IT WAS A DARK, FOUL, wintry Friday, January 24, 1992. The wet wind riding in on the leading edge of the front made it rotten cold. Drizzle turned to fat, sloppy globules that splattered the windshield, then to flurries as Alison headed further north. The droning rhythm of the road had a hypnotic effect and lulled her into daydreaming of it—whatever “it” was—could all be about.

Alison shifted in the driver’s seat, leaned forward, worked the knot out from between her shoulders, and settled back more comfortably, feeling the fatigue of the long trip wash over her. She was alone, driving the last leg of a journey prompted by the letter she had received two weeks before. “Please come as soon as you are able, Alison,” the note had directed. “I need to see you as soon as possible regarding an important family matter.”