I weighed the risks of coming forward, of calling the police, of turning this purse over to them. I had a wife, two children, a house, a so-so writing career. Wouldn’t doing the right thing—if it even was the right thing—put everything I’d worked for, our lives as we’d come to know them, in jeopardy? I couldn’t do anything now to save Stefanie Knight, but I could pull myself together, start thinking rationally, and at least save myself and my family from untold horrors and embarrassment.

Get a grip.

I had a book to finish. It was time to focus, to put these last couple of hours aside. Isn’t that what Clinton used to do? Hadn’t I read about how the former President compartmentalized his problems? How he could meet with the lawyers about the Monica Lewinsky problem, discuss testimony he’d have to give before the Starr inquiry that could potentially see him removed from office, then get up and walk down the hall and give his full attention to a discussion of the Mideast situation?

Sure. That was me. Clintonesque.

I took another deep breath. I shoveled everything of Stefanie Knight’s back into the purse, zipped it up, and put it back in the shoe bag. Maybe, with Angie gone to the mall, and Paul no doubt down in the basement with his friends playing video games, I would have a moment to start destroying evidence.

And maybe once I’d finished doing that, I could turn my attention to work.

Out of habit, I fired up the computer. Before I brought up the word-processing program where I stored the chapters of my novel, I thought I’d check and see whether I had any mail.

I clicked on the mailbox icon.

I had two messages. The first was from Tom Darling.

“Nd 2 tlk abt cvr art. Cll me tmrrw so we cn set up mtng wth art dpt.”

The business of books and editing and cover designs seemed awfully distant right about now. Like news from a past life. How long would it take to stop being haunted by what I’d seen tonight? Days? Weeks? Would I ever be able to forget the sight of Stefanie Knight’s head smashed in, a bloody shovel at her side?

I didn’t recognize the name of the sender of the second e-mail. It would have been pretty hard to. It was a string of numbers, followed by @hotmail.com. Every once in a while I got fan mail. Readers could find my address by doing an Internet search and linking up with the writers’ union website.

I opened it. It was a short note, with no name at the end, and it didn’t appear to be a fan letter. It read:

“Dear Mr. Walker: I’m looking for something I think you got. Don’t do something stupid and give it to some body else.”

Chapter 15

15