Maybe he was crazy, but he didn’t think so, and he knew that behind Tritia’s logical arguments she didn’t either. He still thought he should go to the police and tell them what he knew, or what he suspected, but he was willing to hold off for her sake. She was right. News spread in a small town, and if he happened to be wrong, if the mailman was just a normal man with pale skin and red hair, he would forever be branded a nut. In the back of his mind, though, was the nagging thought that someone else might be in danger, that by remaining silent and passive he might allow something else to happen, and he was determined to keep his eyes and ears open for anything unusual, anything out of the ordinary, and to report everything to the police if he suspected that anyone was going to be hurt or injured. Or killed.

They moved up and down the aisles of the store, Tritia going through the coupons, reading aloud from the shopping list, Doug taking the items from the shelves and putting them into the cart.

“Mr. Albin!”

Doug put a box of cornflakes into the cart and looked up. A tan young woman wearing tight shorts, a tight T-shirt, and no bra waved at him from down the aisle. She smiled, radiant teeth lighting up her pretty face. He knew she was an ex-student, though he could not immediately place her, and he tried desperately to connect a name with the face as she walked up the aisle toward him.

“Giselle Brennan,” she said. “Composition. Two years ago. You probably don’t remember me—”

“Of course I remember you,” he said, and now he did, although he was surprised at himself. Giselle had been one of those fringe students who had shown up for class only when she felt like it and had barely eked out a C for the semester. Not the type of student he ordinarily remembered. “How are you doing?”

“Fine,” she said.

“I haven’t seen you around for a while.”

“Yeah, well, I moved to Los Angeles, worked as a temp in a law office while I went to school part-time, but I didn’t really like it much. Los Angeles, I mean. Too crowded, too smoggy, too everything. I’m back here visiting my parents right now.” She smiled brightly at him. “The place seems to have weirded out since I left.”

Was it that obvious? Doug wondered. Could even an outsider sense it?

Giselle gestured toward Tritia. “Is this your wife?”

“Yes. This is Tritia.”

Tritia nodded politely. “Hello.”

“Hi.” Giselle beamed. “You know, your husband’s a really good teacher. I bet you’re really proud of him. I never liked English much—I was always more of a math person—but I sure enjoyed his class.”

“But did you learn anything?” Doug joked.