoction roiling and baking inside that, from the look of the sauce 85.coating the insides of the appliance, didn't seem to be enjoying it. As I got closer, a small bit of smoke escaped the oven, so I quickly shut the device off.

"Amanda?" I yelled. "Are you here?"

There was no answer, so I tried again.

"Amanda?"

I heard a squeak as the bathroom door opened. The shower was still running, and I could see Amanda's wet head poking from behind the curtain. Her hair was filled with shampoo and her eyes looked at me through a haze of steam.

"Henry?"

"Amanda, what the h.e.l.l are you doing?"

"Bowling. What does it look like I'm doing?"

"You're aware that this apartment was about thirty seconds from being on the eleven o'clock news."

"What?" she said, wiping suds from her face.

"I saved your mystery meat dish just in time before it burned down the neighborhood."

"No way. The timer was supposed to go off after half an hour. I didn't hear anything."

"You are in the shower, you know."

"No way. I have a keen sense of hearing."

"When you pressed half an hour," I said, "what exact b.u.t.tons did you press?"

"I held the b.u.t.ton until it read three zero minutes and zero seconds."

"Really," I said. "You're sure about that?"

"Sure. Why?"

"There's no seconds on the oven. It's just minutes and hours. You set the timer for three hours and zero minutes."

"Oh. c.r.a.p. Sorry."

"It's okay," I said. "Just...never cook again. And apologize to the fish in there."

86."It was supposed to be orange chicken," she said.

"Well it's probably got the texture of volcanic rock right now. You feel like pizza?"

She offered a sheepish grin, and said, "Let me finish up in here and we'll order."

"Sure you don't want me to join you?"

"No, the toaster is on, too. Would you mind checking on it?"

"The toaster? Are you ser..."

"Just kidding. Give me five minutes."

She closed the door and I collapsed on the couch. I turned on the television and clicked through a hundred and fourteen channels before deciding that there was nothing worth watching. It was just as entertaining to sit there and go through the events of the day, and prepare for the next.

Hopefully Brett Kaiser could fill in much of the information that was missing. Somebody had to be paying Kaiser's firm's share of the lease money, and with any luck that person would have intimate knowledge of just who my brother was working for and why he was killed. I still didn't buy that it was totally a power play.

Stephen came to me because he was scared of something. If you work in a company and have problems with underlings, there are ways to circ.u.mvent any actions. Now when somebody above you wants you gone, that's when you have a problem. If you feel that your termination--pardon the term--is inevitable, you begin planning an exit strategy. In the workplace, maybe you look for another job, prepare a lawsuit, something so that you're not thrown from an airplane without a parachute. When Stephen came to me that night, scared out of his mind (a mind already addled), 87.he was looking for his exit strategy. Granted the actions you take are a little different when you led a life of crime as opposed to life in a cubicle, but the principle still stood.

What I needed to know was who set Stephen on the path to his eventual exit. Even though he didn't make it, he had something to say. A story to tell.

Amanda came out of the shower. She was wrapped in a towel, and over the towel she wore a pink bathrobe.

Above this contraption she was tousling her hair with another towel. The combination of towels and thick bathrobe made Amanda look about twice as thick as she normally did, and I couldn't help but laugh.

"This is my routine," she said. "You should be used to it by now."

"I am," I said, "but that doesn't mean you don't look a little silly."

She took a seat on the couch, wrapping the towel into a turban where it sat perched a whole foot above her head.

I'd bought the couch at an apartment sale for about a third of what it would cost at a department store. It was brown leather, with big cushions that I constantly rotated to change up the stains. Made me feel like it was a little less worn.

"How was your day?" she asked, absently flipping through the stack of the day's newspapers I kept on the coffee table.

"Still working on this story with Jack," I said. "It's interesting, working with him for the first time."

"In what way?"

"Jack was in pretty bad shape my first few years at the Gazette. I hate to admit it, but there was a moment or two I hate to admit it, but there was a moment or two when I wondered if this was really the same guy I grew up wanting to be. Not many kids dress up like a journal-88 ist for Halloween. It was important to me that he was who I thought he was."

"You did not dress like a journalist," Amanda said.

"You bet your a.s.s. Had a row of pens in my shirt pocket, a camera and notepad and everything. Everyone a.s.sumed I was Clark Kent."

"I would have paid to see that," Amanda said.

"There aren't a whole lot of photo alb.u.ms back in Bend. My dad wasn't exactly the sentimental type."

"How do you feel about how things are going?" she asked. I took a seat next to her, thought for a moment.

"When I found out Stephen was dead, I felt numb. Like someone was prodding me with a stick I could see but couldn't feel. I was supposed supposed to feel remorse, but it didn't to feel remorse, but it didn't come at first. Someone can tell you that you lost a family member, but if you didn't even know the person it's not the same. It should be, I guess. Blood is blood, but in a way it isn't. Now, it feels different. Like maybe I did lose someone who could have-- should have should have--been closer to me." I looked at Amanda, saw she was listening to every word. "Without you, I'd have no one."

"Don't say that," she said, looking away. "That's not true."

It was true, but I didn't want to argue. I'd made mistakes during our time together. Knowing when to shut up was an important lesson.

She went back to reading the paper. Her fingers were still a little wet, and I could see the print rubbing off on them. She went to wipe her hands on the towel, then smiled and thought better of it.

"You see this?" she said, holding up a copy of that morning's Dispatch. Dispatch.

I shook my head. I rarely read the Dispatch. Dispatch. Not Not 89.because I held a grudge against them--though I did--it's because they never had much I felt was worth reading. It was the kind of paper that rarely presented an even story.

It was all about eliciting a reaction, stoking a fire, presenting a story so biased in one direction or the other that readers would either be incensed or infatuated. I had all the major New York City papers delivered to my door in one bundle. I could care less about the Dispatch, Dispatch, but it but it didn't cost anything more and every now and then I enjoyed reading the sports section.

"I must have missed it," I said. "What'd you see?"

"Paulina Cole," Amanda said. "Says here her column will be suspended until Thursday while she deals with a personal matter."

"Really?" I asked. That surprised me. Paulina Cole was the kind of woman who didn't take personal leaves.

If my mental image of her was accurate, she stayed in her office while darkness crept in, waiting for some scoop to brighten her desk. And if she didn't get one, it would only fuel her fire to make the next scoop even juicier.

I wondered what could be so important that she'd suspend her reporting, even just for a few days. It would take either an act of nature or a revolt by the paper's shareholders to get rid of Paulina. Which meant somewhere a storm was brewing. Not to mention I'd be lying if I didn't hope, after everything she'd done to Jack and me, that it made her life a living h.e.l.l.

No doubt Paulina would come back on Thursday with a story that would open some eyes.

11.Wednesday

Paulina Cole glanced over her shoulder. Still n.o.body there. The Mercedes was empty when she climbed in, empty when she started the engine, and empty when she pulled onto the FDR Drive toward I-95. She even checked the trunk--nothing--but wondered if there had been enough time for someone to climb in during the split second when she closed the trunk and climbed into the driver's seat.

The anger welling up inside Paulina was a firestorm.

She was scared, and G.o.d, she couldn't stand that feeling.

The idea that someone controlled an aspect of her life that she did not, it was like being trapped in cement while people poked you with a stick. That night, the night that man took her, Paulina had experienced emotions she didn't think she'd ever felt. Not when her husband left her.

Not when he took half of her money because his deadbeat a.s.s barely made a dime, not when she was fired from her first job as a secretary for "not being presentable." Of course this translated as she wouldn't wear a blouse lowcut enough that the partners could see her t.i.ts, but even 91.then Paulina Cole didn't feel this sensation. Even then, she knew her future was in her hands. Small people thought small. She was meant for something bigger, grander, and n.o.body, no idiotic men--whether spouse or employer--would ever slow her down.

Until that night.

There were burn marks on her right side, just below the curve of her breast. It ached every second of every day, and she had to wear a ma.s.sive bandage, otherwise all the aloe she put on it would seep through her shirts.

She'd never been brutalized. Not like that. She could take criticism. She could take people hating her. Hate came when you got under somebody's skin, and Paulina was nothing if not a provocateur.

But she did nothing to deserve this.

And neither did Abby.

Thinking about what that man threatened to do to her daughter made Paulina shriek inside. And when Paulina Cole got scared, she took those emotions and turned them inside out. Fear turned to rage, and rage had to be directed somewhere. She just didn't know where yet.

She arrived at Smith College at just past noon, the entire hundred-and-sixty-mile-plus drive taking just over two and a half hours. Luckily there wasn't much traffic leaving Manhattan that early in the morning. Lots of people lived outside the city and commuted in. Not a whole lot did the opposite. No sense paying New York living prices and make a non-NYC wage.

Finally Paulina found herself on College Lane, which was bracketed on the north by Elm Street. Figured, she thought, that this pagan sanctuary of a university would have an Elm Street.

The office of admissions was a three-level white-92 thatched cottage with a second-level deck that hung over the entryway. The front door had several sun chairs on the porch, though Paulina couldn't for the life of her figure out who exactly would choose to spend a beautiful day sitting in front of the admissions office.

Paulina parked the rental on the lawn directly outside of the admissions office, purposefully ignoring the yellow sign that clearly stated VEHICLES WITHOUT PARKING PERMITS WILL BE TOWED. Paulina knew this game. In order for her car to be towed, the admissions office would have to call the college's office of public safety. The public safety office would have to dispatch an officer to survey the vehicle. If the vehicle was, in fact, parked without a permit, the public safety officer would then have the go-ahead to call the local police department, who would then dispatch a tow truck to remove the offending vehicle. The entire process, beginning to end, would take about forty-five minutes.

Paulina didn't plan to be there more than five.

She walked into the admissions office, trying to avoid eye contact with the students huddled in the foyer reading the campus paper and checking their cell phones for text messages. She went right up to the registrar and planted her hands on the counter in front of the ruddy-faced man who looked at her like she was some vicious bear come in from the wilderness.

"Hi," Paulina said with the conviction of a woman who knew she'd get whatever information she wanted and might just tear out your spleen to get it. "I'm looking for my daughter. I was wondering if you could let me know what dorm room she's in."

"Your...daughter?" the man said, surprised. Paulina could tell from the man's demeanor that he was probably 93.not considered any sort of threat to the student body of this all-girl school.

"Yes. My daughter. Abigail Cole." The man sat there unmoving. "Is there a problem?"

"Well no," he replied. "It's just that, well, most parents have their children's phone numbers and dorm rooms etched into their brains. You know, one of those 'always know where to reach your loved ones' deals."

"Yeah, well I'm not one of those parents," Paulina said.

"No, you don't seem to be." He picked up the phone.

"Would you like me to call her for you?"

"No," she said. "I'd prefer if you just told me where she lives. I'd like it to be a surprise."

"Surprise. Sure. Can I just see some ID?"

Paulina handed it over. The man took it gently between his thumb and index finger like one might handle a piece of forensic evidence. He looked at it, typed a few keys into his computer, then slid it back to her.

"Thanks, Ms. Cole. Abigal lives in room three-ohthree of the Friedman apartments."

"Where can I find that?"

"It's the housing complex at the corner of Elm and Prospect streets. But you'll need somebody to let you in--like Abigail. The doors are locked 24/7, and campus security is always on the lookout for people who don't necessarily look like they know what they're looking for."

"Thanks for the tip," she said, and left.

She drove over to the apartment complex and found a spot in the student lot in between a Volvo that looked st.u.r.dy enough to withstand tank fire and a Prius with a Kerry/Edwards b.u.mper sticker lovingly forgotten on the rear b.u.mper.

94.She walked across the lawn toward the middle of the three dorms, for a moment thinking back to her own time at college, wondering where it all went. She barely remembered the days that seemed to have flown by in a blur of books and late nights, staying up until four in the morning to ace the test that n.o.body else figured they could pa.s.s. Paulina smiled as she watched all the young women, these silly young women who probably had no idea what kind of world awaited them. Most looked like they didn't have a care in the world, and who knew, maybe they didn't. But, one thing Paulina knew for sure, it was the ones who cared too much who succeeded. The ones who refused to stay down when they were beaten down. The ones who refused to take "no," and instead took everything. She prayed for years that her daughter was like that. Sadly, she'd resigned herself to the fact that it was not meant to be.

Approaching the dorm, Paulina stopped two young women carrying backpacks and chatting. "Excuse me,"

she said. "Can you tell me where I can find room threeoh-three?"

The thicker one who had short hair and stringy-looking ta.s.sels lining it, pointed to the dorm on the left, then middle. "One hundreds, two hundreds, three hundreds."