Wait for Hull? I’d given her the address, but she wasn’t here yet.

Move!

Pushing with both palms, I eased the door six inches more. Waited, senses alert to the tiniest nuance. Then, still crouching, I scuttled inside.

Like an animal seeking cover, I darted into a corner. Blinked to adjust my eyes. Listened.

Nothing but the hum of a motor. The hammering of my heart.

I rose and pressed my back to a wall. Slid to the hallway and peeked around the corner.

Two yards ahead, a bathroom, empty and dark. The light was coming from a door on the left.

My adrenaline-stoked brain flashed a rational thought. I had no weapon. No way to defend myself should she be armed.

Heart banging, I backtracked through the living room and into the kitchen. A window above the sink oozed a fuzzy peach quadrangle onto the porcelain. Streetlight. Odd, but some tangle of cells made note.

The first drawer held towels, the second a jumble of cooking utensils. I cautiously rifled among them.

Bingo. A paring knife.

Ever so gently, I teased it free and set it on the counter.

Carefully digging out my phone, I tried to text Hull.

My fingers refused to obey my cortex. They felt numb. As though deadened by cold or anesthesia.

Shake it off!

Breath in.

Breath out.

I managed to key three words. An address. Hit send. Pocketed the phone. Then, blade angled backward and down, I tiptoe-ran back to the hall.

Light slivered the jamb and across the bottommost edge of the door. Yellow, steady. A low-wattage bulb, not a candle.

Shrinking inside my own skin as much as I could, I began inching forward. Two steps. I paused, straining for signs of another presence.

Only the hum of the refrigerator and the drumbeat of rain.

Three steps.

Three more.

Tightening my grip on the knife, I closed the final two feet. Stepped to the side of the door and pressed my back to the wall.

Every nerve a heated wire, I extended my free arm and pushed with a back-turned palm. No theatrical Hitchcock sound-effect creak. Just a noiseless re-angling of the door on its hinges. A slo-mo reveal of the room. I scanned the contents.

A twin bed, all done up in pink. A dresser with a ballerina princess lamp. A rocker stuffed with animals and dolls. A desk. Above it, a bulletin board layered with photos, news clippings, and memorabilia.

It looked like the room of a teenage girl.

My eyes probed the blackness in the corners and under the dresser and desk. The edges of bed skirt. A door I assumed gave on to a closet.

I listened for breathing. The soft whisper of fabric.

Heard nothing. The room was empty.

My gaze reversed. Swept more slowly. Came to rest on the bulletin board.

My brain did a cerebral cinematic zoom.

My chest tightened.

No! I was mistaken. It was a trick of the meager lighting.

I shook my head. As if that would help.

Front teeth pressing hard on my lower lip, I crossed to the board and stared at the photo.

Anique Pomerleau gazed up from her barrel, eyes blank, blond hair wrapping her skull like a shroud.

I took an involuntary step backward. Maybe to distance myself from the evil I sensed. Maybe to avoid contaminating the scene.

A box sat dead center on the desktop. Old, carved, the knob on its cover darkened by the touch of many hands. Or the touch of just one.

Careful to avoid contact, I inserted the tip of the knife into the narrow space surrounding the lid. Levered up. Then, fast as lightning, I caught the lid’s underside and flipped it free.

The box was full. Too full to disclose what lay in its depths. But one object sent blood surging into my head.

The uppermost item was a ballet slipper. In size and color, a perfect match for the one found in Hamet Ajax’s trunk. Lizzie Nance’s.

The slipper rested atop two photos. Me in a lab coat measuring a skull. Me entering the annex at Sharon Hall. My home.

My thoughts began racing. Emotions. Fear. Rage. Mostly rage.

Where was Slidell?

Where was Hull?

I closed my eyes. Felt heat at the backs of my lids.

No tears! Get more help! Find Mary Louise!

Using my iPhone, I shot two pics. Then, no longer concerned about stealth, I raced back to the kitchen, set the knife on the counter, yanked off my jacket, and wrapped it around my hand. Deep breath. I opened the freezer.

Popsicles. Fish sticks. Bagels. Lasagna.

Ziplocs containing hair and flesh. Vials of blood-red ice.

My stomach did something gymnastic. A bitter taste filled my mouth. I pivoted and took two shaky steps. Steadied myself on the sink with a jacket-swaddled hand.

When the nausea passed, I raised my eyes to the window. Saw a rain-blurred distortion of my face.

Beyond the glass, a streetlight, not five feet distant. Power lines crisscrossed its misty glow, casting spiderweb shadows on a patch of gravel below.

On a striped bucket hat with a tassel on top.

CHAPTER 42

THE SHOCK MORPHED into a bloodlust of which I would have thought myself incapable. A savage hatred I’d never experienced.

I wanted the bitch.

And I knew where to find her.

The picture in the box.

Was it a mistake? Or a plea to end the insanity? Perhaps bait to lure me into a deadly trap?

I didn’t care. I knew she’d gone to find me. I texted Hull again.

At the wheel, minutes after leaving the apartment on Dotger, I winged onto a narrow street shooting behind Sharon Hall. At ten P.M. the block was still as a tomb.

I killed the engine and flew from the car. Rain stung my face as I pounded up a driveway, through a backyard, and onto the grounds.

At the point where I pushed through the hedge, the townhouses were freestanding brick structures in rows of three. The structures formed two sides of a square. Inside the square was a patch of concrete for parking.

I stopped to catch my breath and do a quick scan. Five cars. Among them a 2001 Chevy Impala. Tan.

She was here!

But where?

The main house was off to my left. Straight ahead, beyond its two wings and back courtyard, was the coach house. Beside it, the annex.

Would she dare bring her malignancy right to my doorstep?

My eyes probed the shadows among the trees and shrubs.

Rain soaked my hair, my jeans. My jacket clung to my shirt like an outer layer of skin.

Circle to the front? Take the brick walk along the back of the property?

Wait for backup? How long?

Fearing a male presence might trigger a full psychotic break in Tawny McGee, I hadn’t phoned 911. Had I erred in relying on Hull? Had she gotten my second text giving this address? Was she already here? Could she even take action in this county?

My scalp felt tight and cold, my skin clammy inside my shirt. Not from rain. From adrenaline jolting every system into high.

Screw it.

I was off the block and sprinting. Around the back, down the walk, to a live oak directly opposite the annex.

There was no one in the patio, the side yard, the area where I parked. No one at the coach house.

Flashback.

Movement below a giant magnolia.

Heart banging, I raced to the front lawn.

And saw her beside the tree, brick boundary beyond her.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out the knife.

Go! screamed every cell in my brain stem.

Wait! urged a reasoning part of my cortex.

Panting and sweating, I allowed my higher centers to process. To convert my animal instincts into rational thought.

My breathing slowed. My heart eased its hammering against my ribs. My dilated pupils took in detail.