thought. She believed herself strong.
Ashley walked into her bedroom and got dressed. She had the urge to wear something new, something different, something that wasn’t familiar. She shoved her computer into the backpack, then checked to see if she had cash in her wallet. Her plan for the day was more or less the same as always: some studying in the library wing of the museum amid the stacks of art history books, before heading over to her job. She had more than one paper that needed massaging, and she thought to herself that immersing herself in texts and prints and reproductions of great visions would help get her mind off Michael O’Connell.
Certain that she had everything she needed, she grabbed her keys and thrust open the door to the corridor.
Then she stopped.
She looked down and felt a sudden, awful coldness creep through her. Ice seemed to choke her throat.
Taped to the wall opposite her door were a dozen roses.
Dead roses. Wilted and decrepit.
As she stared, a bloodred petal almost blackened by age dropped off and fluttered to the floor, as if driven there not by a breath of wind, but by the mere force of Ashley’s gaze. She fixed her eyes helplessly on the display.
Scott sat at his desk in his small office at the college, twiddling a pencil between the fingers of his right hand, pondering how one intrudes on the life of one’s nearly grown-up child without being obvious. If Ashley were still a teenager, or younger, he could have used a natural blustery forcefulness, demanding her to tell him what he wanted, even if he caused tears and insults and all sorts of standard parent-child dynamics. Ashley was right in that half age between youth and adulthood, and he was at a loss precisely how to proceed. And every second that he delayed doing something, his sense of concern doubled.
He needed to be subtle, but efficient.
Surrounding him were history texts on shelves and a cheaply framed reproduction of the Declaration of Independence. At least three photographs of Ashley rode the corner of his desk and the wall across from where he sat. The most striking was of her in a high school basketball game, her face intense, her red-blond ponytail flying, as she leapt up and seized the ball from two opponents. He had one other photo, but he kept it in the top drawer of his desk. It was a picture taken of him when he was just twenty years old, just a little younger than his daughter was now. He was sitting on an ammunition box, next to a glistening stack of shells, right behind the 125-millimeter howitzer. His helmet was at his feet, and he was smoking a cigarette, which, given the proximity of so much explosive ordnance, was probably a poor idea. He had an exhausted, vacant look on his face. Scott sometimes thought the photo was probably his only real remembrance of the time he’d spent in the war. He had had it framed, then kept it secret. He did not even think that he’d ever shown the picture to Sally, even when Ashley was due and they thought they were still in love. For a moment, he wondered if he could remember a time when Sally had ever asked him about his time in the war. Scott shifted about in his seat. Thinking about his past made him nervous. He liked considering other people’s history, not his own.
Scott rocked back and forth.
In his imagination, he began to replay the words of the letter. As he did so, he had an idea.
One of the both good and bad qualities that Scott possessed was an inability to throw away cards and slips of paper with names and phone numbers. A slight pack-rat-type obsession. It took him nearly a half hour of rummaging about in desk drawers and file cabinets, but he finally found what he was seeking. He hoped the cell phone number was still accurate.
On the third ring, he heard a slightly familiar voice. “Hello?”
“Is this Susan Fletcher?”
“Yes, who is this?”
“Susan, this is Scott Freeman, Ashley’s father…you remember from freshman and sophomore year…”
There was a momentary hesitation, then a brightening on the other end. “Mr. Freeman, of course, it’s been a couple of years.”
“Time really passes fast, doesn’t it?”
“Sure does. Gosh, how’s Ashley? I haven’t seen her in months and months.”
“Actually, that’s why I’m calling.”
“Is there a problem?”
Scott hesitated. “There might be.”
Susan Fletcher was a whirlwind sort of young woman, always balancing a half dozen ideas and plans between her head, her desktop, and her computer. She was small, dark-haired, intense almost to a fault, and endlessly energetic. She had been scooped up by First Boston as soon as she had graduated and worked in their financial planning division.
She stood in front of her cubicle window, staring out, watching as airplane after airplane descended into Logan Airport. She had been a little unsettled by her conversation with Scott Freeman and wasn’t precisely sure how to proceed, although she had reassured him that she would take charge of the situation.
Susan liked Ashley, although it had been nearly two years since they’d actually spoken. They had been tossed together as roommates freshman year in college, a little astonished at how different they were, then even more astonished when they discovered they got along quite well. They’d stuck together for a second year, before each had moved off campus. This had resulted in significantly less contact, though when they had managed to get together, it had been marked by a singular sense of comfort and laughter. They now shared little in common; if she used the bridesmaid’s test-would she choose Ashley to be in her wedding party?-the answer was no. But she felt a great deal of affection for her onetime roommate. At least, she thought she did.
She glanced over toward the telephone.
For some reason that she couldn’t quite determine, she was uneasy about what Ashley’s father had asked of her. On the simplest level, it was more than a little like spying. On the other hand, it could be nothing more than some misguided paternal concern. She could make a phone call, be reassured, call Scott Freeman back, and everyone could get on with whatever they were doing. And the added benefit would be getting in touch with a friend, which was rarely a bad idea.
If there was some irritated fallout, it would be between Ashley and her father. So, with only the smallest of misgivings, she seized her desk phone, glanced out one final time at the first streaks of darkness slicing across the harbor, and dialed Ashley’s phone.
It rang five times before being picked up, right to the moment when Susan thought she was going to have to leave a message.
“Yes?”
Her friend’s voice was curt, which surprised Susan. “Hey, free-girl, how’s it going?” She used Ashley’s freshman-year nickname with a soft familiarity. The only course they had ever taken together had been a first-year seminar on women in the twentieth century, and they had agreed, after a couple of beers one night, that free- man was sexist and inappropriate, free- woman sounded pretentious, while free- girl fit pretty well.
Ashley waited on the street outside the Hammer and Anvil, jacket collar pulled up against the wind, feeling cold seeping through the pavement into her shoes. She knew she was a couple of minutes early. Susan was never late. It simply wasn’t in her nature to be delayed. Ashley glanced down at her watch, and as she did, she heard a car horn blare from the street just beyond where she was standing.
Susan Fletcher’s beaming grin penetrated the early night as she rolled down the window. “Hey, free-girl!” she shouted with genuine enthusiasm. “You didn’t think I’d keep you waiting, did you? Go in and get us a table. I’m gonna park up the street. Be two minutes, max.”
Ashley gave a wave and watched as Susan peeled away from the curb. Pretty fancy new car, Ashley thought. Red. She saw Susan pull into a Park and Lock a block away and then went into the restaurant.
Susan drove up to the third level, where there were far fewer cars and she could pull the new Audi into a space where it was unlikely anyone else would park next to her and ding the door. The car was only two weeks old, half a present from her proud parents, half a present to herself, and she was damned if she
