She had no idea.

Kat was driving through East Hampton—she and Jeff had walked these very streets a lifetime ago—when her cell phone trilled. She put it on speaker and said hello.

“I did that image search you wanted,” Brandon said. “Wow, do you know this chick personally?”

Men. Or should she yet again say boys. “No.”

“She’s, uh . . .”

“Yeah, I know what she is, Brandon. What did the image search dig up?”

“Her name is Vanessa Moreau. She’s a model. She specializes in bikinis.”

Terrific. “Anything else?”

“What else do you want to know? She’s five-eight, weight one hundred twelve pounds. Her measurements are thirty-eight, twenty-four, thirty-six; she’s a D cup.”

Kat kept her hands on the wheel. “Is she married?”

“It doesn’t say. I found her modeling portfolio. The picture you sent me is from a website called Mucho Models. They do casting, I guess. It gives her measurements and hair color and says if she’ll do nudes or not—she does, by the way. . . .”

“Good to know.”

“They also have a part where the model writes a bio.”

“What does hers say?”

“Currently looking for paid gigs only. Will travel if expenses paid.”

“What else?”

“That’s it.”

“Home address?”

“Nope, nothing.”

So Vanessa was the woman’s real name. Kat wasn’t sure what to make of that. “Could I ask you another favor?”

“I guess.”

“Could you break back into YouAreJustMyType again and access Jeff’s communication?”

“That will be harder.”

“Why?”

“You can’t stay on long. Sites are always changing their passwords and looking for hacking. So I would go in, take a brief look, go out. I never stayed long. The hard part is initially getting in—finding the first portal. Theirs is password protected. It took us a few hours to get past it, but now that I’m out, I’d have to start again.”

“Could you do it?” Kat said.

“I can try, I guess, but I don’t really think it’s a good idea. I mean, maybe you were right. I was invading my mother’s privacy. I don’t really want to read more of that.”

“That’s not what I’m asking.”

“Then, what?”

“You said that when Jeff was first with your mom, he was still talking with other women.”

“Including you,” Brandon added.

“Right, including me. What I want to know is if he’s still talking to other women.”

“You think he’s, what, cheating on my mom?”

“You don’t have to look at the specific communications. I just need to know if he’s communicating with any other women and their names.”

Silence.

“Brandon?”

“You still think something is wrong, don’t you, Kat?”

“How did your mother sound on the phone?”

“She sounded fine.”

“Did she sound happy?”

“I wouldn’t go that far. What do you think is going on?”

“I don’t know. It’s why I’m asking you to check.”

Brandon sighed. “On it.”

They hung up.

Montauk is located on the far tip of the South Fork of Long Island. It’s a hamlet, not a town, and part somehow of East Hampton. Kat made her way to Deforest Road and slowed down. She let the car slide past the address Stacy had given her. The house was what realtors would probably label a cozy Cape Cod with cedar shingles. Two vehicles were in the driveway, a black Dodge Ram pickup truck loaded up with what appeared to be fishing gear, and a blue Toyota RAV4. Neither was fly yellow. One point for the Kochmans.

Jeff’s daughter, Melinda, was sixteen. You don’t get your full license in New York State until you are seventeen. So why two vehicles? Both could belong to Jeff, of course. A pickup truck for hobby or work—wait, was he a fisherman now?—and the Toyota for general travel.

So now what?

She parked down the end of the block and waited. She tried to imagine a car less suited for surveillance work than a fly-yellow Ferrari, but nothing came to mind.

It still wasn’t yet eight A.M. Wherever Jeff aka Ron spent his days, there was a decent chance he hadn’t gone to it yet. She could wait here a little while and keep watch. But no. There was no reason to waste time. She might as well get out of the Chick Trawler and walk right up to his house.

The front door opened.

Kat wasn’t sure what to do. She started to duck down but stopped herself. She was probably a hundred yards away. With the morning glare, no one would be able to see inside the car. She kept her eyes on the door.

A teenage girl appeared.

Could it be . . . ?

The girl turned behind her, waved good-bye to someone in the house, and started down the path. She carried a maroon backpack. Her ponytail sneaked out the back of a baseball cap. Kat wanted to get closer. She wanted to see whether there was any resemblance between the teen with the awkward gait and her old fiancé.

But how?

She didn’t know or really care. She didn’t think it through. She started up the Ferrari and drove toward her.

It didn’t matter. If she blew her cover—though maybe in this car, she could disguise herself as a middle-aged man with erectile dysfunction—so be it.

The girl’s steps became more like dance movements. As Kat got closer, she could see that Melinda—why not call her that in her mind?—was wearing white earbuds. The cord dangled past her waist, doing its own little dance.

Melinda turned suddenly and met Kat’s eye. Kat looked for a resemblance, an echo of Jeff, but even if she did see one, that could simply be her imagination.

The girl stopped and stared.

Kat tried to play it cool. “Uh, excuse me,” Kat called out. “How do I get to the lighthouse?”

The girl kept a safe distance. “You just get back on Montauk Highway. Keep driving until the end. You can’t miss it.”

Kat smiled. “Thanks.”

“Nice car.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not mine. It’s my boyfriend’s.”

“He must be rich.”

“I guess so.”

The girl started walking away. Kat wasn’t sure what to do here. She didn’t want to lose this lead, but cruising alongside the girl was getting creepy. The girl picked up speed. Up ahead, a school bus made the turn. The girl started to hurry toward it.