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Anyway,” I began, trying to sound carefree, “I’ve been thinking about what you said and … I’m going on a little trip.”
    “I’m glad I am sitting down. That’s … wonderful news. But are you sure you’re ready to do that? Shouldn’t you start with something simple, like the grocery store?”
    When I didn’t answer, he went on. “May I at least ask where you are going?”
    I sidestepped his question.
    “I need to think, and to do that I need to get away. I’m taking some time off from work. I happen to have a lot of vacation days left.”
    “Not surprising. About the vacation time, I mean. Have you, um, talked to Dr. Simmons about this?”
    “N-n-no. Not yet. But she’s my next call.”
    I took a deep breath as I hung up. After all, I was not a prisoner. They were not my jailers. I could go on a trip, and I did have a lot of accrued time. These things were all true.
    What was not true was the actual vacation part. I had an idea. The letter had not given me any distinct clues, even though something about it tugged at the back of my mind. I decided, however, that three days was enough to wait for the memory to jog, and since nothing was forthcoming, I had to move on to Plan B. I would listen to Dr. Jack Derber. His wife, Sylvia, was supposed to “show me the path.” Well, maybe he was on to something. Though not necessarily what he intended. Sylvia, show me , I whispered resolutely as I put the phone in its cradle. Show me.
    It took all of three-tenths of a second for Google to tell me Sylvia’sfull name and the town where she lived. The benefit of having a famous archenemy was that he couldn’t get married without the world knowing the details. Sylvia Dunham, Keeler, Oregon . She lived not too far from the prison, convenient for her but unfortunate for me, because I believed I would be able to feel his presence through reinforced concrete and steel bars as easily as I had through the cellar door.
    I ran a Google Earth search on the penitentiary and stared for a moment at the tiny yard, a smudge of tan on the screen, where surely he must walk every day. I could just make out the indistinct image of the guard tower, and even the minuscule line marking the boundaries of the prison with what must be razor wire. I shut down the Web page with a shudder. I didn’t want to push my psychological limits too soon.
    I hadn’t even been back to the state since my escape, and I had solemnly vowed never to return. But Jack’s letter made me realize what the price of my inaction might be. Even the remotest possibility of his release stirred up emotions I’d been fighting back for years and forced me to confront what I knew I finally needed to do, no matter how terrifying.
    At Jack’s trial, the prosecutors had “been pragmatic,” they’d “done what they could.” And their strategies had worked to an extent; he was in jail, after all. But that didn’t change the fact that Jennifer’s story had been left open-ended, a case that might never be closed. Over the years I’d come to accept it somewhat, thinking there was nothing I could do. But Jack’s letter made me believe that Sylvia might be the key to it all, that she might know something concrete. Now duty was calling me, and for the first time in ten years, I felt I could answer it. Maybe it was all that therapy finally working after all. Or maybe somehow I knew this mission was the therapy.
    Before my courage could fail me, I pulled up another Web siteand booked my flight, a room in the nicest hotel in the area, and, pausing, a rental car, knowing that as much as I hated to drive, there was zero chance I could get into a cab. I booked under Caroline Morrow, my “real” name now. My practical side was taking over. I started making lists.
    This would be the first trip I’d taken in five years, since visiting my parents back in Ohio, and, frankly that hadn’t gone very well. Despite the ensuing three-hour layover in Atlanta, I had booked a flight