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out.”
    “You showed up on her doorstep and demanded she talk to you. That would scare anybody.”
    “It was more than that. I can feel it—in my gut.”
    Evan paused for a moment, then said, “E-mail me the links—and the photos that guy sent you, his Web site too. I have some time this morning, I’ll read over everything and call you at lunch. We’ll talk about it, okay?”
    “Maybe I should call Julia—”
    “That’s a really bad idea. Don’t do anything .”
    I didn’t answer.
    “Sara.” His voice was firm.
    “Yeah.”
    “ Don’t. ”
    “Okay, okay.”
    *   *   *

    Ally was now talking to Moose in her room, so Evan and I said our good-byes. I tried to be cheerful for Ally as we made toad-in-a-holes with ketchup smiley faces. But every time I looked into her innocent eyes I wanted to cry. What will I say when she’s old enough to start asking about my family?
    After I drove Ally to school I took Moose for a hike, thinking the fresh air might help. But I knew it was a mistake as soon as I stepped into the woods. Normally I love the scent of fir needles in the air, of earth rich and fragrant after a rain the night before. All the different woods: red cedar, Douglas fir, Sitka spruce. But now moss-covered trees loomed over me and blocked out any light. The air seemed thick and quiet, my footsteps loud. Every dark corner of the forest caught my eye. A gnarled stump with one branch reaching out, a dead tree with ferns growing from it, the gap behind it blanketed by rotting leaves. Did he rape her in a spot like that? Moose, running ahead, startled a deer and it bounded off, its brown eyes wild with fear. I imagined Julia fleeing through the woods, her body cut and bleeding, her breath frantic, hunted down like an animal.
    I came home and tore apart my workshop. The plan was to organize my supplies and clean my tools, then hang them back up in some semblance of order, but when I saw the mess I’d made—chisels, rubber mallet, clamps, orbital sander, brushes, rags, and paper towels piled up all over my workbench—I couldn’t think straight enough to hang a ruler. I picked up a broom and started sweeping up shavings.
    Evan phoned at lunch as promised, but his cell kept cutting out.
    “I’ll call when … off … water.… Following … pod … humpbacks.”
    Back in my shop I concentrated on sanding a mahogany Chippendale-style chest. As I smoothed away years of scratches and grooves, I reveled in the fresh wood scent, the rasp of sandpaper. With each stroke my muscles relaxed and my mind began to calm. But then the mahogany wood made me think of Julia’s office. No wonder she didn’t want to talk to me—she was still traumatized by what had happened, and seeing me brought everything back. But she didn’t have to be scared of me. Maybe she was just afraid I might expose her secret? I stopped sanding. If I reassured her I wouldn’t tell anyone …
    The phone was on my desk. Julia’s number at the university was still on a Post-it stuck to the base of my computer.
    *   *   *

    After four rings I got a computer recording: “You’ve reached the mailbox for Professor Laroche in the Art History Department. Please leave a message.”
    “Hi, it’s Sara Gallagher. I don’t want to upset you again, I just…”
    The silence stretched out. I started to panic. What if I said something wrong? Stop, calm down . I took a deep breath and said, “I wanted to tell you I’m sorry I came to your house like that, but I understand now why you were so upset. I just need to know my medical history. I was hoping we could talk?” I rattled off my number, twice, and my e-mail. “I know you’ve been through a lot, but I’m a nice person and I have a family and I don’t know what to tell my daughter and—” To my horror my voice broke and I started to cry. I hung up.
    *   *   *

    I just about had to break my hand to keep myself from dialing back and leaving another message apologizing for