BETSY Hill sat on the floor of her son's room. She had Spencer's old cell phone in her hand. The battery was long dead. She just held it and stared at it and wasn't sure what to do.

The day after her son was found dead, she had found Ron starting to pack away this room-the same way he had packed away Spencer's kitchen chair. Betsy stopped him in no uncertain terms. There was bend, and there was break; even Ron could see the difference.

For days after the suicide, she would lie on this floor in a fetal position and sob. Her stomach hurt so much. She just wanted to die, that's all, just let the agony conquer and devour her. But it didn't. She put her hands on his bed, smoothing the sheets. She stuck her face in his pillow, but the scent was gone.

How could it have happened?

She thought about her conversation with Tia Baye, what it meant, what it ultimately could mean. Nothing really. In the end Spencer was dead. Ron was right on that count. Knowing the truth wouldn't change that or even help her heal. Knowing the truth wouldn't give her that damn word "closure," because, in truth, she didn't want it. What kind of mother-a mother who had already failed her child in so much-would want to move on, to stop hurting, to be given some kind of pass?

"Hey."

She looked up. Ron stood in the doorway. He tried to smile at her. She slipped the phone into her back pocket.

"You okay?" he asked.

"Ron?"

He waited.

"I need to find out what really happened that night."

Ron said, "I know you do."

"It won't bring him back," she said. "I know that. It won't even make us feel better. But I think we need to do it anyway."

"Why?" he asked.

"I don't know."

Ron nodded. He stepped into the room and started to bend toward her. For a moment she thought that he was going to wrap his arms around her, and her body stiffened at the thought. He stopped when he saw it, blinked, stood upright again.

"I better go," he said.

He turned and left. Betsy took the phone out of her pocket. She plugged in the charger and turned it on. Still clutching the phone, Betsy curled into the fetal position and cried again. She thought about her son in that same fetal position-was that hereditary too?- up on that cold hard roof.

She checked the phone log on Spencer's phone. There were no surprises. She had done this before, but not in several weeks. Spencer had called Adam Baye three times that night. He had last spoken to him an hour before the suicide text. That call had lasted only a minute. Adam had said that Spencer left him a garbled message. Now she wondered if that was a lie.

The police had found this phone on the roof next to Spencer's body.

She held it now and closed her eyes. She was half-asleep, lulling in that cusp between consciousness and awake, when she heard the phone ring. For a moment she thought that maybe it was Spencer's cell, but no, it was the house phone.

Betsy wanted to let it go into voice mail, but it might be Tia Baye. She managed to peel herself from the floor. There was a phone in Spencer's room. She checked the caller ID and saw an unfamiliar number.

"Hello?"

There was silence.

"Hello?"

Then a boy's voice choked with tears said, "I saw you and my mom on the roof."

Betsy sat up. "Adam?"

"I'm so sorry, Mrs. Hill."

"Where are you calling from?" she asked.

"A pay phone."

"Where?"

She heard more crying.

"Adam?"

"Spencer and I used to meet in your backyard. In those woods where you used to have the swing set. Do you know it?"

"Yes."

"I can meet you there."

"Okay, when?"

"Spencer and I liked it there because you can see anyone coming or going. If you tell someone, I'll spot them. Promise me you won't."

"I promise. When?"

"One hour."

"Okay."

"Mrs. Hill?"

"Yes?"

"What happened to Spencer," Adam said. "It was my fault."

A S soon as Mike and Tia turned onto their block, they could see the man with the long hair and those dirty fingernails pacing on their front lawn.

Mike said, "Isn't that Brett from your office?"

Tia nodded. "He was checking that e-mail for me. The one about the Huff party."

They pulled into the driveway. Susan and Dante Loriman were outside too. Dante waved. Mike waved back. He looked over at Susan. She forced up her hand and then moved toward her front door. Mike waved again and turned away. He had no time for this now.

His phone went off. Mike looked down at the number and frowned.

"Who is it?" Tia asked.

"Ilene," he said. "The feds questioned her too. I should take this."

She nodded. "I'll talk to Brett."

Tia got out of the car. Brett was still going back and forth, animated, talking to himself. She called out to him and he stopped.

"Someone is messing with your head, Tia," Brett said.

"How?"

"I need to go in and check Adam's computer to be sure."

Tia wanted to ask more, but that would just waste time. She opened the door and let Brett inside. He knew the way.

"Did you tell anyone about what I put on his computer?" he asked.

"About the spying program? No. Well, I mean, we did last night. With the police and everything."

"How about before that? Did you tell anyone?"

"No. It wasn't something Mike and I were very proud of. Oh, wait, our friend Mo."

"Who?"

"He's almost Adam's godfather. Mo would never hurt our son."

Brett shrugged. They were in Adam's room. The computer was on. Brett sat and started typing. He brought up Adam's e-mail and started running some kind of program. Symbols scrolled by. Tia watched without a clue.

"What are you trying to find?"

He tucked his stringy hair behind both ears and studied the screen. "Hold on. That e-mail you asked about was deleted, remember? I just want to see if he had some kind of timer send function, nope and then..." He stopped. "Wait... okay, yep."

"Yep what?"

"It's weird, that's all. You say Adam was out when he got the e-mail. But we know the e-mail was read at his computer, right?"

"Right."

"You have any candidates?"

"Not really. None of us were home."

"Because here's the interesting thing. Not only was the message read on Adam's computer, it was also sent from it."

Tia made a face. "So someone broke in, turned on his computer, sent him an e-mail from this computer about a party at the Huffs, opened it, and then deleted it?"

"That's pretty much what I'm saying."

"Why would someone do that?"

Brett shrugged. "Only reason I can come up with? To mess with your head."

"But no one knew about the E-SpyRight. Except Mike and me and Mo and"-her eyes tried to meet his, but his danced away-"you."

"Hey, don't look at me."

"You told Hester Crimstein."

"I'm sorry about that. But that's the only person who knows."

Tia wondered. And then she looked at Brett with his dirty finger- nails and the unshaven stubble and the hip albeit flimsy T-shirt and thought about how she had trusted this man she really didn't know all that well with this task-and how foolish that really was.

How did she know anything he was telling her was accurate?

He had shown her that she could sign in and get reports from as far away as Boston. How much of a stretch was it to assume that he had set up a password too, one so that he could get into the software and read the reports? How would she know? How would anyone know what was actually on the computer? Companies put on spy-ware so that they knew where you surfed. Stores give out those discount cards so they can keep track of what you buy. Lord knows what computer companies must have preloaded into your computer's hard drive. Search engines kept track of what you looked up and, with the simple cost of storage these days, never had to delete it.

Was it such a stretch to think Brett might know more than he said?

" HELLO?"

Ilene Goldfarb said, "Mike?"

Mike watched Tia and Brett enter the house. He pressed the phone up against his ear. "What's up?" he asked his partner.

"I talked to Susan Loriman about Lucas's biological father."

That surprised Mike. "When?"

"Today. She called me. We met at the diner."

"And?"

"And it's a dead end."

"The real father?"

"Yes."

"How so?"

"She wants it to be confidential."

"The name of the father? Too bad."

"Not the name of the father."

"What then?"

"She told me the reason why that particular avenue is not going to be helpful to us."

Mike said, "I'm not following."

"Just trust me here. She explained the situation to me. It's a dead end."

"I can't see how."

"Neither could I before Susan explained it to me."

"And she wants the reason kept confidential?"

"Correct."

"So I assume it is something embarrassing. That's why she spoke to you, not me."

"I wouldn't call it embarrassing."

"What would you call it?"

"You sound like you don't trust my judgment on this."

Mike switched ears. "Normally, Ilene, I would trust you with my life."

"But?"

"But I just got through being grilled by a joint task force of the DEA and U.S. Attorney's Office."

There was silence.

"They also spoke to you, didn't they?" Mike asked.

"They did."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"They were very specific. They said my talking to you would compromise an important federal investigation. They threatened me with hindering prosecution and losing my practice, if I said anything to you."

Mike said nothing.

"Keep in mind," Ilene went on, an edge in her voice now, "that my name is on those prescription pads too."

"I know."

"What the hell is going on, Mike?"

"It's a long story."

"Did you do what they said?"

"Please tell me you're not seriously asking me that."

"They showed me our prescription pads. They gave me a list of what was prescribed. None of those people are our patients. Hell, half that stuff prescribed we never use."

"I know."

"This is my career too," she said. "I started this practice. You know what this means to me."

There was something in her voice, something wounded beyond the obvious. "I'm sorry, Ilene. I'm trying to sort through it all too."

"I think I'm owed a little more than 'it's a long story.' "

"The truth is, I don't really know what's up. Adam is missing. I need to find him."

"What do you mean, missing?"

He quickly filled her in. When he finished, Ilene said, "I hate to ask the obvious question."

"Then don't."

"I don't want lose my practice, Mike."

"It's our practice, Ilene."

"True. So if there is anything I can do to help find Adam..." she began.

"I'll let you know."

NASH stopped the van in front of Pietra's apartment in Hawthorne.

They needed time apart. He could see that. The cracks were starting to show. They would always be somehow connected-not in the way he had been with Cassandra, not even close. But there was something there, some draw that brought them back time and time again. It probably started out as some sort of payback, gratitude for rescuing her in that awful place, but in the end, maybe she hadn't wanted to be saved. Maybe his rescuing her had been a curse and now he was her obligation rather than vice versa.

Pietra looked out the window. "Nash?"

"Yes?"

She put her hand up to her neck. "Those soldiers who slaughtered my family. All of those unspeakable things they did to them. To me..."

She stopped.

"I'm listening," he said.

"Do you think those soldiers were all killers and rapists and tor- turers-and even if there was no war, they would have done things like that?"

Nash said nothing.

"The one we found was a baker," she said. "We used to go to his store. My whole family. He smiled. He gave out lollipops."

"What's your point?"

"If there was no war," Pietra said, "they would have just lived their lives. They would have been bakers or blacksmiths or carpenters. They would not have been killers."

"And do you think that's true of you too?" he asked. "That you would have just gone on being an actress?"

"I'm not asking about me," Pietra said. "I'm asking about those soldiers."

"Okay, fine. If I follow your logic, you think the pressures of war explain their behavior."

"You don't?"

"I don't."

Her head slowly swiveled in his direction. "Why not?"

"Your argument is that the war forced them to act in a way that was not in their nature."

"Yes."

"But maybe it is just the opposite," he said. "Maybe the war freed them to be their true selves. Maybe it is society, not war, that forces man to act in a way that's not in his true nature."

Pietra opened the door and got out. He watched her disappear into the building. He put the car in drive and started for his next destination. Thirty minutes later, he parked on a side street between two houses that appeared empty. He didn't want the van to be seen in the parking lot.

Nash put on the fake mustache and a baseball cap. He walked three blocks to the large brick building. It appeared abandoned. The front door, Nash was sure, would be locked. But one side door had a matchbook jammed into the opening. He pulled it open and started down the stairs.

The corridor was covered with children's artwork, paintings mostly. A bulletin board had essays hung up. Nash stopped and read a few. They were by third graders, and all the stories were about them. That was how kids were taught nowadays. Think only "me." You are fascinating. You are unique and special and no one but no one is ordinary, which, when you think about it, makes everyone ordinary.

He turned into the classroom on the lower level. Joe Lewiston sat cross-legged on the floor. He had papers in his hands and tears in his eyes. He looked up when Nash entered.

"It's not working," Joe Lewiston said. "She's still sending the e-mails."