The sky opens up in earnest as Elsa and Renny stand waiting for the light to change on Broadway. Carrying take-out Chinese food in a soggy plastic bag, Elsa wishes she’d thought to ask the restaurant for a few extra bags, since she has no umbrella and no raincoat.

Oh well. At least you’re finally getting that shower you missed earlier.

When she’d suggested to Renny that they go browse around some stores and have dinner at a neighborhood restaurant, she was hoping to kill a solid hour or two. She figured she might even have a glass of wine—take the edge off and relax a little, since her stress isn’t doing Renny any favors.

But Renny wasn’t interested in browsing or dining out—particularly once they had ventured out into the downpour.

“When can we go back?” she kept asking, and Elsa didn’t have the heart to keep dragging her around in the deluge.

She’s hardly thrilled about returning to her mother’s apartment, though. Intellectually, she knows there’s no real reason to feel threatened there, yet she can’t seem to help it.

The light changes at last, and they join the mass of pedestrians swarming the wide thoroughfare as lightning flashes overhead. Honking yellow cabs clog the street on either side of the landscaped median, headlights glaring in the gloom. A lucky few commuters huddle beneath the shelter at the bus stop; the rest crowd along the curb between the rushing gutter and the parade of black pedestrian umbrellas heading toward the express subway station two blocks down.

High above the chaos, the Ansonia’s mansard roofline is shrouded in a misty curtain of rain, towering like a haunted mansion in some vintage, monochromatic film.

The light changes again before Renny’s short legs can make it all the way across, and they’re forced to wait it out on the median with a few other stragglers.

“You okay?” Elsa looks down at Renny, who nods unconvincingly.

“Can we go to Tiffany’s for breakfast tomorrow?”

Oh, right. Breakfast at Tiffany’s. “We’ll see.”

Elsa figures the necessary disillusionment can at least wait until they’re inside, out of the miserable weather.

Anyway, tomorrow morning the nightmare will be over and they’ll be on their way home to Connecticut.

Please, please, please let it be over.

Before they left the apartment, she’d called Brett again to tell him about the rubber monster mask. She could tell that Lew was still hovering, because while Brett listened to what she had to say, he didn’t comment, other than telling her he’ll call her as soon as he gets home.

“Still no Mike?” she asked hopefully before hanging up.

Still no Mike.

Something is wrong. She knows it, and so does Brett. Either something terrible happened to him, or…

Something terrible must have happened to him.

Why else would he not have checked his messages? If he had, and if he’d heard theirs, he’d have been in touch by now.

You’re jumping to conclusions. Stop being such a pessimist. There must be other logical reasons why he hasn’t called back.

Right. She just can’t think of a single one.

Unless he has called back, and Brett doesn’t want to tell her what Mike has to say, because he’s trying to shield her…

I need to call Brett and tell him that if he’s hiding something from me, he’d better stop right now, because I can handle it.

Finally the light changes again. Reaching the other side of the street, they skirt around a large puddle and step onto the sidewalk. The building’s main entrance is around the corner on Seventy-third Street, beneath a stone portico framed by globed sconces and the tall, gargoyle-embellished façade.

A uniformed doorman standing outside holds open the door as they approach—not the same one from this afternoon. This guard, who told them his name is Tom, was just starting his shift when they were on their way out. Elsa reluctantly introduced herself and Renny as Sylvie Durand’s daughter and granddaughter.

“But don’t hold it against us,” she wanted to add, well aware that Maman always sweeps grandly from her cab or Town Car to the elevator without giving “the help” a second glance. The building staff has never been very fond of her—or of Elsa, purely by association.

Maybe Tom doesn’t know her snobbish mother very well, though, because he just held the door, tipped his hat, and wished her and Renny a pleasant evening.

“Back so soon?” he asks now. “Guess I don’t blame you. It’s a real gullywasher out here, isn’t it?”

“Definitely,” Elsa agrees, thinking that it’s an odd comment. Gullywasher—it sounds like something you’d hear out in the Southwest, not in the heart of Manhattan.

“That smells great.” Tom gestures at the bag of take-out. “Moo shoo pork, right?”

“Wow, you’re good.”

“Oh, I don’t fool around when it comes to Chinese. Hope you got extra.”

She grins. “Do you want some?”

“No, but your mother might.”

“Chinese food? My mother?” She laughs, shaking her head. “Anyway…I don’t think Rainbow Panda delivers to Paris, so…”

“Paris?”

So he is pretty new here. “That’s where she lives now,” Elsa explains.

“I know that—but I thought you were here to see her.”

“Oh—no. We’re just spending a night or two at her place. She’s in Paris.”

Tom shakes his head. “She’s here. She showed up a little while ago, while you were out.”

“What?”

“Mémé’s here?” Renny lights up immediately. “Why didn’t she tell us she was coming?”

“I’m not sure, little lady. See, your grandma’s not the type to stop and chat on her way in. Or out, come to think of it.”

Elsa is incredulous. “Are you sure it was her?”

“You know anyone else who goes around in a fancy hat and veil like an old-fashioned movie star?”

“Did you mention that we were here?”

“I figured she knew, but if it’s a surprise, don’t worry because—”

“Did she say anything at all?”

“To me? Nah. She was all wrapped up in a shawl and under a big black umbrella when she came in. I don’t even think she needed the umbrella, with that gigantic hat she had on, but to each his own. I did mention to her that it’s bad luck to keep an umbrella open inside, but she just kept on walking. I guess she’s not the superstitious type.”

No, she isn’t.

Nor is she the type to show up in New York without warning.

What in the world is going on?

 

Staring at the pouring rain beyond the plate-glass window, Caroline wonders if she should have given up hours ago. Technically, it’s no longer even afternoon. Yet here she is, parked at the same table in Starbucks, waiting for some guy to show up. And why would he? It’s not like people can read minds. It’s not like she’s sent him some telepathic message to meet her and, voilà—here he’ll be.

That is so not going to happen.

So what are you doing here, then? How did you, of all people, turn into this pathetic loser?

Dejectedly, she sips her third—or is it fourth?—cup of tea. Herbal this time. She’d discovered earlier that coffee made her sick to her stomach, and regular tea made her antsy. But she couldn’t just sit here for hours without buying something every once in a while—even if all this hot liquid makes her have to pee constantly.

Maybe she missed Surfer Boy during one of her countless visits to the bathroom.

Yeah, or maybe you’re never going to see him again.

This is crazy. A year ago, she was on top of the world. Now she’s, like, some peerless—

“Hi, Caroline! What are you doing here?”

She looks up, startled…then breaks into a slow smile.

It’s him.

 

Rounding the corner into the hallway that bisects Maman’s wing of the building, Elsa can see that the main apartment door is ajar.

That’s strange.

Unless Maman arrived, saw their luggage by the door, realized that they’re in town, and didn’t want to lock them out…

But she knows I have the keys. How else would I have gotten into the apartment in the first place? And why wouldn’t she just call me on my cell phone to see where I was?

She sticks her head in and calls, “Maman?”

No reply.

“Is she here?” Renny asks.

“She must be. Come on.” Opening the door wider, she sees that the lights are off, just as she left them. No bags have joined their own in the foyer—because, of course, Maman doesn’t travel with luggage—but no dripping black umbrella, either.

Elsa sniffs the air for a waft of Parisian perfume, but smells only the Chinese food in the bag she’s carrying.

“Maman!”

Silence.

She closes the door, again wondering uneasily why her mother left it open. After a moment’s hesitation, she slides the dead bolt.

Immediately, she wonders if that was a mistake.

What if her mother isn’t the only one who’s waiting for them here? What if Renny’s stalker somehow found his way to the apartment, and broke in, and…Oh God, what if Maman showed up and surprised him?

“Where is she, Mommy?”

“I’m not sure. Come on, let’s go see.” She gingerly moves toward the hall, her hand firm on Renny’s shoulder. Again, she calls to her mother, wondering if the doorman might have been mistaken.

Renny chimes in with a singsong “Mémé! Mémé!”

In the kitchen, Elsa flips on a light. Again, everything is just as she left it: the untouched cookies on a plate, the juice in a glass.

Remembering every horror movie she’s ever seen, she glances at the knife block. All the handles are accounted for. Good. That’s good.

See? Everything is fine.

She sets the bag of Chinese food on the counter beside the knives. “Maman! Are you here?”

“That man said she is, Mommy. I bet the walls are so thick she can’t hear us.”

“I guess so,” Elsa agrees, not bothering to point out that it’s the walls between the apartments that are soundproof. Most of the interior ones are just regular drywall partitions installed over the years as the rooms were reconfigured.

They resume the search in the dining room, the living room, the library. Back in the entry hall, she looks again at the locked door. If Maman isn’t here, who left it open while they were out? Elsa distinctly remembers closing it earlier, before they left.

“Do you think she’s sleeping, Mommy?”

At this hour? Even with jet lag, Maman stays up late.

Then again, she’s getting older, and anyway, where the hell else could she be?

“Probably. Let’s go look.”

But when they reach the master bedroom, it’s not only dark; it’s deserted.

“Maybe she’s in the shower,” Renny suggests.

“I don’t hear the water running.” Elsa can’t hear anything at all, in fact, but the distant hum of the refrigerator. “Anyway, Maman takes baths.”

Chanel-scented bubble baths—but never in the middle of the day.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are!” For Renny’s sake, Elsa tries to sound playful as they cross the master suite toward the adjoining bath.

“Do you think she’s playing hide-and-seek?”

Maman is hardly the playful type, but…“You never know,” Elsa tells Renny as she knocks on the door. No reply.

“Ready or not, here we come!” She opens the door.

The bathroom, too, is empty. Renny jerks back the shower curtain to make sure.

Visibly disappointed, she says, “I thought she was going to jump out and yell surprise.”

“I know, sweetie, but I just don’t—”

Suddenly, Renny clutches her arm. “What was that?”

“What was what?”

“Shh, I just heard something in the other room.”

They stand absolutely still.

After a moment, Elsa whispers, “I don’t hear any—”

And then she does. She hears…something. A faint thumping sound.

“See? She’s here!” Renny takes off running through the bedroom to the hallway, calling, “Mémé!”

Elsa follows, relieved.

But not for long.

There’s no sign of her mother. Elsa trails Renny from room to room until they end up in the empty foyer again.

“I really thought I heard something.”

“I heard it too,” Elsa assures Renny, “but this is an old building. It makes noises. Or maybe it was someone walking around in the apartment upstairs.”

“I thought it was soundproof.”

Yeah. So did I.

Elsa glances again at the door. If no one was here, then why was it ajar when they got back?

And why, she wonders in alarm as she takes a closer look, is it no longer dead-bolted from the inside now?

 

Jake is just as good-looking as Caroline remembered. Maybe better-looking, with his hair all damp and kind of spiky from the rain, as if he ran his fingers through it. Caroline wouldn’t mind doing just that, she decides, watching him walk toward her again, this time carrying the cup of coffee he just bought.

His rain jacket is already draped over the chair opposite her, and his backpack is resting on the floor at her feet where he left it, after saying, “Be right back.”

Now he sits down, shaking his head. “I still can’t believe you’re here.”

“Why can’t you believe it? I told you I come here sometimes,” she reminds him, hoping she doesn’t look as stale and wilted as she feels. Too bad she didn’t think to put on some lip gloss when she last visited the ladies’ room, about twenty minutes ago. By then, she’d all but given up hope that he’d show up.

But he’s here! He’s here!

He shrugs. “After what happened to you yesterday, I can’t believe you’d ever come back.”

“You did.”

“I’m not the one it happened to.”

“Whatever. It was random. I’m fine.”

Yeah, sure. Fine. Totally laid back about a rat crawling out of her purse.

But his being here really does make it seem all better.

“You know”—Jake sips the coffee, and makes a face like it’s too hot—“I tried to wait around for you for a little bit after they took you into the back room, but then I thought that might seem weird, so I left.”

“Why would it seem weird?”

“You don’t think it would have?”

“No.” She smiles at him. “I think it would have been sweet.”

“Oh…too bad I didn’t do it, then. Because I really am a sweet guy.”

“Yeah?” She gives him a flirty little smile.

He smiles back, and for the first time, Caroline notices his eyes.

With his blond hair, you’d expect them to be blue, or maybe brown.

But they’re dark—as dark, perhaps, as her own.

 

The door was dead-bolted. Elsa is sure of it.

Now it isn’t. She’s sure of that, too.

Numb with fear, she calls out to her mother, hearing the doubt in her own voice. There will be no reply, because Maman isn’t here.

But maybe she was here, and she unlocked the door on her way out just now…

No. If Maman had been here, she’d have heard them calling her. She’d have answered.

But if she wasn’t here…then who came into the apartment while they were gone, left the door ajar, and now unlocked it?

“Mommy, what are you doing?”

Opening her mouth to answer Renny’s question, she can’t seem to find her voice.

Okay, don’t panic. Just stay calm and think this through. There must be an explanation.

Elsa rests a hand on Renny’s shoulder, as much to steady herself as to reassure her daughter.

Think. Think.

Tom said he saw Maman. Was he imagining things? Or lying? But why would he lie?

Who is Tom, anyway? A doorman. A stranger. He wasn’t even in the lobby, she realizes, when they came and went. He was standing outside. He could have been anyone.

Oh God. I can’t trust him. I can’t trust anyone.

Someone knows she and Renny are in Maman’s apartment. Someone was waiting for them just now.

Yet she’s positive they weren’t followed here from Connecticut, or even from Penn Station.

And she didn’t even decide they were coming to New York until this afternoon. She hasn’t discussed it with anyone but Brett. They didn’t even buy tickets until right before they boarded the train.

Yet someone found them.

That means they weren’t just being watched and photographed. Someone must have been listening to their private conversations. Someone heard them talking about the trip in their kitchen, or over the phone. Either the line is tapped, or the house is bugged. Maybe both.

She has to call Brett and tell him—

No! You can’t call Brett. You can’t call Maman, either.

You can’t call anyone. You can’t talk about it to anyone, not even Renny.

Someone might be listening right now. Someone might hear her shallow breathing, her heart pounding like crazy, blood roaring through her veins…

“Mommy?”

“Shh!”

Whoever was here might have wanted her to think he was leaving. But he might still be here, hiding, watching, listening.

Clutching Renny’s shoulder, she glances warily around the foyer.

Dear God, someone is there—standing right behind her.

Elsa cries out—then realizes it’s her own reflection in an enormous gilded mirror. She looks like hell: hair straggly from the rain, pupils dilated in sheer terror, yesterday’s mascara rendering her gaunt, almost otherworldly.

“Mommy!”

“It’s okay, Renny.” She hugs her shaken daughter. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

But someone is sure as hell trying to scare her—and doing a damned good job of it.

 

Arriving home after an agonizing day of going through the motions at the office, still with no word from Mike, Brett is relieved to see that Meg’s car is no longer parked in the driveway next door. He’s definitely not up for another round of Q&A.

Reminded that Elsa’s car is still sitting at the Sunoco station—or, by now, in a tow yard somewhere—he wonders again about that Spider-Man toy she’d found lying in the parking lot. Even if it had fallen out of the car…

What if Elsa herself had been the one who was carrying it around? Caught in the throes of acute stress disorder, she’d done that back in the beginning, for months after their son disappeared. She’d clung fiercely to that toy, even talked to it, as if it were Jeremy himself. The day she’d tried to kill herself, when he’d found her unconscious, she’d been clutching the toy in her hands.

So, what? You think she lied to you about how it might have gotten into the car and onto the ground next to it?

No. Her terror was too real. She didn’t lie.

But maybe her subconscious mind is up to something again. Losing touch with reality. Dissociative behavior. Maybe learning of Jeremy’s death really did push her over the edge, and Brett was just too distracted or busy to notice the signs.

But it isn’t just that she thought someone was in Renny’s room, or that she thought she saw a footprint, and found that Spider-Man by the car.

What about the envelope of pictures?

Wait a minute.

She wasn’t in any of them.

Could she have taken them, and mailed them, herself?

It would mean his wife is seriously mentally ill.

No. I can’t accept that. I won’t.

He strides toward the house, casting a wary eye across the surrounding landscape, relieved to see nothing unusual. It isn’t until he’s reached the front door that he spots the small rectangle of paper stuck to the frame.

Heart racing, he grabs it.

Mr. and Mrs. Cavalon: I’ll be Renata’s new caseworker, and I came by this afternoon to introduce myself. Please give me a call to schedule a meeting at your earliest convenience.

The ink is wet and smeared in spots, particularly at the bottom, making the scrawled signature difficult to read. It looks like Melissa—or perhaps Melvin?—Jackson, or Johnson. The phone number is legible, though.

Brett hurriedly unlocks the door and shoves the keys into his suit coat pocket along with the note, wondering why the new social worker didn’t just call in advance to introduce herself.

Then again—why would she call? Pop-in visits are a necessary evil when it comes to foster care, and a heads-up would obviously ruin the spontaneity.

After stepping over the threshold, Brett locks the dead bolt behind him and leans against the door, head tilted back, eyes closed.

The threat of an unexpected visit from Roxanne was bad enough. Now another new caseworker breathing down their necks? That’s the last thing he and Elsa need right now.

What they do need right now is help. But Mike seems to have fallen off the face of the earth, and the only other person to whom he can consider reaching out is Elsa’s therapist, Joan.

There must be some kind of patient privacy protocol, but he can only hope that Elsa signed a release in the beginning that would allow him access to her mental health records.

He has to call Joan. He knows he does. He dreads the thought of it, but it’s time.

He pulls his cell phone from his pocket and checks to make sure he didn’t somehow miss a call. Nope.

He finds Mike’s number and hits redial, wanting to give it one more try before he gets in touch with Joan.

This time, someone answers the phone with a gruff-sounding hello.

“Mike?”

“No,” the unfamiliar voice says.

“Sorry, I must have the wrong—”

“Are you looking for Mike Fantoni?”

“Yes…”

“This is the right phone. Who is this?”

“I’m…a friend of his.”

“Yeah. So am I.”

Wondering what’s going on, Brett asks, “Can I please speak to him?”

There’s a long pause. “I’m sorry. They just gave me his phone, and I heard it ring, so…”

“They?”

“The nurses. I’m at the hospital. Mike is…he’s been in an accident.”

 

Elsa desperately wants to believe she and Renny are alone in the apartment.

If they are, then the safest thing to do would be to barricade the door and stay right here until this is over…

Whatever “this” is.

But if that isn’t the case—if whoever unlocked the dead bolt is still here—then they have to escape, before—

No. Don’t even think about that. It’s going to be fine. You can get through this. Just stay calm.

Okay. An escape. The door is just a few yards away. It would be so easy to grab Renny and run for it…

Her eyes go to the coat closet beside the door. What if someone is hiding in there, watching them through the crack? Or that tall armoire positioned against the curved wall between the door and where they’re standing now: Someone could be lurking in the shadows on the far side of it. If she makes a move to leave with Renny, he’ll pounce, and then what?

Elsa could scream for help at the top of her lungs…

And no one would hear.

Soundproof. Oh God.

Her eyes are starting to sting.

How could she have thought it was a good idea to leave Brett, to travel so far from home alone with Renny, to a city filled with strangers who—

“Can we eat now?” Renny’s voice startles Elsa.

She blinks, takes a deep breath, tries to focus. Her throat dry with fear, she repeats Renny’s question slowly, as if it had been spoken in a foreign language. “Can we eat now?”

Can…we…eat…now…?

Can…we…?

The words aren’t registering. All she can think of is fleeing this gilded cage, getting her daughter to safety…

“Mommy?”

Food. She’s talking about the Chinese food in the kitchen.

“No, we…”

Wait a minute. The kitchen…

The knives are there, right on the counter. If she were armed, she’d at least be able to fight back if someone attacked.

Yes. That’s what she’ll do. She’ll grab a knife and then make a break for the door with her daughter.

“Come on,” she tells Renny, trying to keep panic from edging into her voice. “Let’s go eat.”

Peering into every shadowy nook along the way as they move toward the kitchen, Elsa keeps one firm hand on Renny’s shoulder and the other in her pocket, clamped around her cell phone. If she had to, she could probably dial 911 blindly, with her thumb.

But how long would it take for help to arrive?

Too long.

And no one will hear their screams.

Oh God…Oh God…

In the kitchen, the Chinese food waits on the counter.

Keeping Renny close beside her, Elsa walks over. Her hand is shaking like crazy, her thumb poised on the 9 button, as she starts to reach past the bag…

Calm down. You have to calm down. If he’s watching, he’ll think you’re going for the takeout, and—

Stunned by what she sees, she involuntarily loosens her grip on her phone. It clatters onto the granite counter as she stares in disbelief at the knife block.

Minutes ago, the handles were all accounted for.

Now one of the slots is empty.

 

Stunned, Brett listens as Joe, the man who answered Mike’s phone—his neighbor, and a witness to the accident—explains the situation.

Mike Fantoni is in a coma.

“It was a hit-and-run in front of his building. This car came barreling out of nowhere. Hit him, and kept on going.”

“Did you get a look at it?”

“Not a good look, no. I was in a state of shock, trying to help Mikey…” He pauses, clears the emotion from his throat. “A couple of other people saw it, though. The cops found the car abandoned a coupla blocks away. Stolen.”

“Do they have any idea who was driving it?”

“Probably some crazy-ass kid out joyriding.” Joe sighs heavily. “You know, another few seconds, and he woulda been outa there, on his way to the airport.”

“What? The kid? How do you know—”

“Not the kid. Mike!”

“Mike was going to the airport?”

“Had his bags all packed and everything.”

“Do you know where he was going?”

“On vacation.”

“Do you know where?” Brett repeats, his heart pounding.

“Nah. Why?”

“Just…he was working on something for me. Is there any way you can find out where—”

“I told you, he’s in a coma, on a respirator. I can’t—”

“No, I know,” Brett says quickly, guiltily. “Forget it. It’s not important.”

But it is important.

Just last night, Mike promised to figure out where that Spider-Man figurine came from. Why hadn’t he mentioned he was going away this morning?

Was it a sudden decision?

Or…

Could the trip have had something to do with the case?

 

With a burst of adrenaline, Elsa grabs her daughter by the arm and drags her out of the kitchen.

Renny starts to cry out in protest.

“Shh, no! No!” Elsa grabs her by the shoulders. “I know this doesn’t make sense, Renny, but just do what I say right now, please. Okay?”

At her frightened nod, Elsa releases her and turns to see if there’s any sign of an intruder.

The menacing presence seems as blatant as the gaping hole in the knife block, yet the long hallway is deserted.

Could she have imagined that a handle was missing? Fear does strange things to a person…

Or maybe it was missing all along, and she just thought she saw all the knives accounted for when she checked earlier…

Am I losing my mind?

Maybe it’s crazy to acknowledge—even to herself—that she might be seeing things. But is that any crazier than assuming someone is creeping around the apartment, armed with a kitchen knife, like a murderous maniac from a horror movie?

Renny tugs her arm, and Elsa glances down to see that her face is etched in worry.

I can’t take any chances. I’ve got to get her out of here.

Motioning with her forefinger against her lips, Elsa pulls Renny into the dining room, past the Baroque dining set and antique sideboard. She keeps an eye on the drawn gold brocade draperies at the windows for any sign of movement.

All is still. But that doesn’t mean they aren’t being watched from a gap in the curtains, or…or a crevice in the wall, or around a doorway…

Why, oh why, didn’t Elsa think to grab one of the knives before she left the kitchen? Now she’s utterly defenseless; the door might as well be on the far side of a crocodile moat.

Incredibly, Renny is cooperating. Does she realize their lives are hanging in the balance?

Or is she merely humoring Elsa, thinking she’s gone off the deep end like her schizophrenic birth mother?

I’ll explain everything to her later—as soon as I get her out of here.

Moving in absolute silence, they make it to the large, circular living room. The elaborate decor creates plenty of potential hiding places. Still, no hint of anyone lurking as they tiptoe across the carpet. Elsa keeps an eye on the French doors, where the wrought-iron Juliet balcony extends off to either side, beyond her view. What if someone is lurking there?

Then he can’t see me, either.

Step by stealthy step, they cover the home stretch.

In the foyer, acutely aware of the closed closet door and the shadowy recess beside the armoire, Elsa reminds herself again that slow and steady is the only way to escape with Renny. Her instinct is to get the hell out of here; if she were alone, she’d make a run for it. But she can’t do that with Renny. She has no choice.

Inch by inch, they make their way across the her-ringbone hardwoods. The apartment is silent but for the sound of the ticking clock and the humming refrigerator.

Holding her breath, Elsa reaches for the doorknob. Painstakingly, she turns it, pulls it open, bracing herself for the attack from behind.

When it doesn’t come—when she finds herself crossing the threshold into the hall with Renny—it’s all she can do not to collapse in relief. She leaves the door ajar, just as she found it, afraid the sound of it closing might alert the person who’s lurking in the apartment—if, indeed, anyone is really there.

“Mommy,” Renny whispers, “what—”

“Shh, sweetie, we just have to get out of here, and then I’ll explain.”

Oh, you will? What are you going to tell her? That you’re afraid someone wants to kill you, or her? That this was meant to be a refuge, but we aren’t safe here? That we aren’t safe anywhere?

If they manage to get out of here in one piece, what next? Should she call the police?

She reaches into her pocket for her phone, just in case…

But it’s not there.

What the…? She knows she had it earlier. She was going to call 911, right before—

Oh. She must have dropped it in the kitchen when she saw that the knife was missing.

The knife…

She can’t go back for the phone. It doesn’t matter. All that matters now is getting Renny out of here.

Please, God, let us get out of here…

The wide, deserted hallway stretches ahead of them. Short corridors branch off in several spots. There’s an ancient stairwell no one ever uses—for all she knows, it might be locked or blocked off once they get inside.

No. Not worth the risk. They pass the stairwell, the garbage chute, the door to a utility room.

Just ahead looms a shallow recess that holds a fire extinguisher and enough room for someone to hide, flat against the wall.

But the danger lies behind them, Elsa reminds herself—not ahead.

Still, her chest aches with tension as they pass it and round the corner. No one follows; no one jumps out at them, yet she won’t breathe easily until they’re outside.

Not even then. Not until you know what you’re dealing with, and why, and who…

Stop. Just focus. One thing at a time.

Ahead, the door to the main elevator bank and stairs beckons like the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel. She hustles Renny toward it, her brain ping-ponging between escape route options.

Stairs or elevator?

Stairs or elevator?

Stairs…

No. They’d be out in the open, easily spotted descending the stairwell from anyone on a landing above.

Once they got into an elevator, though, they’d be safe—as long as it showed up in a hurry. There are six of them; the odds are good. They’ll take the elevator.

She pushes through the door and heaves a sigh of relief that they’ve made it this far.

She’s about to press the down button when her daughter speaks for the first time.

“No!”

“What? What’s wrong?”

Oh—oh no. Renny shrinks back, staring fearfully at the elevator doors.

“I can’t.”

“You can. Please, Renny…” Elsa jams her palm down hard on the button, repeatedly, and hears an elevator lurching up from below.

“No!”

“Shh! You have to.” It’s all Elsa can do to speak over the awful lump in her own throat. “We need to get out of here, and I promise it’s going to be okay.”

The doors glide open; the elevator is empty. She reaches for Renny, pulls her inside, and hesitates, thoughts careening again.

Lobby or ground floor?

Lobby or ground floor?

The security desk is right in the lobby—along with creepy Tom.

There’s a service entrance in the basement, along with the door to the adjacent parking garage. They’ll sneak out one way or another, and once they’re on the street, she can figure out where to go next.

Elsa presses the ground floor button. The doors start to close.

Relieved, Elsa leans back her head, closes her eyes, and at last breathes a sigh of relief.

With an anguished cry and a fierce lurch of her little body, Renny wrenches herself free of Elsa’s grasp. She throws herself back out through the elevator doors at the last second before they slide closed.

In a panic, Elsa presses the door open button, but it’s too late. The descent is under way, and she’s helplessly trapped inside without her daughter.

 

“Is there anything I can do from here?” Brett asks Mike’s friend Joe.

“Do you pray?”

Brett hesitates, remembering all the years he’d gone faithfully to church—and all the years he hadn’t.

He and Elsa were married at St. Mary’s, the parish where he’d been christened, confirmed, served as an altar boy, and eventually cried at his parents’ funerals.

“Will you accept children lovingly from God?” Father Nolan asked solemnly during the wedding ceremony. Brett and Elsa vowed that they would.

And they did. They accepted Jeremy lovingly from God—by way of the foster care agency back in Boston—and they did their best to make him their own. Brett even took him to church a couple of times, thinking it might be good for both of them.

Looking back, he remembers the disapproving glances from other parishioners and his own discomfort over Jeremy’s behavior more than he remembers anything spiritually positive.

He thinks about what Jeremy did to the Montgomery girl, and of Jeremy’s disappearance, and how he finally stopped going to church for good when his prayers weren’t answered.

Then he thinks about Elsa, who tried to kill herself, and Renny, so close to becoming their daughter…

“Yeah,” he tells Joe. “I pray.”

“Then pray for Mikey. That’s all anyone can do.”

 

Elsa keeps pressing buttons, but the elevator descends to the ground floor without stopping.

Trapped inside, on the verge of panic, she flashes back to the first moments after she realized Jeremy was missing from the backyard.

She remembers running back into the house, thinking he might have gotten past her and was safely inside; screaming his name; racing back outside, combing the yard, the block, a nearby field…

Later, years later, she wondered if her own terror had precluded her from getting to Jeremy while there was still time. If she’d only stayed calm; if she’d called the police right away; if she hadn’t been hysterical…

Yes. She blamed herself. All these years, she’s blamed herself.

And the same familiar firestorm of panic is sweeping toward her now.

Yet she’s helpless, trapped; there’s nothing to do but wait for the elevator to hit bottom.

The second it does, she jabs the button for her mother’s floor.

The elevator begins the excruciating ascent and Elsa prays it won’t stop along the way, prays Renny will be right where she left her.

Of course she will. Where else would she go? She’d know I’m coming back for her.

Wouldn’t she?

Yes. She’d know I wouldn’t just abandon her, ever.

But what if he gets to her first?

What if…?

At last, at last, the elevator bumps to a stop. The doors begin to open. Elsa springs through the opening the moment it’s wide enough.

Renny is gone.

It’s all she can do not to collapse in despair, or shout her daughter’s name.

No. Don’t. Stay focused.

Think. Think…

Would Renny have left of her own accord? Or did someone grab her?

Dizzy with fear, Elsa rushes over to the wrought-iron railing and leans over, scanning the vast stairwell for Renny.

No sign of her daughter below, or above, either.

Again reliving the nightmare of Jeremy’s disappearance, Elsa runs blindly back along the corridor.

She tries to reassure herself exactly as she did on that awful day fifteen years ago—that her child is simply hiding, or lost; that nothing bad can happen to someone who’s already endured so much pain in a short lifetime.

But it did, and Jeremy is dead, and now Renny…

“Renny!” she calls recklessly, no longer in control of her instincts.

She races around the corner, retracing the path to her mother’s apartment. The door is still ajar.

Did Renny go back inside?

Was someone waiting for her there?

Would she have left the door standing open exactly as Elsa had?

Without a thought to her own safety, Elsa dashes inside, dizzy with fear, calling her daughter’s name.

It takes her a minute of frantic searching, maybe less, to determine that the apartment is empty—just as the house and the yard were fifteen years ago.

Back in the round entryway, she grasps the edge of an antique table as the world seems to spin around her like a carnival ride.

“Renny! Oh God, Renny, where are you?”

She’s gone.

Gone.

At last, the bottom drops out and Elsa falls to her knees.