Gloria shook her head. “It still makes no sense. David drowned six months ago. Why did she wait all that time to tell you? And there are other questions. What happened to David’s money? And how did someone get hold of his ring and put it in your apartment?”

Laura stopped. “I don’t know. But there may be a way of finding out.”

“How?”

Laura went to the closet and got her coat. It was six thirty in the morning. They had been reading the book all night. “You stay here and finish going through that diary. See if there’s any more about what happened.”

“Where are you going?”

She grabbed her keys and headed to the door. “To talk to Dad.”

Gloria turned the page. The next day was May 30.

JAMES drove very fast. He had never been afraid of being stopped by the police for speeding. After all, he was a senior staff member at Boston Memorial. He would just tell them that there was an emergency at the hospital. A matter of life and death. How that phrase grabbed people: a matter of life and death. People stopped and listened when you said it. For a fleeting moment, they considered their own mortality.

He reached the apartment building on the outskirts of the city. It was a run-down neighborhood, but then again cops were not the highest-paid people in the workforce. He glanced at the clock on the dashboard. Six thirty in the morning. T.C. would probably still be asleep. James would have to wake him. After all, this was an emergency. This was a matter of life and death—for all of them.

James stepped out of the car. He had known from the moment Laura first called him from Australia six months ago that Mary had once again lied to him, that she had gone to Australia instead of California, that she had been responsible for David’s sudden disappearance. The dread that had coursed through him at that moment was black and cold. Why had he been so foolish? Why hadn’t he seen it coming? Why hadn’t he found a way to stop Mary before she’d had the chance to say something to David?

If only he could have stopped her. If only David had not listened to her. If only David had ignored Mary’s every word and run back to Laura. If only. Those two words stretched back thirty years to the moment when it all began: if only Mary had been a faithful wife instead of a cheap whore.

But alas, none of that happened. Thinking of what might have been cannot change what has already occurred. James had to go on. He had to make the best of the situation. He had to salvage what he could from the tiny fragments that were still left. There was no time to cry over the past anymore. Too much time had passed. Too many people had already died.

He knocked on the door. The gun was in his pocket just in case T.C. did not cooperate. He hoped that he would not have to use it quite yet. All he wanted from T.C. was one small piece of information: Where was Mark Seidman?

When he found Mark Seidman, then the gun would be put to use.

James knocked again. Why hadn’t David drowned in Australia? If he had, this whole episode would be unnecessary. But David was alive, and as a result, he was still a threat to James’s family. James had come too far to lose everything now. Just one more little pull of the trigger. Just one more bullet searing through a skull. Then it would all be over.

T.C. came to the door. It was obvious from his appearance that he had been asleep. He pushed open the screen door and squinted through sleepy eyes.

“Dr. Ayars?”

“Can I speak to you a moment?” James asked. “It’s very important.”

T.C. stepped back. “Come on in.”

“No, this will only take a second.”

“Okay,” T.C. said. “What can I do for you?”

James licked his lips. “I need to speak to David.”

“Huh?”

“Please don’t play dumb with me. I know that David and Mark Seidman are one and the same. I’ve known for quite some time.”

“I don’t know what the hell—”

“Listen to me. I know David’s drowning was a fake. And I know why he did it. I don’t want to cause any trouble. I just want you to tell me where I can find him.”

T.C. said nothing.

“It’s a matter of life and death,” James urged. “Laura’s life is in danger. I have no interest in revealing his secret. I only want to talk to him.”

T.C. shrugged. “David is dead, Dr. Ayars—”

“Damn it! Judy has already been murdered. Stop playing games—”

“—but,” T.C. continued evenly, “if you just want to speak with Mark Seidman, he shoots baskets at the Boston Garden every morning from now until about eight a.m. He’s alone in there, if you need to talk to him.”

“Does he use the same side entrance David used to use?”

T.C. nodded.

“Thank you,” James said and turned to leave. Perfect. No one would be in the Garden this early. James could sneak up on David, put the gun against his head (just like he had done with David’s father), and fire.

And at long last it would be over.

James jogged back to his car. His hands were in his pockets—one touching his car keys, the other touching the weapon he would use in his next (and last) murder.

GLORIA chose not to read about May 30, 1960, right away. Judy’s journal was like a bad-tasting medicine that could be swallowed only in moderate doses—and May 29, 1960, had given Gloria more than a mouthful.

She put down the diary, walked into the kitchen, and poured herself a cup of coffee. She glanced out the window. Laura, too, had a view of the Charles River. Gloria remembered how much Stan had loved to look at that river, how he’d cherished the time he’d spent just staring out from the balcony. He was such a simple man really—a simple man who had turned down a few wrong paths and could never find his way out of the thicket. Gloria had found him there. She had begun to lead Stan into the clearing when someone had killed him.

Someone nothing. Her father had done it.

How? she wondered. How could a man full of love be such a monster underneath? She did not know the answer. She was not sure she wanted to know. She sipped her coffee, sat back on the couch, picked up the diary and read about—May 30, 1960.

Gloria’s eyes widened.

Blood . . .

Soon the words began to swim in front of her eyes. Her stomach contracted painfully. Images, horrible terrible images—Blood, there was so much blood . . .

—jerked her mind back and forth. Gloria’s darkest nightmare was coming to life, chasing after her with—blood . . .

—with a lust for destruction. She had been so young at the time, just a little girl, and mercifully she had never remembered what had happened.