“Malcolm,” Howard Young implored. “The time has come to end all the killing. The time has come when you can finally rest. I am here, my son. I am here to take you to your mother.”

The crying just went on, echoing throughout the house.

“Listen to me, Malcolm. I know you are alone. You are alone and frightened. I am your father. Don’t think that all these years you have been forgotten. I have lived with the horror of my deeds all my life. Over your grave I had a small stone inscribed with the letter M. I had a cherub carved to mark your place of rest, because that is how I came to think of you. As a cherub. But I know now that you were never at rest. And it is all my fault. All mine.”

His voice broke.

“But now I come for you,” Howard went on. “I will bring you to the mother you seek. Please, my son. Let me finally help you!”

The crying suddenly changed. Instead of being dispersed through the house, it was now localized. It came from one corner of the room. Carolyn looked in that direction. And there, on the floor, wrapped in nothing more than soft white blanket, was a little baby.

“Malcolm,” Howard Young gasped.

The baby lay on his back, his little pink hands clutching fistfuls of air. His face was red from crying.

“Go to him,” Carolyn told the old man.

Slowly Howard Young crossed the room. He gazed down at the baby on the floor. Then he stooped, and with difficulty, picked him up in his arms.

Carolyn braced herself for what might happen.

But all that occurred was that Malcolm stopped crying.

Douglas had come up beside her. “Where is Beatrice?” he whispered. “Will she not come to take her baby?”

“I don’t know,” Carolyn admitted.

“I know where she is,” Howard Young said, his eyes transfixed by the child he held in his arms. It was the first time he’d ever held his son, the first time he’d ever looked him in the face.

“In the room in the basement?” Carolyn asked. “Is that where you should take Malcolm?”

“No,” Howard said. “Not to the place where he died. I will take him to the place where he first came into this world.”

Slowly, and with great effort, he began climbing the stairs. Carolyn and Douglas followed a few steps behind. The baby cooed and gurgled in his father’s arms. Carolyn worried that after all he’d been through, Howard might fall or lose his footing on the stairs. But the old man didn’t waver. He kept ascending the marble staircase, and at the landing turned and continued up the next flight.

The attic. They were going to the attic.

Finally, they reached the top, stepping off into the small alcove with the view of the entire estate below. Carolyn felt Douglas take her hand. He had brought her here. It had been his special place. It had been a special place for Howard and Beatrice as well.

Through the large picture window they could see the storm had passed and the sun was setting. The sky was a liquid mix of pink and gold and blue. Howard stood in front of the window holding the baby.

“I have brought him to you, Beatrice,” he said. “Our son.”

Outside the window, in the gathering dusk, there was a swirl of white. Carolyn strained her eyes to see.

It was Beatrice.

“It is time we were a family,” Howard said. “It is long past time.”

Outside, in the darkening air, Beatrice beckoned.

And before Carolyn even knew what was happening, Howard Young, his son clutched to his chest, leapt forward, smashing through the large pane of glass.

Chapter Forty-four

Now that the rain had ended, Paula ventured outside the barn. Looking up at the great house, she couldn’t believe what she was seeing.

First came the smashing of glass, then Uncle Howard was plummeting out of a window to the earth below.

And Paula could have sworn he was holding a baby in his arms.

The old man’s body hit the muddy ground with a sickening thud. Paula ran to him as fast as she could. As she got near, she saw there was no baby in his arms. It was just Uncle Howard, twisted and broken.

It was clear that he was dead. Paula knelt down to inspect his brittle, broken body. It had been a horrible way to die. But the expression on his face was peaceful.

“Is it over?” Paula asked, clutching the old man’s hand. “Or does it still go on?”

Movement caught her eye from several yards away.

She looked up quickly. Darkness was settling. The trees cast long purple shadows across the lawn. But as Paula stood, she could discern the figure of a woman moving toward the cliffs.

It was Beatrice.

And she was carrying a baby in her arms.

Douglas and Carolyn came running out of the house at that moment. Reaching Paula, they exchanged looks that said more than any words could convey. Douglas knelt beside the body of Uncle Howard and saw that he was dead. Still without words, Paula gestured for them to look across the lawn.

There was Beatrice, holding Malcolm. She was walking away from them. She kept on walking, without ever turning back, her black hair blowing in the wind. She walked straight over the cliffs, as if she were walking on air. Paula, Carolyn, and Douglas kept their eyes on her until she had faded away into the reflected light of the setting sun.

Chapter Forty-five

Carolyn’s FBI credentials served her well when the sheriff arrived. The multiple murders were easily explained by the presence of the body of David Cooke, a known killer wanted by New York police. The explanation for his rampage in Youngsport was obvious. Cooke had been after Carolyn, and was working his way through the entire household, killing the others in an effort to terrorize her.

But the problem was: there was no blood in Cooke’s body.

That’s when Carolyn had her former superior at the FBI give the sheriff’s department a call. Carolyn’s credibility was vouched for, and it was explained, as carefully as possible, that some of the cases she investigated were, to say the least, unusual. The Youngsport sheriff wasn’t about to buck the word of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. So he closed the case, classifying the murders as the work of David Cooke. He accepted the survivors’ contention that Cooke was killed in self-defense.

But the sheriff would never understand why there wasn’t a single drop of blood in Cooke’s body.

Of course, there had been blood everywhere else. The bodies were removed and buried. Dean’s funeral was especially sad, the sight of Zac and Callie clinging to their mother breaking everyone’s hearts. On the fourth day after the terror had ended, Sid arrived at the house. He had with him Howard Young’s will. Seated at the old man’s desk in the study, Sid read the will to Douglas, Carolyn, Paula, Karen, Jeanette, and Michael. The bulk of the estate had been left to Douglas over a year before, with generous bequests to Jeanette, Paula, and Dean. Dean’s share would now go to Linda and his children. Sid explained there was nothing in the will for Philip’s family, so they didn’t have to worry about his widow trying to grab anything.

“I don’t really care about any of it,” Douglas said afterward, as the six of them sat on the benches overlooking the cliffs. “I’d still rather just have a little house by a river as I’d imagined. Run a little carpentry shop.”

“Then that’s where we’ll live,” Carolyn said, taking his hand, kissing his cheek.

Paula smiled. “We could donate the house to the state. Turn the grounds into a park.”

“And bring the kids here to play,” Karen said.

They exchanged a smile. Paula had already arranged for a donor and hoped to be pregnant within a few months. She’d be forty in a few weeks, after all; she had no time to lose. She had told them she was praying for twins, since they ran in the family. A boy and a girl. And she’d name them Dean and Chelsea.