I wondered if one reason Alissa Hayes roamed the realm of the living was simply because she was trying to find out where her loved ones had gone.

But I was wrong: as Maggie rang the front doorbell of the Hayes home that evening, I spotted Alissa waiting behind a tree in the front yard, staring at her family’s new house. I moved closer, hoping to communicate with her, but her attention was focused on the front door. I understood why when a young girl of eleven or twelve opened the door at Maggie’s knock. Her beauty stunned me. She was tall and gangly, yet somehow graceful in that coltish way of young girls whose bodies have gotten away from them. Her skin was as pale as paper, almost translucent, her gray eyes luminous, and her honey-colored hair fell in liquid waves to her shoulders. Yet, an immense sadness radiated from her.

Why would such a child have cause to be sad, even accounting for her sister’s death four years before? She was the epitome of all that is glorious about the human species, at an age still unsullied by experience, still protected by the boundless optimism of childhood.

“You must be Sarah,” Maggie said. I searched my memories for the child who had been about eight years old when her older sister died. I barely remembered her, only that she had been chubby back then. And frightened. I had not paid her much attention. She had turned into a swan.

But why did Alissa stay in the side yard, peering at the front door? When Maggie stepped inside, I followed her, curious to know what kept Alissa at bay.

The house was as brightly lit as a laboratory and sterile in its orderliness. Bare white walls stretched bare for yards, unbroken by paintings or other decorations. The furniture was minimalist and almost uniformly covered with unobtrusive gray cloth. The floors were bare wood. Only the windows had been adorned, the outside world banished by heavy curtains the color of blood.

Alissa’s sister led Maggie into the living room and left her there. Maggie sat on the edge of the couch and waited for the parents to arrive. The mother came first, rounding the corner with a vibrant presence that belied the strange aura she gave out. She was a plump woman, with pale blonde hair worn high on her head in an elaborate twist. She wore layers of loose, colorful clothing. Brightly hued rocks glittered at the base of her throat and around each wrist, stones that she touched reverently, but unconsciously, as if they were talismans. She stood out against the austerity of the living room like a gaudily plumed bird, and yet, she carried a thick cloak of dark memories about her, a past that exuded suffering of a magnitude I had only glimpsed during my lifetime. There had been deep hunger in her life, great fear, even abject terror, the loss of love, desperation, intense hatred, and so much more. Whoever she was now, however safe her current life, she had experienced great deprivation in the past and could not leave the bleak memories behind. Though she surely was trying to forget. Perhaps that was why everything about her seemed to be too much: excessive makeup, mounds of hair, flashy clothing, even overeating.

“Mrs. Hayes?” Maggie asked, rising to greet her.

“Yes,” the woman said briskly, ignoring Maggie’s outstretched hand. “I am Elena Hayes.” She had a Russian accent. I examined her more closely and realized that she had been quite beautiful at one time, though layers of fat now obscured her once-delicate features.

“I’ve come to ask you some questions about your daughter Alissa,” Maggie explained, displaying her badge.

“She was not my daughter,” Elena Hayes said quickly. I felt fear flicker in her as she examined Maggie’s badge, a residual fear of authority rising unbidden to the surface, a reflex from the past she could not control. “I was Alissa’s stepmother. Her real mother died almost a decade ago.”

“Of course,” Maggie said. “My apologies. I knew that. Is your husband here?”

“My husband does not like visitors,” the woman answered. “And especially about a tragedy like this. Why do you come now? We have tried hard to put this behind us and it has not been easy.”

“I understand,” Maggie said. “But I do need to speak to your husband.” She sat back down on the couch with such finality that Elena Hayes did not argue.

“Wait here,” she said and swept from the room in a flurry of flowing fabric and vibrant colors.

I stayed with Maggie, trying to understand the emotions that the Hayes home brought out in me. The forces in the house confused me. There was such sadness, but acute fear, too. Was it the remnants of Alissa’s violent death, clinging to those she had loved, or were her stepmother’s painful memories so powerful they infused the entire house?

Her father perplexed me even more. I had not interviewed him when Alissa died. The family had been Danny’s responsibility. This was my first glimpse of Alan Hayes up close. I was surprised at how polished he seemed. He was in his early fifties, in perfect shape, with black hair that was meticulously cut and peppered with just enough gray to make him seem dignified. He was handsome by anyone’s standards, with graceful, almost feminine, features. But his expression was mournful and his dark eyes distrusting.

I could tell he was fiercely guarding his emotions, that Maggie’s presence made him uncomfortable, and that he disliked the disruption of the relentless order of his home. He was tall with long hands that he waved languidly in the air when he talked—the hands of a pianist more than a geologist. His fingernails looked manicured. His clothing surprised me, too. Though he had worn a suit to court, sitting far from me, among Alissa’s family and friends, I had expected him to be wearing blue jeans and a flannel shirt at home. Instead, he looked like a banker. It was early evening, a time when I would have long since changed into sweatpants and had a beer in my hand, but he wore neatly pressed gray slacks, a light blue shirt, and a tie.

Perhaps that was why he had risen so quickly through his department’s ranks to become its head. He looked the part. Or perhaps sympathy for his great loss had played a role in his rapid ascension. Certainly, he carried his tragedy with him. It radiated from him almost proudly, defiantly.

All I could really tell was that Alan Hayes was not a happy man. He had a clipped way of talking that made it difficult to determine inflection. His words were bitten off so quickly it was difficult to follow his speech and I suddenly wondered if he had been promoted in part to spare his students the effort of absorbing his lectures.

Maggie picked up on my thoughts. “Do you still teach?” she asked him abruptly, though she had yet to explain why she was there.

“One class,” he answered, just as abruptly, sitting as far from Maggie as he could. He placed his hands precisely on his knees. “What’s this about?”

When Maggie explained that his daughter’s murder case had been reopened, little about him reacted. A muscle below his right eye twitched, fluttering briefly before it grew still. Then I picked up on his rapid heartbeat—it raced violently for a few seconds until it slowed abruptly to a more even pace again.

Was he that much in control of himself? I wondered. Had he done that? Who had that much power over their body?

“I don’t understand,” he said stiffly. “Why has it been reopened?”

“Another student has been murdered,” Maggie explained. “And there are irrefutable similarities between the two cases.”

“I see.” His fingers fluttered against his knees then grew still.

“Don’t you want to know who she was?” Maggie asked, staring at him impassively. I knew better: she was absorbing his every movement, every sound he made, even picking up on many of the unseen forces I could feel radiating from him. She did not like him, and I wasn’t sure why, but I could understand her feelings. Alan Hayes was a cold man, despite his surface perfection.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“The new girl who was murdered. Don’t you want to know who she was?”

“Oh.” He looked perplexed. “She was a student at our college?”

“Yes,” Maggie held up a photo of Vicky Meeks that her mother had provided. It had been taken a few months before her death. She looked radiant in a flowered summer dress, delicate and filled with life.

Alan Hayes stared at the photo. I wondered if he was thinking of his own lost daughter.

“Did you know her?” Maggie asked.

“She doesn’t look like a geology student,” Hayes said. “She seems so delicate. Like . . .” His voice faltered.

“Like Alissa was,” Maggie said quietly. “Like your other daughter is now.”

He nodded.

“Her name was Vicky Meeks. She was a sophomore.”

He nodded again. “That would be why I did not know her. I only accept seniors in my class. It’s honors level.”

“Can you tell me anything about her?” Maggie asked.

“No, I’m sorry.” Hayes gazed at her with his mournful eyes. “I wish I could help.”

He suddenly seemed so alone and helpless sitting there, an oversized man in an undersized chair, vulnerable and exposed, overcome by the memories of what had happened to his daughter. But as he sat there, I realized how curious it was that he was facing Maggie alone. Where was his wife? His other daughter? Why had they disappeared at this difficult time for him? Why were they not there to lend him emotional support?

For the first time, I wondered: was the fear I felt lingering in this house somehow fear of him?

Surely not. He was perfect in both appearance and manners, hardly the stuff of nightmares.

And yet, something about him and his home was off-kilter. I could feel it closing in on me, despite the gracious facade, a jumble of conflicting emotions so strong they swirled through the house like winds that might coalesce and turn into a hurricane at any moment. The longer we were there, the more I felt it. Something in this house was off. And much was hidden.

Could Maggie feel it, too?

If she did, she did not show it. She began to question Hayes about his daughter’s death almost four years before, leading him through the events up to her disappearance a week before her body was found. She followed up on details and asked questions that neither Danny nor I had even considered.

Alan Hayes had a remarkable memory and he shared what he remembered with her in precise, almost finicky detail. But not once, I realized, did he seem to be emotionally involved in what had happened to his daughter. He had pulled a force field of detachment around him, masking what he felt inside.

Protection—or a weapon? Or was he on medication? I could not tell.

Maggie did not try to penetrate his aloofness. “Thank you,” she said after extracting a few more meager bits of information. “I would like to speak to her sister now,” she asked.

“That is impossible,” Alan Hayes said firmly. “She remembers nothing that would be of help. She was too young when Alissa died. I cannot allow you to reopen old wounds.”

It was the longest speech he had made all night.

“You’re her guardian,” Maggie said without rancor. “That’s your call.” She rose from the couch to go. “I should let you know that Bobby Daniels will likely be released from prison soon. His lawyer will file for release as soon as possible and the district attorney does not intend to fight the motion.”

His reaction was instantaneous and overwhelming. The news that Bobby Daniels would be freed enraged Alan Hayes. “You are freeing Bobby Daniels?” he asked, his voice cracking with anger. Silent waves of hostility radiated from him with a palpable force even Maggie could feel. She took a step away from Hayes as he jumped to his feet and clenched his fists. He fought to regain control, but failed. His face blazed with hatred. “You’re freeing him after what he did to Alissa?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Hayes,” Maggie said quickly. “But the evidence is overwhelming. He did not kill your daughter.”

“After what he did to my child?” Hayes asked through clenched teeth. “After the way he defiled her, he walks free?” His arms started to tremble with the effort of maintaining control. I felt a sudden fear for Maggie’s safety.

“I’ll have someone call you when we know more,” she said quickly, moving toward the door. “I’m sorry, but we will find her real killer. I promise you that.”

“Her real killer?” Hayes asked contemptuously. “Bobby Daniels destroyed my daughter. That’s all I need to know.”

“Thank you for your time,” Maggie said. “I’ll let myself out.” She hurried into the hallway, glancing around to see if the wife or daughter had overheard. She had nearly reached the front door when it flew open, slamming into the wall behind it with a crack that sounded like a pistol shot. Maggie drew her gun automatically as Danny barreled into the house, arms flailing as he tried to shed the grasp of two plainclothesmen being towed along in his wake.

“What are you doing here?” Maggie asked, horrified. She holstered her gun and exchanged a glance with her backup: they were all in for some trouble.

Danny ignored her question. “Mr. Hayes,” he called out. “I apologize for the intrusion tonight. I’ve explained this is an unacceptable way to handle the situation. I’d like to talk to you about . . .” Danny’s thoughts failed him and his words trailed off as he realized what he had done. He stood, blinking, in the hallway, looking almost surprised that he had gained entry.

Alan Hayes materialized in the doorway just in time to see Danny befuddled and stranded. His relentless control had been restored. His eyes flickered over Danny, noting the disheveled clothing and florid face, then lingered on Maggie. “Is this your partner, Detective Gunn?” he asked quietly. “Am I to understand you are not here with authorization?”

“You are to understand that he is not here with authorization,” Maggie spat back, the first sign of temper I’d seen in her. “Get him out of here,” she ordered the plainclothesmen. “Take him back to the station and get him some coffee.”

Danny started to protest, but Maggie stopped him with a single word. “Gonzales,” she said distinctly.

Danny let himself be led out the front door. It had taken all of his alcoholic indignation to gain entry and he’d not thought far enough ahead to know what to do once he reached there. His confusion made him suddenly docile.

Alan Hayes looked amused. “It would appear your department is not exactly united in your belief that Bobby Daniels is innocent, Detective Gunn. Personally, I found Detectives Bonaventura and Fahey to be exemplary in their investigation into the case.”

“I bet you did,” Maggie said coldly. She glanced up the stairs to the second floor, sensing they were being watched. I felt her withdraw from her own anger, unwilling to let the younger girl see it. “And I can assure you of this, Mr. Hayes: every move the two original detectives made, every fact they uncovered, every step they took, every lead they pursued and the dozen they ignored will be retraced and verified and investigated anew. So, please, by all means”—she smiled at him beatifically—“sleep well tonight, rest assured that we will indeed find out what happened to your daughter. Even if we are a few years late.”

She walked out the door without bothering to see his reaction and Alan Hayes was alone with his fury. It filled the room and grew, feeding on its power, expanding until I was certain it pervaded the entire house.

“Good night, Miss Gunn,” he finally called after her, his clipped voice sounding oddly polite, almost as if he were mocking her. “Thank you for stopping by.”

Suddenly, I had to leave that house. It agitated me every bit as much as the atmosphere inside the prison had. Indeed, I realized, though this was a home, it felt very much like the prison. The anger now filling it had cleared away the confusion that clouded my initial reaction to it. I now felt despair beneath the fury, as well as suffering, hopelessness, and hatred so powerful it shocked me. I could not endure it any longer.

I hurried after Maggie, anxious to leave what I felt behind.

Alissa Hayes would not let me go.

She stood immobile on the front sidewalk, blocking my way, a silent specter whose pale face glowed under the front porch light. I stopped on the top step and stared down at her.

She held up both hands and pushed them out toward me, beseeching me to go back.

I shook my head. I was afraid.

Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. She looked frightened. “Please,” she begged me silently, placing the tips of her fingers over her heart then extending them to me in supplication. She stared up at a light that burned in the window of a second-story room, her face filled with sorrow. I followed her gaze and saw the silhouette of a young girl outlined in the window as she looked out into the night, watching Maggie leave.

Alissa looked at me, wordlessly pleading, and I knew what I had to do. If Alissa Hayes could not bear to enter the house where her family lived, I would do it for her. I owed her that much.

I made my way up the stairs, past the closed door of a bedroom where I heard Elena Hayes inside, weeping beneath the angry murmur of her husband scolding her for letting Maggie in. I moved past the open door of an empty bedroom and made my way down the hall to the room where Sarah Hayes slept.

She was still standing at the window, looking out into the darkness, unaware that her sister was staring back at her from the yard, consumed with an identical sorrow and longing.

The young girl’s utter sadness filled me, too, unbidden. I wanted to weep for her. She was yearning for something, but I could not tell what. Her older sister back? Freedom from this house? For the years to pass quickly, so she could escape it all?

The angry voices down the hall grew louder. Sarah turned away from the window, dully, as if she was about to embark on a distasteful routine she had endured many times before.

She shut her bedroom door and locked it against the sound. Then she locked it again. And again. She had three locks on the inside of her bedroom door. Even so, she placed a chair under the doorknob as well, jamming it so the door could not be opened. Then she sat on the edge of her bed, hands trapped between her knees, shivering, though the room was warm. She stared at the door, waiting and waiting.

For what, I thought, for what?

Below me, outside the window, Alissa Hayes wept beneath the branches of a tree, her figure a ghostly apparition of anguish, a soul caught between worlds in a quagmire of sorrow she could not escape.

Even her sobs were silent. I was her only hope. And I had no idea how to help her. Except to stay where I was, waiting with her sister, waiting to find out the truth.

And then I saw something that gave me hope. It rose in me like an ember flaring among the ashes: I saw Maggie beneath a streetlight, leaning against the hood of her car, staring up at the windows of the Hayes house, watching the shadows that danced behind the blinds, drinking in the muted sounds of Alan Hayes’s rage, taking in every scrap of information she could.

Yes, Maggie, I thought. Do not be like I was. Do not turn away. The answer lies within this family. And as I thought it, I knew it was true. The truth was here, in this unhappy house, and it would take both Maggie and me to see that Alissa Hayes got justice.

I played my part. I waited in the corner of a young girl’s bedroom fortress, keeping watch while she slept, unknowing of all but her dreams, not even twitching in sleep when, deep into the night, her doorknob rattled, paused, then turned slowly in the dark, and finding no way open, grew still again as footsteps faded down the hallway.

I stared at the face of Sarah Hayes in sleep, drinking in her beauty, the innocence of her repose, and I was filled with a fierce longing to protect her and to protect her innocence.

I waited through the night, knowing I was not alone, not while Maggie watched with me. Together, we would find a way.