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Grove Nursing Home in Millbury, south of Worcester, was a converted mansion surrounded by charming gardens.
    Residents could happily roam the manicured grounds within the safe conÞ nes of ten foot stone walls and 24/7 video monitoring.
    Ash had chosen the place because anyone who could keep psychiatric patients inside as successfully as these people had the kind of security that also kept unwanted visitors out. At one time she’d been plagued by nightmares of her father breaking in and killing her younger sister. Her fears had not been completely baseless, but in hindsight, she could see they were a consequence of her own trauma more than a reß ection of reality.
    Emma had witnessed the murder of their mother and had testiÞ ed at their father’s trial for the killing. Cartwright Evans had also been charged with attempted murder for his attack on Emma. These days he was serving a life term at MCI Cedar Junction. The last time Ash saw him, he was being led away after the judge had handed down her sentence.
    His parting words were, “Your mother was a problem.”
    Hers were, “Die slowly and rot in hell,” a prophetic sentiment given all she’d heard about conditions at Cedar Junction.
    Occasionally letters from the maximum-security facility found their way, via mail redelivery, to her home in Madang. Requests for money. Complaints about brutal prison guards. Claims of life-threatening illness. Ash took pleasure in these self-serving communications because she liked to know her father was suffering. She shredded every last one without replying. The only time she ever planned to see him was if he
    • 39 •

    JENNIFER FULTON
    appeared before a parole board. She would be there to make sure he stayed where he belonged. In a cage.
    She slowed her rental Buick to a crawl and turned in to the parking lot behind the main building. It was pouring and she didn’t have an umbrella, so she looked for a spot near the entrance. An elderly couple was attempting to reverse out of the ideal location. After they’d almost backed under a Hummer, Ash got out of her car and stood in the torrential rain to guide them. Her shoulder ached as she waved her hand, and pain shot through the ankle she’d sprained leaping from the bathroom window. The injury made driving a problem so she’d skipped two of her daily visits out here.
    After she parked, she dragged a box of chocolates out of the backseat, locked the car, and made a run for the entrance. The security guard on the door checked her ID and waved her into an elegant parlor redolent with the aroma of coffee and fresh-baked cookies. A couple of well-dressed city people sat awkwardly in tapestry-covered Victorian chairs. Ash suspected from their hushed conversation and darting glances that they were applying for an admission.
    She knew exactly how they felt. After Emma’s neurologist at the McLean Hospital had recommended she remain in long-term care, Ash had been desperate to Þ nd the right environment. The Grove was afÞ liated with McLean and had a warm, old-fashioned feel. But its olde worlde façade disguised a state-of-the-art facility. There, Emma received the medical care she needed as well as long-term rehabilitation.
    For a long while this had been paid for by the large insurance policy their mother left. Ash had often wondered if, knowing the man she had married, she’d also known how much she was at risk. The money had enabled the Þ nest care for Emma, and by the time it ran out Ash had left the military and was earning a salary that usually arrived bundled in suitcases. She had no problem paying the bills.
    She gave her name to the receptionist and a few minutes later she was shown to an ofÞ ce that looked nothing like the front parlor. It was modern and functional, with art on the walls alongside backlit panels where X-rays could be displayed. At one end of the room an internal window provided a view of the room next door.
    “You’ve redecorated,” she noted after