D.D. sighed. They had seized Wayne’s computer, with the forensic techs recovering a fair number of e-mails between the state geek and the beautiful social studies teacher. No smoking gun, per se, but more e-mail volume than one would expect in a strictly platonic relationship. And true to Sandra’s assertion, all e-mails from her ceased five days before her disappearance, while Wayne’s computer showed dozens and dozens of IMs sent by him to her, trying to get her attention.

“I want to arrest someone,” D.D. muttered. “Preferably Jason Jones.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. But a guy that cool and collected has skeletons buried somewhere.”

“You thought the same thing of Aidan Brewster,” her supervisor reminded her mildly, “and in the end, he had nothing to do with anything.”

D.D. expelled her breath. “I know. Just makes you wonder how the hell we’re supposed to know who the real monsters are anymore.”

My husband came home from the hospital today.

Ree prepared a huge banner for him. It took her three days to make it, covering the white butcher paper with pictures of rainbows and butterflies and three smiling stick figures. She’d even included an orange cat with six gigantic whiskers. Welcum Home Daddy! the banner read.

We hung it in the living room, above the green love seat, where Jason would get to recuperate for the next few weeks.

Ree positioned her sleeping bag next to the sofa. I set up my own nest of pillows and blankets. We camped out the first four days, a haggard little trio needing to wake up each morning and see one another’s faces. Day five, Ree declared she’d had enough of camping and returned to her bedroom.

Just like that, we moved on with our lives. Ree returned to preschool. I finished out the school year. Jason picked up several freelance gigs for various magazines, while his ribs finished knitting together and his in-sides healed.

The press had to get in its digs. I was cast as Boston’s very own Helen of Troy, a woman whose beauty led to great tragedy. I don’t agree. Helen started a war. I ended one.

The police continued to sniff around. The loss of our computer bothered them and I could tell from the look on the sergeant’s face that she didn’t consider the matter closed.

I got to take a polygraph where I told the absolute truth: I had no idea what had happened to our hard drive. The Boston Daily offices? Ethan’s possible involvement? It was a mystery to me. I hadn’t moved the computer and I certainly hadn’t coached Ethan in the matter.