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How did they seem?
    S          They were always very pleasant.
    IO Did you ever observe any problems? Arguments, raised voices, anything of the sort?
    S          No, never.
    IO Were they ever in any kind of difficulty that you were aware of? Money, for example?
    S          No, not that I know. We never really spent that much time together, as I said. They were always very pleasant, very happy. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a couple happier.
    IO What, precisely, made you go over to the Thorpe residence this morning?
    S          The baby.
    IO I’m sorry?
    S          The baby. She was crying, wouldn’t stop. The baby had never cried before. I thought maybe something was wrong.
    IO Describe, for the tape, what you found, please.
    S          I—I went in the kitchen door. The baby was there.
    IO In the kitchen?
    S          No, in the hallway. The hallway leading from the dining room.
    IO Ms. Bowman, please describe everything you saw and heard. In detail, please.
    S          Okay. I could see the baby, ahead, past the kitchen. She was screaming, her face was red. There weren’t any lights on, but it was a bright morning, I could see everything clearly. There was some kind of opera playing.
    IO Playing where?
    S          On the stereo. But the baby was crying so loudly. I could barely think. I moved ahead to comfort her. That’s when the living room came into view. That’s when I saw . . . oh, God . . .
[TRANSCRIPT PAUSES]
    IO Take as long as you need, Ms. Bowman. You’ll find tissue to your right, on the table, there.

    Lash put the transcript aside. He didn’t need to read any more: he knew exactly what it was Maureen Bowman saw.
    I don’t think I’ve ever seen a couple happier
. It was just about the same thing, word for word, Lindsay Thorpe’s father had told him, with those hollow, haunted eyes, at the restaurant in New London. The same thing everybody had told him since.
    What had gone wrong with this couple? What had happened?
    Lash’s experience with pathology had two very distinct periods: first as a forensic psychologist with the FBI, studying violence after the fact; and then later, as a specialist in private practice, working with people to make sure violence never became a necessary option. He had worked very hard to keep the two worlds separate. Yet here in this house he felt them drawing together.
    He dropped his gaze to the other envelope: the one imprinted
Property of Eden Inc. Proprietary and Confidential
. He unwound the sealing thread, opened the flap. Inside were two unlabeled videotapes. Lash slid them out, balanced one in each hand for a moment. Then he rose and walked to the television console. He turned it on, inserted one of the tapes.
    A date resolved on the black screen, followed by a long scroll of numbers. And then a face appeared suddenly, larger than life: brown hair, penetrating hazel eyes, handsome. It was Lewis Thorpe, and he was smiling.
    The first step in any application to Eden was to sit before a camera and answer two questions. Besides the scant biographical information, these initial tapes of the Thorpes were the only material Mauchly had supplied him with.
    Lash turned his attention to the tape. He had watched it and its mate several times before. Here in the Thorpes’ own house he would watch them one last time, in hopes the surroundings would somehow render up the connection that so far had eluded him. It seemed a vain hope, but he was running out of options—and spending a lot more time—than he had ever intended.
    â€œWhy are you here?” an off-camera voice was asking.
    Lewis Thorpe had a frank, disarming smile. “I’m here because something is missing in my