“Well, we certainly met in the strangest way.” The detective listened as Lindsay chronicled the history of finding Hope after the car accident and the years Hope had spent building a new life. “She wanted to start over again where no one knew her history. She’d only been in East Hampton about a month.”

Lindsay pulled up a photograph on her phone. It was a selfie of her and Hope, an ocean view barely visible in the background of the close-up shot. “That’s the last picture I have of her—from when we visited East Hampton together, in fact.”

“She’s pretty.”

Lindsay felt her throat tighten as she glanced down at her screen. “I always joke that I want to do a Freaky Friday switch with her for one day—just to know what it feels like to be that beautiful.”

Lindsay knew that she was also attractive, to an extent. With shiny dark hair, pale skin, and bright blue eyes, she had a look that matched her Irish last name. She might be described as cute or pretty or—what had Scott’s mother called her? Delightful. But she wasn’t the kind of gorgeous that turned men stupid. Focusing on the woman across the table, she realized that Detective Ellie Hatcher probably knew what it was like to attract that kind of attention. On closer inspection, she concluded that the detective intentionally frumped herself up for the job. She knew from the profile she’d read that Ellie had put herself through college with prize money from midwestern beauty pageants.

When she stopped speaking, Lindsay was already prepared for an onslaught of skeptical questions. What if Hope faked the amnesia? Why was she in a stolen car? What if she simply decided to disappear and start all over again? All of the reasons Carter Decker had used to rationalize his indifference. Instead, Ellie asked if Lindsay had spoken to anyone who knew Hope on Long Island. When Lindsay got to the part about Hope sending a text message to Evan from the Stansfield house on Saturday night, a look of surprise crossed Ellie’s face. “This was two Saturdays ago?” she asked. “What time?”

“Ten thirty-three, to be exact.”

The answer seemed to bother the detective, but she said nothing more about it. She did, however, finally speak about the College Hill Strangler case.

“William Summer targeted women who were the sole adult in their household,” she said. “He called the victims his ‘projects.’ He’d spend weeks stalking them before closing in. He’d figure out their schedules, their habits. He’d watch through open windows, planning where he would position them once he was inside. What he would do to them. The kids, too, if that was the case. I’m sorry. That must be upsetting to hear.”