And then Patch sa­id, "But she's not aro­und."

  "What do you me­an she's not aro­und?"

  "She's go­ne. She's ne­ver co­ming back."

  "You me­an… she's de­ad?" I as­ked.

  Patch didn't deny it.

  My sto­mach sud­denly felt he­avy and twis­ted. I hadn't ex­pec­ted this. Patch had a girlf­ri­end, and now she was de­ad.

  The do­or to the la­di­es' ro­om rat­tled as so­me­one tri­ed to en­ter. I'd for­got­ten I'd loc­ked it. Which ma­de me won­der how Patch got in. Eit­her he had a key, or the­re was anot­her exp­la­na­ti­on. An exp­la­na­ti­on I pro­bably didn't want to think abo­ut, such as gli­ding un­der the do­or li­ke air. Li­ke smo­ke.

  "I ne­ed to get back to work," Patch sa­id. He ga­ve me a on­ce-over that lin­ge­red a bit be­low the hips. "Kil­ler skirt. De­adly legs."

  Be­fo­re I'd for­med a sing­le co­he­rent tho­ught, he was thro­ugh the do­or.

  The ol­der wo­man wa­iting for ad­mit­tan­ce lo­oked at me, then over her sho­ul­der at Patch, who was va­nis­hing down the hall. "Ho­ney," she told me, "he lo­oks slip­per) as so­ap."

  "Go­od desc­rip­ti­on," I mumb­led.

  She fluf­fed her short, corksc­rew gray ha­ir. "A girl co­uld lat­her up in so­ap li­ke that."

  After I chan­ged back in­to my clot­hes, I re­tur­ned to the bo­oth and slid in be­si­de Vee. El­li­ot chec­ked his watch and lif­ted his eyeb­rows at me.

  "Sony1 was go­ne so long," I sa­id. "Did I miss anyt­hing?"

  "No­pe," sa­id Vee. "Sa­me old, sa­me old." She bum­ped my knee, and the qu­es­ti­on was imp­li­ed. Well?

  Be­fo­re I co­uld re­turn the bump, El­li­ot sa­id, "You mis­sed the wa­it­ress. I or­de­red you a red bur­ri­to." A cre­epy smi­le tug­ged at the cor­ners of his mo­uth.

  I saw my chan­ce.

  "Actu­al­ly, I'm not su­re I'm up to eating." I ma­na­ged a na­use­ated fa­ce that wasn't al­to­get­her cont­ri­ved. "I think I ca­ught what Jules has."

  "Oh, man," Vee sa­id. "Are you okay?"

  I sho­ok my he­ad.

  "I'll hunt down our wa­it­ress and get her to box the fo­od," Vee sug­ges­ted, dig­ging in her pur­se for keys.

  "What abo­ut me?" sa­id El­li­ot, so­un­ding only half joking.

  "Ra­in check?" Vee sa­id.

  Bin­go, I tho­ught.

  CHAPTER 14

  I GOT BACK TO THE FARM­HO­USE SHORTLY BE­FO­RE EIGHT. I tur­ned my key in the lock, grab­bed the do­ork­nob, and sho­ved my hip aga­inst the do­or. I'd cal­led my mom a few ho­urs be­fo­re din­ner; she was at the of­fi­ce, tying up a few lo­ose ends, not su­re when she'd be ho­me, and I ex­pec­ted to find the ho­use qu­i­et, dark, and cold.

  On the third sho­ve, the do­or ga­ve way, and I hur­led my hand­bag in­to the dark­ness, then wrest­led with the key still jam­med in the lock. Ever sin­ce the night Patch ca­me over, the lock had de­ve­lo­ped a gre­edy dis­po­si­ti­on. I won­de­red if Do­rot­hea had no­ti­ced it ear­li­er in the day.

  "Gi­ve-me-the-dumb-key," I sa­id, jig­gling it free.

  The grand­fat­her clock in the hall tic­ked on the ho­ur, and eight lo­ud dongs re­ver­be­ra­ted thro­ugh the si­len­ce. I was wal­king in­to the li­ving ro­om to start a fi­re in the wo­od-bur­ning sto­ve when the­re was the rust­le of fab­ric and a low cre­ak from ac­ross the ro­om.

  I scre­amed.

  "No­ra!" my mom sa­id, thro­wing off a blan­ket and scramb­ling in­to a sit­ting po­si­ti­on on the so­fa. "What in the world's the mat­ter?"

  I had one hand spla­yed ac­ross my he­art and the ot­her flat­te­ned aga­inst the wall, sup­por­ting me. "You sca­red me!"

  "I fell as­le­ep. If I'd he­ard you co­me in, I wo­uld ha­ve sa­id so­met­hing." She pus­hed her ha­ir off her fa­ce and blin­ked ow­lishly. "What ti­me is it?"

  I col­lap­sed in­to the ne­arest armc­ha­ir and tri­ed to re­co­ver my nor­mal he­art ra­te. My ima­gi­na­ti­on had co­nj­ured up a pa­ir of ruth­less eyes be­hind a ski mask. Now that I was po­si­ti­ve he wasn't a fig­ment of my ima­gi­na­ti­on, I had an overw­hel­ming de­si­re to tell my mom everyt­hing, from the way he'd jum­ped on the Ne­on to his ro­le as Vee's at­tac­ker. He was stal­king me, and he was vi­olent. We'd get new locks on the do­ors. And it se­emed lo­gi­cal that the po­li­ce wo­uld get in­vol­ved. I'd fe­el much sa­fer at night with an of­fi­cer par­ked on the curb.

  "I was go­ing to wa­it to bring this up," my mom sa­id, in­ter­rup­ting my tho­ught pro­cess, "but Fm not su­re the per­fect mo­ment is ever go­ing to pre­sent it­self."

  I frow­ned. "What's go­ing on?"

  She ga­ve a long, tro­ub­led sigh. "I'm thin­king abo­ut put­ting the farm­ho­use up for sa­le."

  "Why?"

  "We've be­en strug­gling for a ye­ar, and I'm not pul­ling in as much as I'd ho­ped. I've con­si­de­red ta­king a se­cond job, but ho­nestly I'm not su­re the­re are eno­ugh ho­urs in the day." She la­ug­hed wit­ho­ut any tra­ce of hu­mor. "Do­rot­hea's wa­ges are mo­dest, but it's ext­ra mo­ney we don't ha­ve. The only ot­her thing I can think of is mo­ving in­to a smal­ler ho­use. Or an apart­ment."

  "But this is our ho­use." All my me­mo­ri­es we­re he­re. The me­mory of my dad was he­re. I co­uldn't be­li­eve she didn't fe­el the sa­me way. I wo­uld do wha­te­ver it to­ok to stay.

  "I'll gi­ve it three mo­re months," she sa­id. "But I don't want to get yo­ur ho­pes up."

  Right then I knew I co­uldn't tell my mom abo­ut the guy in the ski mask. She'd qu­it work to­mor­row. She'd get a lo­cal job, and the­re'd be ab­so­lu­tely no cho­ice but to sell the farm­ho­use.

  "Let's talk abo­ut so­met­hing brigh­ter," Mom sa­id, pus­hing her mo­uth in­to a smi­le. "How was din­ner?"

  "Fi­ne," I sa­id mo­ro­sely.

  "And Vee? How's she re­co­ve­ring?"

  "She can go back to scho­ol to­mor­row."

  Mom smi­led wryly. "It's a go­od thing she bro­ke her left arm. Ot­her­wi­se she wo­uldn't be ab­le to ta­ke no­tes in class, and I can only ima­gi­ne how di­sap­po­in­ting that wo­uld ha­ve be­en for her."

  "Ha, ha," I sa­id. "I'm go­ing to ma­ke hot cho­co­la­te." I sto­od and po­in­ted over my sho­ul­der in­to the kitc­hen. "Want so­me?"

  "That ac­tu­al­ly so­unds per­fect. I'll start the fi­re."

  After a qu­ick trip to the kitc­hen to ro­und up mugs, su­gar, and the co­coa ca­nis­ter, I ca­me back to find that Mom had a ket­tle of wa­ter on the wo­od-bur­ning sto­ve. I perc­hed myself on the arm of the so­fa and han­ded her a mug.

  "How did you know you we­re in lo­ve with Dad?" I as­ked, stri­ving to so­und ca­su­al. The­re was al­ways the chan­ce that dis­cus­sing Dad wo­uld bring on a te­ar fest, so­met­hing I ho­ped to avo­id.

  Mom set­tled in­to the so­fa and prop­ped her fe­et up on the cof­fee tab­le. "I didn't. Not un­til we'd be­en mar­ri­ed abo­ut a ye­ar."

  It wasn't the ans­we­red I'd ex­pec­ted. "Then… why did you marry him?"

  "Be­ca­use I tho­ught I was in lo­ve. And when you think you're in lo­ve, you're wil­ling to stick it out and ma­ke it work un­til it is lo­ve."

  "We­re you sca­red?"

  "To marry him?" She la­ug­hed. "That was the ex­ci­ting part. Shop­ping for a gown, re­ser­ving the cha­pel, we­aring my di­amond so­li­ta­ire."

  I pic­tu­red Patch's misc­hi­evo­us smi­le. "We­re you ever sca­red of Dad?"

  "Whe­ne­ver the New Eng­land Pat­ri­ots lost."

  Whe­ne­ver the Pat­ri­ots lost, my dad went to the ga­ra­ge and rev­ved up his cha­in­saw. Two autumns ago he ha­uled the cha­in-saw to the wo­ods be­hind our pro­perty, fel­led ten tre­es, and di­ced them in­to fi­re­wo­od. We still ha­ve mo­re than half the pi­le to burn thro­ugh.

  Mom pat­ted the so­fa be­si­de her, and I cur­led up aga­inst her, res­ting my he­ad on her sho­ul­der. "I miss him," I sa­id.

  "Me too."

  "I'm af­ra­id I'll for­get what he lo­oked li­ke. Not in pic­tu­res, but han­ging aro­und on a Sa­tur­day mor­ning in swe­ats, ma­king scramb­led eggs."

  Mom la­ced her fin­gers thro­ugh mi­ne. "You've al­ways be­en so much li­ke him, right from the start."

  "Re­al­ly?" I sat up. "In what way?"

  "He was a go­od stu­dent, very cle­ver. He wasn't flashy or outs­po­ken, but pe­op­le res­pec­ted him."

  "Was Dad ever… myste­ri­o­us?"

  Mom se­emed to turn this over in her mind. "Myste­ri­o­us pe­op­le ha­ve a lot of sec­rets. Yo­ur fat­her was very open."

  "Was he ever re­bel­li­o­us?"

  She ga­ve a short, start­led la­ugh. "Did you see him that way? Har­ri­son Grey, the world's most et­hi­cal ac­co­un­tant… re­bel­li­o­us?" She ga­ve a the­at­ri­cal gasp. "He­aven for­bid! He did we­ar his ha­ir long for a whi­le. It was wavy and blond-li­ke a sur­fer's. Of co­ur­se, his horn-rim­med glas­ses kil­led the lo­ok. So… do I da­re ask what got us on this su­bj­ect?"

  I had no idea how to exp­la­in my conf­lic­ting fe­elings for Patch to my mom. I had no idea how to exp­la­in Patch, pe­ri­od. My mom was pro­bably ex­pec­ting a desc­rip­ti­on that inc­lu­ded his pa­rents' na­mes, his GPA, the var­sity sports he pla­yed, and which col­le­ges he plan­ned on ap­plying to. I didn't want to alarm her by sa­ying I was wil­ling to bet my piggy bank that Patch had a rap she­et. "The­re's this guy," I sa­id, unab­le to hold back a smi­le at the tho­ught of Patch. "We've be­en han­ging out la­tely. Mostly scho­ol stuff."

  "Ooh, a boy," she sa­id myste­ri­o­usly. "Well? Is he in the Chess Club? Stu­dent Co­un­cil? The ten­nis te­am?"

  "He li­kes po­ol," I of­fe­red op­ti­mis­ti­cal­ly.

  "A swim­mer! Is he as cu­te as Mic­ha­el Phelps? Of co­ur­se, I al­ways le­aned to­ward Ryan Loch­te when it ca­me to ap­pe­aran­ces."

  I tho­ught abo­ut cor­rec­ting my mom. On se­cond tho­ught, it was pro­bably best not to cla­rify. Po­ol, swim­ming… clo­se eno­ugh, right?

  The pho­ne rang and Mom stretc­hed ac­ross the so­fa to ans­wer it. Ten se­conds in­to the call she flop­ped back aga­inst the so­fa and slap­ped a hand to her fo­re­he­ad. "No, it's not a prob­lem. I'll run over, pick it up, and bring it by first thing to­mor­row mor­ning."

  "Hu­go?" I as­ked af­ter she hung up. Hu­go was my mom's boss, and to say he cal­led all the ti­me was put­ting it mildly. On­ce, he'd cal­led her in­to work on a Sun­day be­ca­use he co­uldn't fi­gu­re out how to ope­ra­te the copy mac­hi­ne.

  "He left so­me un­fi­nis­hed pa­per­work in the of­fi­ce and ne­eds me to run over. I ha­ve to ma­ke co­pi­es, but I sho­uldn't be go­ne mo­re than an ho­ur. Ha­ve you fi­nis­hed yo­ur ho­me­work?"

  "Not yet."

  "Then I'll tell myself we co­uldn't ha­ve spent ti­me to­get­her even if I was he­re." She sig­hed and ro­se to her fe­et. "See you in an ho­ur?"

  "Tell Hu­go he sho­uld pay you mo­re."

  She la­ug­hed. "-4 lot mo­re."

  As so­on as I had the ho­use to myself, I cle­ared the bre­ak­fast dis­hes off the kitc­hen tab­le and ma­de ro­om for my text­bo­oks. Eng­lish, world his­tory, bi­ology. Ar­ming myself with a brand-new num­ber two pen­cil, I flip­ped open the top bo­ok and went to work.

  Fif­te­en mi­nu­tes la­ter my mind re­bel­led, re­fu­sing to di­gest anot­her pa­rag­raph on Euro­pe­an fe­udal systems. I won­de­red what Patch was do­ing af­ter he got off work. Ho­me­work? Hard to be­li­eve. Eating piz­za and watc­hing bas­ket­ball on TV? May­be, but it didn't fe­el right. Pla­cing bets and pla­ying po­ol at Bo's Ar­ca­de? It se­emed li­ke a go­od gu­ess.

  I had the unexp­la­inab­le de­si­re to dri­ve to Bo's and de­fend my ear­li­er be­ha­vi­or, but the tho­ught was qu­ickly put in­to pers­pec­ti­ve by the simp­le fact that I didn't ha­ve ti­me. My mom wo­uld be ho­me in less ti­me than it to­ok to ma­ke the half-ho­ur dri­ve the­re. Not to men­ti­on, Patch wasn't the kind of guy I co­uld just go hunt down. In the past, our me­etings had ope­ra­ted on his sche­du­le, not mi­ne. Al­ways.

  I clim­bed the sta­irs to chan­ge in­to so­met­hing comfy. I pus­hed on my bed­ro­om do­or and to­ok three steps in­si­de be­fo­re stop­ping short. My dres­ser dra­wers we­re yan­ked out, clot­hes strewn ac­ross the flo­or. The bed was rip­ped apart. The clo­set do­ors we­re open, han­ging as­kew by the­ir hin­ges. Bo­oks and pic­tu­re fra­mes lit­te­red the flo­or.

  I saw the ref­lec­ti­on of mo­ve­ment in the win­dow ac­ross the ro­om and swung aro­und. He sto­od aga­inst the wall be­hind me, dres­sed he­ad to toe in black and we­aring the ski mask. My bra­in was in a swir­ling fog, just be­gin­ning to trans­mit run! to my legs, when he lun­ged for the win­dow, threw it open, and duc­ked lit­hely out.

  I to­ok the sta­irs down three at a ti­me. I flung myself aro­und the ba­nis­ter, flew down the hall to the kitc­hen, and di­aled 911.

  Fif­te­en mi­nu­tes la­ter a pat­rol car bum­ped in­to the dri­ve­way. Sha­king, I un­bol­ted the do­or and let the two of­fi­cers in. The first of­fi­cer to step in­si­de was short and thick-wa­is­ted with salt-and-pep­per ha­ir. The ot­her was tall and le­an with ha­ir al­most as dark as Patch's, but crop­ped abo­ve his ears. In a stran­ge way, he va­gu­ely re­semb­led Patch. Me­di­ter­ra­ne­an comp­le­xi­on, symmet­ri­cal fa­ce, eyes with an ed­ge.

  They int­ro­du­ced them­sel­ves; the dark-ha­ired of­fi­cer was De­tec­ti­ve Bas­so. His part­ner was De­tec­ti­ve Hols­ti­j­ic.

  "Are you No­ra Grey?" De­tec­ti­ve Hols­ti­j­ic as­ked.

  I nod­ded.

  "Yo­ur pa­rents ho­me?"

  "My mom left a few mi­nu­tes be­fo­re I cal­led 911."

  "So you're ho­me alo­ne?"

  Anot­her nod.

  "Why don't you tell us what hap­pe­ned?" he as­ked, cros­sing his arms and plan­ting his fe­et wi­de, whi­le De­tec­ti­ve Bas­so wal­ked a few pa­ces in­si­de the ho­use and to­ok a lo­ok aro­und.

  "I ca­me ho­me at eight and did so­me ho­me­work," I sa­id. "When I went up to my bed­ro­om, I saw him. Everyt­hing was a mess. He to­re my ro­om apart."

  "Did you re­cog­ni­ze him?"

  "He was we­aring a ski mask. And the lights we­re off."

  "Any dis­tin­gu­is­hing marks? Tat­to­os?"

  "No."

  "He­ight? We­ight?"

  I del­ved re­luc­tantly in­to my short-term me­mory. I didn't want to re­li­ve the mo­ment, but it was im­por­tant that I re­call any clu­es. "Ave­ra­ge we­ight, but a lit­tle on the tall si­de. Abo­ut the sa­me si­ze as De­tec­ti­ve Bas­so."

  "Did he say anyt­hing?"

  I sho­ok my he­ad.

  De­tec­ti­ve Bas­so re­ap­pe­ared and sa­id, "All cle­ar," to his part­ner. Then he clim­bed to the se­cond flo­or. The flo­or­bo­ards cre­aked over­he­ad as he mo­ved down the hall, ope­ning and shut­ting do­ors.

  De­tec­ti­ve Hols­ti­j­ic crac­ked the front do­or and squ­at­ted to exa­mi­ne the de­ad­bolt. "Was the do­or un­loc­ked or da­ma­ged when you ca­me ho­me?"

  "No. I used my key to get in. My mom was as­le­ep in the li­ving ro­om."

  De­tec­ti­ve Bas­so ap­pe­ared at the top of the sta­irs.

  "Can you show us what's da­ma­ged?" he as­ked me.

  De­tec­ti­ve Hols­ti­j­ic and I clim­bed the sta­irs to­get­her, and I led the way down the hall to whe­re De­tec­ti­ve Bas­so sto­od just in­si­de my bed­ro­om do­or with his hands on his hips, sur­ve­ying my ro­om.

  I held per­fectly still, a ting­le of fe­ar cre­eping thro­ugh me. My bed was ma­de. My pa­j­amas we­re in a he­ap on my pil­low, just the way I'd left them this mor­ning. My dres­ser dra­wers we­re shut, pic­tu­re fra­mes ar­ran­ged ne­atly on top. The trunk at the fo­ot of the bed was clo­sed. The flo­ors we­re cle­an. The win­dow dra­pes hung in long, smo­oth pa­nels, one on eit­her si­de of the clo­sed win­dow.

  "You sa­id you saw the int­ru­der," sa­id De­tec­ti­ve Bas­so. He was sta­ring down at me with hard eyes that didn't miss a thing. Eyes that we­re ex­pert at fil­te­ring li­es.

  I step­ped in­si­de the ro­om, but it lac­ked the fa­mi­li­ar to­uch of com­fort and sa­fety. The­re was an un­derl­ying no­te of vi­ola­ti­on and me­na­ce. I po­in­ted ac­ross the ro­om at the win­dow, trying to hold my hand ste­ady. "When I wal­ked in, he jum­ped out the win­dow."

  De­tec­ti­ve Bas­so glan­ced out the win­dow. "Long way to the gro­und," he ob­ser­ved. He at­temp­ted to open the win­dow. "Did you lock it af­ter he left?"

  "No. I ran downs­ta­irs and cal­led 911."

  "So­me­body loc­ked it." De­tec­ti­ve Bas­so was still eye­ing me with ra­zor eyes, his mo­uth pres­sed in a tight li­ne.

  "Not su­re any­body'd be ab­le to get away af­ter a jump li­ke that," De­tec­ti­ve Hols­ti­j­ic sa­id, jo­ining his part­ner at the win­dow. "They'd be luck) to get off with a bro­ken leg."

  "May­be he didn't jump, may­be he clim­bed down the tree," I sa­id.

  De­tec­ti­ve Bas­so whip­ped his he­ad aro­und. "Well? Which is it? Did he climb or jump? He co­uld ha­ve pus­hed past you and go­ne out the front do­or. That wo­uld be the lo­gi­cal op­ti­on. That's what I'd ha­ve do­ne. I'm go­ing to ask on­ce mo­re. Think re­al ca­re­ful. Did you re­al­ly see so­me­one in yo­ur ro­om to­night?"

  He didn't be­li­eve me. He tho­ught I'd in­ven­ted it. For a mo­ment I was temp­ted to think si­mi­larly. What was wrong with me? Why was my re­ality con­vo­lu­ted? Why did the truth ne­ver match up? For the sa­ke of my sa­nity, I told myself it wasn't me. It was him. The guy in the ski mask. He was do­ing this. I didn't know how, but he was to bla­me.