“Um . . . it’s 6826 Washington Drive,” Hannah said. “The Prosper family? Neil Prosper?”
“Oh no. We’re 6824, and next door belongs to the Swifts.
Johnathon and Amanda Swift.”
“Oh,” said Hannah, creasing her brow. “I think we might know them. Maybe that’s why I got the address wrong. Is that the Virginia Swifts? From Yorktown?”
Suspicion faded from the older woman’s face, even as her condescension grew. “Yorktown? Now why would you think that?
Amanda Swift is North Carolina born and bred. And Johnathon owns a string of coffee shops al across the state. He didn’t start that business in Yorktown, let me tel you. No, you’d better telephone your father, young lady. You’ve certainly mixed things up as much as a person could.”
With the sincerest apology she could muster, Hannah withdrew.
The older woman watched her until she’d reached the gate.
“Wel ?” Sean said, as Hannah climbed into the car.
“The house is owned by a family cal ed Swift. Johnathon and Amanda Swift.”
“Johnathon Swift,” Sean said.
“Yes,” Hannah said. She was already busy with her phone. A couple of moments later she was looking at a profile picture on a business social networking site—that of Johnathon Swift, CEO and Founder of Swift Coffee. He was as blond as Sophia Prosper, with the same narrow, straight nose, blue eyes, and delicate mouth. On Sophia those features had made her beautiful. On Swift they made him look weak. But appearances, Hannah knew, could be deceiving.
“It’s him,” she said, clutching her phone. “It’s definitely him.”
“Show me,” Sean said. He grabbed her hand to pul the phone closer. “Yeah. He’s changed, since the yearbook picture, but not that much. Man, I can’t believe we’ve found him,” he said. “As easily as that. After so many years.”
Hannah wanted to point out what Parekh had said—that they didn’t even know for sure that the original attorney had looked for Prosper. Maybe he hadn’t been difficult to find at al . Maybe no one had tried.
“I think we should leave for a few hours,” she said. “The woman I spoke to is the kind who would cal the cops if she left her house for some reason and saw us stil sitting here. I gave her a story about looking for a family friend. She thinks I came to the wrong address.”
Sean looked at his watch. “Al right. Let’s get some food, come back here after five, when he’s likely to be home from work.”
“Let’s do it,” Hannah said. She was looking forward to the interview, and couldn’t help but feel a little sorry for Sean, for the disappointment she was sure was about to come his way.
LAURA
DIARY ENTRY #7
Wednesday, August 24, 1994, 10:00 a.m.
I felt confident. Sure that I was doing the right thing. I’d had a glass of wine （maybe two） for courage at the hotel and I was al fired up, sure that I was about to expose Michael and make him pay for what he’d done. I wasn’t afraid. After al , I was the one creeping around outside, about to expose al their dirty secrets, while they sat inside, oblivious. And I was very careful, very quiet. I rode down the street until I was within sight of the house, then I ditched my bike in the trees. There were cars parked outside the house, four of them, and even though it was past midnight there were lights on inside.
Obviously the family was stil in the house. I had a flashlight with me, but I didn’t turn it on. The moon was bright enough that I didn’t need it.
I skirted around by the pool, pushing away memories, and made my way down the path that led to the beach. The yacht was stil there, tied to the jetty. I hurried, wincing a little at the slap of my sneaker on the wood. It was so quiet. Other than my noisy arrival the only sound was the gentle lap of tiny waves on the shore. I was absolutely sure I was alone. I stepped onto the boat and went below deck and there he was, just sitting there in the shadows.
Shit. Shit. He was so calm. He asked me what I was doing on his boat.
I said, “It’s not your boat.” I was angry, and I was too stupid to be afraid.
“It is, actual y. Thomas Spencer Senior gave it to me. Something to remember his son by.”
There was so much mocking sarcasm in his voice; he barely held back from outright laughter, and something in me just snapped. I walked the few steps across the little room to him and I slapped him, hard, across the face. He let me do it. Then he stood up and he punched me. His fist connected with the side of my temple. I fel sideways and I was unconscious before I hit the floor. I don’t think I was out for long. When I came to I was lying on my side, and my arm was bent underneath me. I had landed on it when I’d fal en. Michael was sitting on the smal couch looking down at me with this expression on his face . . . like a benign kind of interest.