“She was scared of Mr. Krueger. He told her to know her place, to keep her mouth shut, to make sure nothing was ever out of place or changed in the house.”

“I never could understand why she worked for us, the way Erich treated her.”

“The kind of money he paid. Elsa said that she’d work for the devil for that big a salary.” Joe put his hand on the doorknob. “Sounds like she was working for the devil, don’t it, Jenny?”

February is not the shortest month of the year, Jenny thought. It seemed an eternity. Day after day. Minute after minute. The nighttime madness of lying in bed, watching the outline of the crystal bowl against the darkness. She wore Caroline’s nightgown every night, kept a cake of pine soap under the pillow so the bed always held the faint scent of pine.

If Erich came in some night, quietly, stealthily, if he came into this room, this nightgown, this scent, might lull him into security.

When she did sleep she dreamt incessantly of the children. In sleep they were waiting for her. They would call “Mommy, Mommy,” and tumble into the bed, pressing small, wiggly bodies against her, and then as she tried to put her arms around them she awoke.

She never dreamt of the baby. It was as though the same total involvement she had given to preserving the small flicker of life in that tiny body now belonged to Tina and Beth.

She had the confession memorized; over and over it ran through her head: “I am not responsible…”

During the day she was never far from the phone. To pass the time she spent most mornings cleaning the house. She dusted and waxed and mopped, swept, polished silver. But she would not use the vacuum for fear of missing the first peal of the telephone.

Most afternoons Rooney came over, a quiet, different Rooney for whom the waiting was over. “I was thinking we might start quilts for the girls’ beds,” she suggested. “As long as Erich still thinks he can come here and find you and be a family with you and the girls, he won’t hurt them. But in the meantime you gotta be busy at least with your hands. Otherwise you’ll go crazy. So let’s start quilts.”

Rooney went up to the attic to get the bag with the leftover scraps of material. They began to sew. Jenny thought of the legend of the three sisters who spun, measured and cut the threads of time. But we’re only two of the three, she thought. Erich is the third. It is he who can cut the strand of life.

Rooney sorted the pieces of material into neat piles on the kitchen table. “We’ll want them bright and cheerful,” she said, “so we won’t use dark colors.” She began whisking back into the bag the ones she was rejecting. “This was from a tablecloth old Mrs. Krueger had. That’s John’s mother. Caroline and I used to laugh that anyone would want such a dismal-looking thing. And that sailcloth was from a bolt she bought to make a cover for the picnic table. That was the summer Erich was five. And, oh, I don’t know why I don’t just throw out the rest of this blue stuff. Remember I told you I made curtains for the big back room? When they were up you’d think you were in a cave. The whole room was so dark. Oh, well…” She pushed it into the sack. “You never know when you might want to put your hand on it.”

They began to sew. It seemed to Jenny that the end of hope had robbed Rooney of intensity. Everything she said was expressed in the same middle key. “Once Erich is found we’re going to have a real funeral for Arden. The hardest for me now is to think back and remember how Erich encouraged me to think that Arden was still alive. Clyde said all along that she’d never run away. I shoulda known that. I guess I did know that. But every time I started to say that I guess my Arden is with God, why, then Erich would say, ‘I don’t believe that, Rooney.’ He was so cruel getting up my hopes like that; kind of like never letting the wound heal. I tell you, Jenny, he don’t deserve to live.”

“Rooney, please, don’t talk like that.”

“I’m sorry, Jenny.”

Sheriff Gunderson phoned her every night. “We’ve checked out the real estate. We’ve given pictures to all the police in those areas with the understanding there be no publicity and if they see him or the car they don’t apprehend him. He’s not at any of the places listed in his tax returns.”

He tried to offer cautious comfort. “They say no news is good news, Mrs. Krueger. Right now the kids may be playing on a beach in Florida, getting a nice suntan.”

Pray God they were. She didn’t believe it.

Mark phoned every night. They stayed on only a minute or two. “Nothing, Jen.”

“Nothing.”

“All right, I won’t tie up the line. Hang in there, Jenny.”

Hang in there. She tried to establish some sort of pattern to her days. The nights, either sleepless or wracked with torturing dreams, drove her from bed at dawn. For days she hadn’t been outside the house. An early-morning television program featured a yoga exercise. Faithfully she sat in front of the set at six-thirty, mechanically following the prescribed routine of the day.

At seven o’clock Good Morning America came on. She forced herself to listen to the news, listen politely to the interviews. One day as she watched, pictures were flashed on the screen of children who had disappeared. Some of them had been missing for years. Amy… Roger… Tommy… Linda… José… one after the other. Each representing heartbreak. Someday would they add Elizabeth and Christine… “nicknamed Beth and Tina” to the list. “Their adoptive father left with them on February sixth, three years ago. If anyone has knowledge…”

The evenings had a ritual too. She sat in the family-room section of the kitchen and read or tried to watch television. Usually she would spin the dial and leave the set at where it stopped. Unseeingly she endured situation comedies, hockey games, old movies. She tried to read, but pages later she’d realize her mind hadn’t taken in a thing.

The last night in February she was particularly restless.

It seemed as though there was a stillness in the house that was particularly jarring. The canned laughter during a program depicting a couple throwing bric-a-brac at each other made her snap off the set. She sat staring ahead, seeing nothing. The phone rang. By now without hope, she picked it up. “Hello.”

“Jenny, this is Pastor Barstrom from Zion Lutheran. How have you been?”

“Very well, thank you.”

“I hope Erich extended our sympathy at the loss of your baby. I wanted to visit you but he suggested I defer seeing you. Is Erich there?”

“No. He’s away. I’m not sure when he’ll be back.”

“I see. Will you just remind him that our senior citizens center is almost complete? As the largest donor, I want to be sure he knows the dedication date is March tenth. He’s a very generous man, Jenny.”

“Yes. I’ll tell him you called. Good night, Pastor.”

The phone rang at quarter of two. She was lying in bed, a pile of books beside her, hoping that one of them would help her while away the night.

“Jenny.”

“Yes.” Was it Erich? He sounded different, high-pitched, tense.

“Jenny, who were you talking to on the phone? Around eight o’clock. You smiled while you were talking.”

“Around eight?” She tried to sound thoughtful, tried not to scream out the words, Where are Beth and Tina? “Let’s see,” she made a point of the delay. Sheriff Gunderson? Mark? She didn’t dare mention either. Pastor Barstrom. “Erich, Pastor Barstrom phoned. He wanted to talk to you, to invite you to the opening of the senior citizens’ hall.” Her hands clammy, her mouth trembling, she waited for his comment. Keep him on the phone. That way they might be able to trace the call.

“Are you sure it was Pastor Barstrom?”

“Erich, why would I say that?” She bit her lips. “How are the girls?”

“They’re fine.”

“Let me talk to them.”