“That’s not fair,” I said as he pulled into my driveway and came to an abrupt stop. “Lucy never meant it that way. She never meant to be disloyal, to hurt me.”

I lifted the handle of my door.

“At this point, it don’t matter what she meant.”

He blew smoke out his window.

“How did Carrie get out?” I asked. “Kirby’s on an island and not easily accessible.”

“No one knows. About three hours ago, she was supposed to go down to dinner with all the other lovely ladies, and that’s when the guards realized she was gone. Boom, no sign of her, and about a mile away there’s an old footbridge that goes over the East River into Harlem.”

He tossed the cigarette butt on my driveway.

“All anyone can figure is maybe she got off the island that way. Cops are everywhere, and they got choppers out to make sure she’s not still hiding somewhere on the island. But I don’t think so. I think she’s planned this for a while and timed it exactly. We’ll hear from her, all right. You can bet on that.”

I was deeply unsettled when I went inside my house and checked every door and set the alarm. I then did something that was rare and unnerving for me. I got my Glock nine-millimeter pistol from a drawer in my office and secured every closet in every room, on each floor. I stepped into each doorway, the pistol firm in both hands as my heart hammered. By now Carrie Grethen had become a monster with supernatural powers. I had begun to imagine that she could evade any security system, and would glide out of the shadows when I was feeling safe and unaware.

There seemed to be no presence in my two-story stone house but me, and I carried a glass of red burgundy into my bedroom and got into my robe. I called Wesley again and felt a chill when he did not pick up the phone. I tried once more at almost midnight, and still he did not answer.

“Dear God,” I said, alone in my room.

Lamplight was soft and cast shadows from antique dressers and tables that had been stripped down to old gray oak, because I liked flaws and the stress marks of time. Pale rose draperies stirred as air flowed out from vents, and every movement unglued me more, no matter the explanation. With each passing moment, my brain was further overruled by fear as I tried to repress images from the past I shared with Carrie Grethen. I hoped Benton would call. I told myself he was okay and that what I needed was sleep. So I tried to read Seamus Heaney’s poetry and dozed off somewhere in the middle of The Spoonbait. The phone rang at twenty minutes past two A.M., and my book slid to the floor.