And she would give her address, to establish her identity as a fellow property owner, with all that that entailed of prohibitively high property taxes in Bergen County, which was, of all counties in the state, one of the most affluent, thus one in which the subject of taxes provided homeowners with an immediate subject with which to bond in sympathy—We live over on …

For a confused moment, not remembering: Was it Ridge Road? North Ridge?

Ringing the doorbell again, listening for a response. None.

Her forehead throbbed, her nose was leaking blood. If only she’d remembered to bring that damned cell phone with her!

Despite the prematurely balmy air, she was shivering. The sole of her left foot ached; she’d stepped on sharp stones.

Then recalling: there was surely a side entrance to the staid old Colonial, a door that led into a small vestibule and then into the kitchen.

Limping, favoring her shoeless foot, she followed a flagstone path around the side of the house, and there indeed was an entrance, as in her house. And here too was a doorbell, which she pressed with more confidence—in her own home she understood that whoever pressed the buzzer beside the kitchen door was likely to be someone familiar with her household, the FedEx deliveryman or the gas meter man or a friend; those who rang the front door were likely to be strangers, about whom a homeowner would naturally feel wary.

Are you hiding in there? Please—if you are hiding—I only need to make a phone call, you are under no obligation to help me further …

I am not injured. I am not bleeding! I promise.

I am your neighbor.

But no one came to answer this door, either. Abigail shaded her eyes to peer through the window: there was the vestibule, with coats, jackets, and sweaters on hooks, boots on the floor, exactly as in her house, and a doorway opening into a kitchen. Bars of sunshine fell slantwise on a tile floor not unlike her own, a deep russet brown. And hanging on an overhead rack, shining copper utensils.

“Hello? Hello? I—I’m in need of—help …”

It seemed to her that she was being observed. A surveillance camera eye, somewhere overhead. On the doorframe, a discreet notice, like one beside the kitchen door of her house: THESE PREMISES PROTECTED BY ACHILLES HOME SECURITY, INC.

Then she realized: whoever lived here surely kept a spare key outside somewhere, beneath the welcome mat or beneath a flowerpot or urn, as she did.