‘Let’s get this open,’ he directs.

A member of the team approaches with a crow bar. He’s obviously done this before – the boot pops open. They all look inside.

There’s a woman there. She’s lying on her back with her legs folded up to one side, fully clothed, in jeans and a sweater. She’s white, probably late twenties, long brown hair. Webb notes the wedding ring and the diamond engagement ring on her finger. He can see that she has been savagely beaten. Her skin is pale and waxy and her one remaining eye is wide open. She looks up at him as if she’s asking for help. He can tell that she was beautiful.

‘Christ,’ Webb says under his breath.

Chapter Four

CARMINE TORRES RISES early Monday morning. Sunlight is beginning to filter through the front windows and into the entryway as she makes her way down the stairs, anticipating her first cup of coffee. She’s halfway down when she sees it. A white envelope lying all by itself on the dark hardwood floor just inside the front door. How odd. It wasn’t there last night when she went up to bed. Must be junk mail, she thinks, in spite of the NO JUNK MAIL sign she has displayed outside. But junk mail doesn’t usually get delivered late at night.

She walks over to the envelope and picks it up. There’s nothing written on it. She considers tossing it into the recycle bin without opening it, but she’s curious, and tears it open casually as she walks into the kitchen.

But as soon as her eyes fall on the letter inside, she stops and stands completely still.

She reads:

This is a very difficult letter to write. I hope you will not hate us too much. There is no easy way to say this, so I will just spell it out.

My son broke into your home recently while you were out. Yours was not the only home he snuck into. I know that’s not much comfort. He swears he didn’t steal anything. I’ve searched his room very thoroughly and I’m pretty sure he’s telling the truth about that. He says he just looked around. He was very careful and didn’t break or damage anything. You probably don’t even know he was there. But I feel I have to let you know that he snooped in your computer – he’s very good with computers – and admits that he wrote some prank emails from someone’s account. He wouldn’t tell me the content of those emails – I think he is too embarrassed – but I feel that you should know. I would hate for them to cause you any trouble.

I am mortified by his behaviour. I’m sorry that he can’t apologize to you in person. I can’t tell you my name, or his name, because his father is worried that it will leave our son open to criminal charges. But please believe me when I tell you that we are all deeply sorry and ashamed of his behaviour. Teenage boys can be a handful.

Please accept this apology and I assure you that it will never happen again. My son has faced serious consequences for his actions at home.

I just wanted you to know that it happened, and that we are deeply sorry.

Carmine lifts her eyes from the page, appalled. Someone broke into her house? What an introduction to the neighbourhood. She’s only lived here for a couple of months; she’s still getting used to the place, trying to make friends.

She’s not happy about the letter. It makes her feel unsettled. It’s awful to think that someone was inside her house creeping around, going through her things, getting into her computer, without her even knowing. She’ll look around and make sure nothing’s missing – she’s not going to take this woman’s word for it. And she’d better check her computer for any sent emails that she didn’t write herself. The more she thinks about it the more upset she gets. She feels invaded.

Carmine wanders into the kitchen and starts making coffee. As upset as she is, she can’t help feeling sorry for the woman who wrote the letter. How awful for her, she thinks. But she’d love to know who it was.

Robert Pierce stops at the bottom of his stairs, staring at the plain white envelope on the floor in his front hall. Someone must have pushed it through the slot while he was upstairs in bed last night.

He steps forward slowly, his bare feet making no sound on the hardwood floor. He reaches down and picks up the envelope, turning it over. There’s nothing written on it at all.

He opens the envelope and pulls out the single sheet of paper, then reads the letter in disbelief. It’s unsigned. Reaching the end of it, he looks up, seeing nothing. Someone has been inside his house.

Sinking down onto the bottom stair, he reads the letter again. Some teenager, messing about. He can’t believe it.

He sits for a long time, thinking he might have a problem.

Raleigh goes to school on Monday morning, relieved to get out of the house.

He’s also feeling completely disconnected – he hasn’t been online all weekend. He feels almost blind without his cell phone. He has no way to reach anyone, to make plans, to know what’s going on. He feels like a bat without radar. Or sonar. Or whatever. He has to hope he runs into Mark in the hall or in the cafeteria, because they don’t have any classes together today.

But then he finds Mark waiting for him by his locker. Of course Mark will have figured it out.

‘Parents take your phone?’ Mark asks, as Raleigh opens his locker.

‘Yeah.’ His anger at his friend’s stupidity had subsided as he recalled that he’d probably sent equally stupid texts to him. Plus, he needs a friend right now.

‘Why? What’d you do?’

Raleigh leans in closer. ‘Those texts you sent – my mom saw them. They know.’

Mark looks alarmed. ‘Shit! Sorry.’

Raleigh is very sorry now that he ever, in a moment of bravado, told Mark what he was doing. He’d been showing off. But now he wishes he’d kept his mouth shut.

Raleigh glances over his shoulder to see if anyone can hear them. He lowers his voice. ‘Now they’re taking me to see a lawyer to decide what to do. My own parents are considering turning me in!’

‘No way. They wouldn’t do that. They’re your parents.’

‘Yeah, well, they’re pretty pissed off.’ Raleigh shrugs off his backpack.

‘See you after school?’ Mark asks, obviously worried.

‘Sure. Meet me here after last class.’ He grabs his books. ‘I fucking hate not having a phone.’

Olivia has work to do, but she can’t focus. She works from home as a copy editor of educational textbooks. She has enough work to keep her moderately busy, but not overly so, so that she can manage the house and family. It’s a satisfactory, but not particularly fulfilling, arrangement. Sometimes she daydreams about doing something completely different. Maybe she’ll become a real estate agent, or work in a gardening shop. She has no idea, but the thought of change is appealing.

Olivia had been too distracted to work, waiting for Paul to call her about when they’re meeting the lawyer. And now that she’s learned that it will be today she can’t think about anything else. She hesitates, but then picks up her phone and calls Glenda Newell.

Glenda picks up on the second ring. She works from home, too, putting together fancy gift baskets for a local business a few hours a week. She’s usually up for coffee if Olivia calls. ‘Do you want to meet at the Bean for coffee?’ Olivia asks. She can hear the tension in her own voice, although she’s trying to keep it light. ‘I could use a talk.’