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just kept looking at the woman's face. She didn't know the wheres or whens or hows, but she now realized something with thudding certainty.
    Grace had seen this young woman before.

Chapter 4
    Rocky Conwell took up post by the Lawson residence.
    He tried to get comfortable in his 1989 Toyota Celica, but that was impossible. Rocky was too big for this piece-of-crap car. He pulled harder on that damned seat lever, nearly ripping it out, but the seat would go back no farther. It would have to do. He settled in and let his eyes start to close.
    Man, was Rocky tired. He was working two jobs. The first, his steady gig to impress his parole officer, was a ten-hour shift on the Budweiser assembly line in Newark. The second, sitting in this damn car and staring at a house, was strictly off the books.
    Rocky jerked up when he heard a noise. He picked up his binoculars. Damn, someone had started up the minivan. He focused in. Jack Lawson was on the move. He lowered the binoculars, shifted into drive, and prepared to follow.
    Rocky needed two jobs because he needed cash in a big, bad way. Lorraine, his ex, was making overtures about a possible reconciliation. But she was still skittish about it. Cash, Rocky knew, could tip the balance in his favor. He loved Lorraine. He wanted her back in a big, bad way. He owed her some good times, didn't he? And if that meant he had to work his butt off, well, he'd been the one to screw up. It was a price he was willing to pay.
    It hadn't always been like this for Rocky Conwell. He'd been an All-State defensive end at Westfield High. Penn State--Joe Paterno himself--had recruited him and transformed him into a hard-hitting inside linebacker. Six-four, two-sixty, and blessed with a naturally aggressive nature, Rocky had been a standout for four years. He'd been All Big-Ten for two years. The St. Louis Rams drafted him in the seventh round.
    For a while, it was like God Himself had perfectly planned out his life from the get-go. His real name was Rocky, his parents naming him that when his mother went into labor as they watched the movie Rocky in the summer of 1976. You gonna have a name like Rocky, you better be big and strong. You better be ready to rumble. Here he was, a pro football draft pick itching to get to camp. He and Lorraine--a knockout who could not only stop traffic but make it go backward--hooked up during his junior year. They fell for each other pretty hard. Life was good.
    Until, well, it wasn't.
    Rocky was a great college player, but there is a big difference between Division IA and the pros. At the Rams rookie camp, they loved his hustle. They loved his work ethic. They loved the way he would sacrifice his body to make a play. But they didn't love his speed--and in today's game, what with the emphasis on passing and coverage, Rocky was simply not good enough. Or so they said. Rocky would not surrender. He started taking more steroids. He got bigger but still not big enough for the front line. He managed to hang around one season playing special teams for the Rams. The next year he was cut.
    The dream wouldn't die. Rocky wouldn't let it. He pumped iron nonstop. He began 'roiding big time. He had always taken some kind of anabolic supplement. Every athlete does. But desperation had made him less cautious. He didn't worry about cycling or overdoing it. He just wanted mass. His mood darkened from either the drugs or the disappointment--or more likely, the potent blend of the two.
    To make ends meet, Rocky took up work with the Ultimate Fighting Federation. You may remember their octagon grudge matches. For a while, they were all the rage on pay-per-view--real, bloody, no-holds-barred brawls. Rocky was good at it. He was big and strong and a natural fighter. He had great endurance and knew how to wear down an opponent.
    Eventually the violence in the ring got to be too much for people's sensibilities. States began to outlaw ultimate fighting. Some of the guys started battling in Japan where