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the local police or for the number of Rebecca’s friend and next-door neighbor, Kit Boling. She was a divorcee with two daughters. Their house could be seen through the trees from Scott and Rebecca’s living room window. It was Kit who had put up Scott’s mother for the funeral. Kit also had an extra set of keys to Rebecca’s house in case of an emergency—or at least, she used to. Maybe things were different now with Halle in the picture.
    â€œWhat name, please?” the operator asked.
    Stephanie heard herself asking for the number for Boling, Kit, on Woodland Trail. When the automated voice announced it, Stephanie quickly pressed 1 for a direct connection. Kit Boling would probably think she was crazy, asking her to check next door to make sure everyone was alive and well. But at this point she didn’t care.
    With the phone to her ear, she leaned against the wall in the hotel’s mini-gym and prayed someone would pick up.
    And someone did.
    â€œMom?” said the girl’s voice on the other end.
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    Laurie Boling was still cleaning up the blood when she heard the telephone ring.
    The digital clock on the microwave in the Bolings’ kitchen read 11:43 P.M . At first, the fourteen-year-old couldn’t find the cordless amid the mess on the counter. The remnants of their Thanksgiving dinner were everywhere—along with the blood. A crimson trail dotted the leftover turkey and the casseroles, as well as several used glasses, plates, and cloth napkins.
    Laurie found the phone behind a stray, crusty piece of tinfoil. She didn’t even glance at the caller ID. She automatically assumed it was her mother calling from the hospital: “Mom?”
    â€œAh, is this—the Boling residence?” the woman asked. She sounded a bit confused.
    Laurie hesitated. She was confused, too. Had something happened to her mother and Tara? Why else would some stranger be calling at a quarter to midnight? What more could go wrong tonight?
    â€œWho’s calling?” she asked.
    â€œThis is Stephanie Coburn. I’m Rebecca Hamner’s sister. Is this one of the girls?”
    Laurie suddenly put it together: CC’s Aunt Steffi, the pilot. She’d met her a few times. The last occasion had been at Mrs. Hamner’s funeral.
    â€œOh, hi,” she said. “Yeah, this is Laurie.”
    â€œListen, Laurie, I’m sorry if I woke anyone up, but this is kind of an emergency. Is your mother there?”
    â€œNo, I’m the only one home right now,” she explained. “Mom’s at the hospital with Tara.”
    â€œHospital?”
    â€œYeah, Tara and I were going to wash the dinner dishes while Mom drove our grandma home. Only Tara picked up the carving knife the wrong way and cut her hand really badly—I mean, you should see. There’s blood everywhere. Anyway, Mom came home and right away said Tara would need stitches, so they—”
    â€œDid anyone from next door go with them to the hospital?” CC’s aunt interrupted.
    â€œNo,” Laurie replied. If the first Mrs. Hamner were still alive, or if Laurie and CC were still best friends, Laurie would have immediately called them for help. But the new Mrs. Hamner was different, and no one really knew her. And CC had become too cool for Laurie about a year ago. So tonight, when Tara had cut herself, Laurie had wrapped a dishcloth around her sister’s bleeding hand and phoned her mother to hurry home. She’d never even thought about the Hamners.
    â€œHave you noticed anything strange next door tonight?” CC’s aunt asked. “Has anyone been coming or going in the last hour?”
    Laurie balked. Like she’d had time to kill looking out at the neighbors while her sister was bleeding to death? The Hamner house could have burned down an hour ago, and she wouldn’t have noticed.
    With the phone to her ear, Laurie wandered over to the kitchen window. Through