“Are we good, babe?”

“Always. Let’s go back to her car. You can drive it home. I’ll take her.”

Kendall Stark smoothed out the wrinkles in the pale blue blanket that enveloped Cody as she tucked him in. The blanket’s edges were frayed, and she noticed how Steven had repaired it with iron-on batting tape. She wondered when he’d done that. She wondered if the case that was ripping her apart had stolen other small moments of family life that she’d never even known about. All she could think about was the Cutter. Her mind was swirling with the thoughts of the case, the missteps she’d made, the anguish she’d been unable to lessen. As her son’s sleepy eyes began to shut, she thought about his innocence-and the innocence of those who’d died at the hands of the serial killer. He was unaware of the evil of the world. That was, she thought, a beautiful thing.

The one gift that autism had given him. The only gift.

With Cody asleep, Kendall kissed his warm forehead and headed toward the door. The evenings always went like that. Her phone buzzed, and she ignored it.

Serenity snapped her phone shut. In a way, she was relieved that Detective Stark hadn’t answered. She’d make up an excuse if Detective Stark asked her later why she’d called. In the split second it took for her to push her speed-dial and get the detective’s voice mail, she’d begrudgingly found herself sliding down a slippery slope.

She’d never forgive herself for doing so.

The odd voice who’d called her moments before had said only sixteen words:

I’m going to pick up your little beauty queen and take her for a test ride.

It was a threat. And a chillingly specific one at that.

Chapter Fifty

March 29, 7 p.m.

Port Orchard

Deana Wilson was fuming in her granite slab kitchen. She and Brent, her land-use-planner husband, had dinner plans at the Boat Shed in Bremerton, and Paige was nowhere to be found. Deana had received a text message from her daughter the day before, indicating she’d be spending Sunday with a girlfriend, then going off to school the next morning.

At forty-two, Deana was a gorgeous woman with a sophisticated bob haircut and teeth so white, they glowed in the dark. Her beauty had been passed on to her daughter. Thankfully, for Paige, not her self-centered tendencies.

You can be so thoughtless, Paige! Deana thought as she paced the cream and sand living room. You should have been home hours ago!

She called a number of Paige’s girlfriends, but no one had a clue where the teenager was. Next she took a seat on a kitchen bar stool, looked out at the rippling wake of a passing ferry, and dialed Maggie Thompson. Deana told her that Paige hadn’t come home from school and how she’d repeatedly tried her cell, but there had been no answer.

“I’m sorry, Maggie, I’ve checked the calendar, and I don’t see any Fathoms event for today.”

“We have one scheduled for Olalla Elementary a week from Monday,” Maggie said. “That’s up next. Nothing today.”

“I have that one marked down,” Deana said, looking at the Currier & Ives calendar that hung by the corn-yellow wall phone that Brent had never got around to taking out when the family went cellular. Deana made a mental note to remind him to take care of it. A phone was not a kitchen accessory unless it was a charming antique. A corn-yellow wall-mounted Princess phone missed that mark by a mile.

“Did you try Danica and Taylor-Marie?” Maggie said, referring to the two Fathoms princesses. Danica Moses had been the batik artist, and Taylor-Marie Ferguson had read the haikus.

“Yes, I called them first. They have no idea where she is.” For the first time Deana let a tone of worry enter the conversation. “Maggie, they told me that they didn’t see her in school today.”

“Don’t fret. I’m sure she’s all right. I’ve worked with a lot of these girls, and they can get pretty touchy. It isn’t easy being a queen, you know.”

It was a not-so-sly reference to the fact that Maggie had once held the title herself.

“I know,” Deana said. “But honestly, that girl can be so insensitive. She’s so selfish.” She paused. “You know what I mean.”

Maggie sighed into the phone. “Yes, I do. Not as bad as 2003, but our Queen Paige is giving us a moment or two.”

Deana Wilson thanked Maggie and hung up.

Queen or not, when she gets home, Paige is going to get it, she thought.

An hour later Brent came home and immediately dialed the Port Orchard Police.

“You know something, Deana?” Brent said, while shaking his head as they waited to give a description of their missing daughter. “If she’s run away, I’m going to blame you.”

“Me?”

“Yeah, you.”

Brent couldn’t stop himself. “If there’s a more self-centered mother on the planet, I haven’t seen any evidence of it. Just so you know.”

Deana averted her gaze.

A twinge of shame with a capsule dose of reality?

She didn’t say a word.

Kendall carried her phone away from the sofa where she, Steven, and Cody had been curled up, munching buttered popcorn and watching a DVD. She hated the intrusion of a phone call, but it was urgent and it was Josh.

“Heads up on a missing girl,” he said.

She slowly let the air leak out of her lungs as she got up and walked to the privacy of the kitchen. “Oh no. Tell me.”

“This year’s Fathoms queen, Paige Wilson. Parents don’t know if she ran away or what. Port Orchard Police are working it but want an assist.”

“When?”

“Yesterday.”

“Sunday,” she said.

“Right. That’s what I thought.”

“Nothing for us tonight. But tomorrow, first thing, we can give the Port Orchard guys a hand.”

Kendall went back to the TV, and Cody took his place in her lap.

“Everything all right?” Steven asked, knowing by the look on her face it wasn’t.

“We don’t know. Might be looking at another victim.”

Steven showed his concern by patting her hand.

“Jesus, babe,” he said softly.

She nodded and put her fingers to her lips. She didn’t want to talk about it just then. It was all she could think about, though. Whatever was showing on the TV was invisible to her.

If Paige Wilson had been taken by the Cutter, her nightmare had only just begun.

It beckoned. The tiny tear in the aluminum foil over the window was an invitation to do what he’d been told never to do. It took about thirty seconds to decide to once more break one of the biggest family rules. Max Castile wasn’t tall enough to see through that window without a boost, but he was smart enough to roll the wagon his father had him use to haul wood next to the mobile so he could step up to see what was making those noises.

To see for sure what he imagined was going on inside the mobile.

Max climbed up onto the wagon. It teetered as its wheels sank into the damp soil. He squinted. Getting a good look wasn’t easy. It was frustrating. It was like trying to line a thread through the eye of a tiny needle. He moved his head from left to right to try to capture what it was. He could make out his father’s beefy frame, naked save for a black hood over his head. Tattoos from his tour with the Navy, an anchor and a dagger that curled around his shoulder, were shiny with sweat. Seeing his dad like that seemed so wrong; he averted his eyes for a second. He could make out another leg, also naked, but he could not see who it belonged to.

“No,” came a muffled whimper.

Max just stared, his eyes glued to the fragments of flesh he could see move in and out of the view through the slit in the foil.

They looked like the menacing figures on the magazines he’d seen in the Navy footlocker.