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difficult to spot the place; a bright strand of crime scene tape was still snagged in a tangle of brush. She recognized the riverside bench and the same overarching pair of trees she’d seen in the death scene photos. Parallel gouges in the soil marked the trail of the stretcher that had borne the body up the riverbank, and she stared down at the disturbed earth, which marked the comings and goings of crime scene personnel.
    According to the autopsy report, Scanlon had been attacked on the paved path. His body was then rolled down the steep bank and had landed just short of the river’s edge, where the stones were stained brown. That’s where he bled to death, she thought. But here, on this path where she now stood, was where he had been stabbed.
    She closed her eyes and tried to imagine this spot as it would have looked in the dark. Tried to dredge up some memory of being here. Of holding a knife and plunging it, again and again, into flesh.
    The snap of a twig made her eyes fly open. She turned and saw, a few dozen yards away, a man standing among the trees. Had he been there all along? In her single-minded pursuit of the death location, had she simply missed seeing him? All at once she noticed how silent it was on this isolated stretch of the riverwalk. No joggers, no strolling couples. Only her and this man, who was now gazing at her through the trees.
    He started toward her, and as he passed from shadow into sunlight, she saw that his hair was gray, and he had the gait of someone with a bad hip. No longer fearful, she remained where she was as the man slowly made his way toward her.
    “Are you with the police?” he called out.
    “No. No, I just came to see …”
    “You heard about it, then. A man was killed here Saturday night. It’s been all over the news.” He came to a stop beside her, his gaze on the river below. “To think it happened right down there.”
    She studied him, and suddenly realized why he looked familiar. “You’re Harry O’Brien,” she said.
    Startled, he looked straight at her, and she thought she saw a similar flash of recognition in his eyes. But that was impossible; they had never met.
    “How do you know my name?” he asked.
    “I know your daughter was one of his victims.” She gestured down the riverbank, where Scanlon’s body had been found. “I read the article in the Globe . How you threatened him, after she …” Her voice trailed off.
    He finished the painful thought for her. “After she killed herself.”
    “I’m so sorry, Mr. O’Brien. I can’t imagine how horrible it is to lose a child.”
    “No one can. Until it happens. Then it’s all you think about, all you feel.” He stared down at the river. “I came here to spit on his grave. Does that make me evil?”
    “It makes you a grieving father.”
    He nodded, and his thin shoulders slumped. “It doesn’t feel as good as I thought it would, knowing he’s dead. All I feel is … relief.” He looked at her, and once again she felt that strange shock of recognition. Somehow I know this man. And I think he knows me . “Why are you here?” he asked.
    “I wanted to see where he died.”
    “Did you know him?” He paused. Asked, quietly: “Did the bastard hurt you, too?”
    She didn’t respond, but she felt certain he could see the answer in her face. Yes, he hurt me. The question is: Did I hurt him?
    “Savor this moment,” he said. “The death of monsters should always be celebrated. I was afraid I wouldn’t live to see it, but here I am. While he burns in hell.”
    Those last three words jolted a nerve of recognition. Not just the words, but the voice, deep with rage. She had heard it before.
    “Excuse me,” she murmured, backing away.
    He looked straight at her, his eyes fixed on her face. Seeing too much.
    A pair of joggers came around the bend, huffing toward them. That’s when Maura made her escape. Swiftly she walked away, heading back to Leverett Pond. Toward other people. Only once did