Grant stares at him, trying to wrap his head around the question. “But, Peter, the Sender can’t be in Russia. Someone is leaving stuff for me here, now, in the tree. Money. Jewelry. A hacker in Russia can’t do that. So it has to be a trick.” He tells Peter about the money and the bracelet. He pulls the bracelet from his pocket.

Peter stares at it as if fascinated. Then he hands it back to Grant. “Be careful with that. It looks real.”

“Why would someone do this?” Grant said.

“Don’t know. But let’s set up a trap for them,” Peter says. “Never mind all these high-powered computers. If someone tied to this is here in the neighborhood, let’s just catch them in the act.”

The laptop pings. A new email arriving, from the Gmail address.

“The Sender is emailing you again,” Peter says.

“Should I open it?”

“Live fast,” Peter says.

Grant opens the email: Ask them for the journal. Ask them for the truth.

32

Iris

Iris always faces a challenge when at a school event or neighborhood gathering: people want to talk to her. It’s hard for her to move quickly across a crowd. There’s another fundraiser to discuss, a choir activity requiring parent chaperones, a meeting. Grant and Julia used to roll their eyes and complain about this. Now she gets stopped by people wanting to know how to help Ned, or help Julia, or just ask how she is holding up, or to thank her for the kind words she said about Danielle.

Stepping outside, she sees the Butlers get into a car and drive off. Fine. She’ll give them time to get home. She says her final goodbye and drives back to her house, watching the shadows in this neighborhood that she always thought was her refuge from the world, her safety net.

Then, having figured out which house is the Butlers’ since she knows the neighbors on each side, she walks down and knocks on their front door.

Carrie Butler answers the door. She doesn’t seem surprised to see Iris.

“Mrs. Butler?”

“Mrs. Pollitt,” Carrie Butler says.

“You know who I am.”

“My husband told me your name after your daughter found Danielle.”

“May we talk?”

“What about?”

“That you knew Danielle before you moved here.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” Her voice is reedy, thin, but even. Not rattled.

“You got turned down for adoption and you blamed her.”

“Come in,” Carrie Butler says. “I can straighten this out.”

In the silence she could hear a television being muted.

Then the husband, Steve, standing in the foyer’s doorway. He’s holding a gun. Not aimed at her, but pointed at the floor.

“Mrs. Pollitt.” He nods.

Iris stares at the gun. He sets it in a drawer of a table and slides the drawer shut. “It’s for the neighborhood watch. I have duty tonight until 2:00 a.m.”