Hope nodded. “At least, I think so. I didn’t know that at the time. I mean, I didn’t even know for sure that anyone was following me, let alone who the guy was. I just sensed that I was being watched one night, but the cottage feels like a fishbowl without the curtains drawn, especially after living at the Becketts’ for so many years.” In New Jersey, Hope had lived in a second-floor garage apartment behind the main house on a wooded lot, whereas her current rental was only feet from the sidewalk, with no privacy. “Anyway, one time I got creeped out and saw a white pickup out there. And then another time, I thought I saw the same truck parked outside while I was getting a haircut, and I thought he looked a little familiar, but I wasn’t sure.”

“That was the last entry in your journal,” Lindsay said. “I was convinced the guy had you locked in a basement or something. I’ve basically been going crazy. Why didn’t you tell me when it was happening?”

“Because I didn’t want to worry you. You’ve got to understand that the only place I can remember living is little tiny Hopewell. I’m not used to all these people, or to every single face belonging to a stranger. And I knew how much you disapproved of my decision to move here, and I assumed it was just my imagination going wild. I thought if I said anything to you, you’d drive out here and convince me to go back home.”

She wasn’t wrong. Lindsay realized she had broken her own practice of letting a client or a witness give their complete account of the facts, uninterrupted, before asking follow-up questions. “I get it. So then what happened?”

“I had an open house to stage in Sagaponack. I was in the house alone.”

“Two Saturdays ago? The Stansfield house?” Another violation of her usual protocol, but she wanted to make sure they were talking about the same night.

“Yeah. How do you know—”

“I’ll explain. Just go on.”