At least I hope they’re fake.

  Boxes of tarot cards were stacked haphazardly on a table. And they were on sale! A full-sized skeleton coated with dust hung from a holder in one corner. One could take it home for the sale price of $599. Astrological charts in various sizes and colors hung in lopsided, chaotic patterns on the walls, along with prints of creatures that Pine did not recognize. There were books with titles like Witchcraft at Home and Self-Healing Tonics. Pine looked through the latter one and doubted that the FDA would have approved. The place was disheveled and unorganized and there was junk piled around, including unopened cardboard boxes with the shipping labels still on them.

  She moved into the next room. It was small and looked to be the office. This space was also littered with papers and boxes; a laminated desk was wedged into one free corner with a computer on it. The computer required a password, so Pine ignored it and went through the desk drawers. She found some stationery with the store’s name and address. And under a stack of junk she also found a checkbook with the name Dolores Venuti printed on it, along with another address in Asheville.

  Pine certainly believed that Desiree and Dolores were one and the same, although she would have liked absolute confirmation of that. She found it when she looked at some photos taped to the wall. One was of a person who could only be Desiree. She fit the description Pine had been given and, more important, the DMV photo. She was standing in front of the occult shop and was smiling. Written in Sharpie at the bottom of the picture was the inscription, “Welcome to the neighborhood, Dolores.” It was signed by various people, and the shops named under those signatures were probably part of the local retail community.

  She took a picture of it with her phone.

  Pine copied the address from the check onto a piece of paper and left the way she had come.

  She climbed back into the SUV and handed Blum the paper with the address.

  “Plug this into the GPS.”

  “What is it?”

  “Hopefully, it’s where we’ll find Desiree Atkins, aka Dolores Venuti.”

  “What was the shop like?”

  “Creepy, just like I’m sure she is.”

  “If she’s home, what are you going to do?”

  “Stop myself from strangling her, and then start asking my questions.”

  “And if she won’t answer?”

  “Then maybe I won’t stop myself from strangling her.”

  “You can’t mean that.”

  Pine put the SUV in gear. “Don’t bet the farm on that, Carol.”

  Chapter 29

  OKAY, I DON’T LIKE THE LOOKS OF THIS,” said Blum as they pulled down a long gravel road with thick woods on either side. A patch of fog was rolling in, and the only light was from the SUV’s headlights.

  “This is right out of the opening scene of every slasher movie I’ve ever watched.”

  “Don’t let your emotions run away with you, Carol,” said Pine.

  Blum glanced at her boss. “Aren’t you a little nervous?”

  “I think Desiree should be more worried about me than I should be about her.”

  “You believe she’ll be there?”

  “We’re going to find out pretty soon.”

  They rounded a bend. In the distance they could see the lights coming from a small split-level rancher built of brick and siding. It had a forlorn look, as though it were lonely without any other homes around. There was a metal carport next to the house with no car under it. The light they saw was coming from the front room.

  “Great,” said Blum. “The little house in the dark woods. I wonder if Hansel and Gretel are inside about to be eaten.”

  Pine pulled the SUV to a stop and killed the lights.

  “Wait here.”

  “I don’t want you going up there by yourself.”

  “I’m armed and I’m a federal agent who is more than a little homicidal right now. Put simply, Desiree is a munchkin and I’m an Amazon. But slide over into the driver’s seat. Keep the doors locked and your phone in hand.”

  Pine climbed out and made her way toward the house, keeping off the road and sidling along the tree line with careful strides. She then veered toward the front of the home and peered into one of the lighted windows. She saw furniture, pictures on the wall, a burgundy-and-blue rug on the floor, and not a person in sight. She edged around the corner and entered the backyard. She spied a small toolshed with gray siding and a shingled roof. She made her way over there and shone her light in one of the windows. It looked empty except for some tools, a wheelbarrow, and a stepladder. She tried the door, but it was locked.

  She slipped over to the rear of the house and walked up a flight of wooden steps that led to a deck, built onto the back, which held some old patio furniture. The door there was locked as well. She used her light to see inside the rear door and check for an alarm panel.

  Shit.

  There was one, and she could see that it was armed. Why have one here and not one at her business?

  She stepped back and looked around.

  Okay, that might be a way.

  Pine hustled to the toolshed and used her knife to force back the lock. She ducked inside and came back out a moment later with the ladder. The grade of the property dictated that the home had a high foundation in the rear covered by a brick veneer. She stepped back up on the raised deck, set the ladder next to the back door, and climbed the ladder to the spot that all the warning labels implored should never be touched by a human foot. She gripped the edge of the gutter and did a chin-up, praying that the gutter would hold her weight. It did, and she swung her legs up onto the roof. She gripped the edge of an asphalt shingle and used that to pull herself fully on top of the roof. She walked across it to the upper-level section of the house where two dormer windows presented her with possible entry points.

  Most home alarm systems did not arm upper-level windows. She was about to find out if this place broke that norm. She inserted her knife between the sash to pry back the clasp. If the window was armed, this far out in the country she figured she’d have time to search the place, make and drink a cup of coffee, and get away long before the cops showed up.

  Fortunately, no alarm went off. She slipped through the window and closed it behind her. She shone her light around the bedroom she found herself in. It was meticulously neat and furnished sparingly. She checked the closet and found that all the pieces of clothing would fit someone of Desiree’s age and petite stature. She inspected the bathroom situated in the hall next to the bedroom, then looked into the other bedroom on the other side of the bathroom. This space was empty except for two boxes stacked on top of each other. She looked through them, but they just contained some old clothes and other odds and ends.

  It seemed clear that Desiree lived here alone.

  Pine walked back into the bedroom. She had never seen a place so neat and organized. The bed was made up with decorative pillows arranged just so and military-level tight corners. She poked her head back in the closet. It looked to be one of those California Closets jobs, with two tiers of hanging rods, glass-fronted cabinets, deep drawers running on smooth slides, and open shelves for all the footwear. It held stacks of sweaters so neatly arranged they could qualify as store displays, and pants and shirts and dresses and skirts on hangers that seemed to be arranged by type and style. Scarves, shoes, underwear, and socks were all scrupulously sorted and organized. In the bathroom, toiletries and other items were in perfect order. The bathtub/shower was sparkling clean, the floors and countertops scrubbed and smelling of disinfectant. Towels were arranged in order of size and color in the linen closet.

  She made her way downstairs to find that it was laid out simply but was, if it was possible, even more organized and clean than the upstairs. The wooden furniture in the main room was highly polished, the cushions plumped without a stain or smudge visible. The tracks in the rugs laid over oak hardwood floors showed they had been recently vacuumed. The knickknacks on the shelves were dusted, and the windows held not a streak of dirt.

  She started searching the other rooms down here. Each one she got to was model-home organized. There was one door that was locked, but when she put her ear to the door she could hear the rumbling of the air handler. Probably just the furnace room.

  The small powder room across from the foyer looked like one you would find in a high-end hotel, right down to the decorative tissue box holder and copper soap dispenser and framed artwork, plus a fancy toilet paper holder in the shape of a cat’s long tail.

  The kitchen was small but it sparkled. The travertine tile floor looked clean enough to have a picnic on without the blanket or even dishes. The counters were wiped down, the table set with a plate, cup, and cutlery in a rolled napkin. Canisters on the counters were arranged by height. The stove top’s six burners glistened with not a speck of grease on their surfaces.

  Pine opened some of the cabinets and drawers and found everything so organized she felt like she truly was in a model house where everything was on display, no one actually lived there to do any damage, and thus all was perfect. The contents of the refrigerator were so carefully arranged that it made her own fridge back in Arizona look like a dumpster. But that really wasn’t a high bar, Pine conceded.

  The thing that was bothering her was that she could understand Desiree being a neatnik, maybe even OCD. But then why was her shop so messy? Normally, a person with that condition didn’t let their desire for organization stop at the front door of their home.

  Off the kitchen was a small laundry room. A basket on top of the dryer held scrupulously folded clothes. She glanced at the items and then looked away, but only for a moment. Then her gaze swung back to the stack of clothes. She took a pair of jeans off the top of the pile and held them up.

  Desiree had been described to her as being very short, under five feet, and her driver’s license had confirmed this. Pine held the jeans against her own legs. They would have been too short for her, but they were also far longer than someone Desiree’s height could have worn, even if she had on heels.

  And the style and narrow hip cut of the pants were for someone a lot younger than Desiree.

  The blood seemed to solidify in Pine’s veins.

  No way. No way in hell.

  She put the pants back in the basket and left the laundry room. She raced back upstairs and made a more thorough search. She noted the pulldown attic door in the ceiling in the unused bedroom. She yanked on it, and a set of hinged stairs collapsed downward. Pine locked the steps in place and hustled up them. She shone her light around in the darkness and called out, “Hello? Is anyone up here? I’m with the FBI? Hello?”

  There was no answer, no sound. She hit the entire space with her light and found nothing there.

  She climbed back down and lifted the stairs up. They receded into the attic opening, and the access door banged shut behind them.

  Pine felt something moving across her head. She was standing underneath a ceiling vent. The heat had just come on again.

  The heat?

  She ran down the stairs and over to the locked door. She put her shoulder against it and pushed. She felt the lock start to give. She pulled a small lockpick kit from her jacket. She didn’t bother picking the simple lock. She just used one of the tools to merely slide the door bolt back. She opened the door and turned on the light. As she had guessed, the home’s HVAC system was located in here with the ductwork shafted into the unfinished ceiling where it headed on to the rest of the house. She looked around the space. There were a couple of shelves off to the side, all stacked with boxes. The floor under the HVAC was cement.

  Had she been wrong in her assumption? But then why lock the door?

  She then walked behind the shelves to a small space. She stopped and stared when she noted that the floor here was not cement. It was tongue-and-groove wood. Was it just wood flooring laid over the cement? But why bother with that for a room like this, into which no one other than a repairman would ever really enter?

  In the farthest corner sat a hand truck with a large box perched on its lip.

  Pine moved the hand truck away, then bent down to examine the spot the box had covered.

  Pine felt like she had been gut-punched.

  Recessed into the floor was a keyhole. As she looked over the area, she saw the parameters of the trap door. There was a lift handle inlaid into the floor next to the keyhole.

  Okay, here we go again, thought Pine.

  Chapter 30

  IS ANYBODY DOWN THERE?” called out Pine through the wooden trap door.

  When she was met with silence, she stomped on the trap door. “Hello, is anyone down there?”

  Nothing.

  Pine looked around and saw it. On one of the shelves’ metal supports was a single key attached to a magnet.

  She pulled it free, knelt down, and put the key in the lock. She turned it and then grabbed the recessed handle. The door came up easily on hydraulic hinges.

  The space she was looking at was completely dark.

  “Hello?” she called out again.

  This time she heard a noise. No words, just a scuffling sound.

  Pine shone her light into the dark. A set of steps was revealed.

  “Hello, my name is Atlee Pine. I’m with the FBI. Is anyone down there? I’m here to help.”

  The sound she had heard could have been rats. But you didn’t have a secret space to keep rats in. And they didn’t wear jeans.

  She started down the steps, the light in one hand, her pistol in the other.

  “Hello? Please show yourself. I’m here to help you. Are you being held against your will? Where is the woman who lives here? Dolores Venuti?”

  Now Pine could hear heavy breathing and whimpering, as though whoever was down here was terrified beyond belief. For a moment she thought it might be Desiree. But this couldn’t be a hiding place for the woman. She had looked at the underside of the trap door. The key only worked from the outside.

  “I’m not going to hurt you. I’m here to help you.”

  She reached the bottom of the space and had to bend low because the height of the rest of the room was only around four feet. This had to be the rear of the house, where the grade dictated the high foundation. She decided to squat on her haunches and illuminate the area with her light. She shivered because it was chilly down here. The space obviously wasn’t climate controlled, and she figured the outside was right on the other side of the wall. She pointed her light to the left and slowly went to the right.

  She saw, with growing horror, the elements of someone living down here. Plywood and cinderblock shelves with clothes piled on them. A torn bean bag chair with a pair of worn lime green Converse sneakers lying on top. A battery-powered lantern. A stack of magazines. A mattress with covers and a single pillow strewn haphazardly over it.

  Then Pine tensed when she saw the sock-clad foot. She slowly lifted the flashlight and the beam traveled upward, along the legs clothed in jeans, past the waist, rode up the baggy sweatshirt, and finally came to rest on the young, terrified face staring back at her, the eyes squinting as the beam drilled into them.

  Pine lowered the light and said, “I’m with the FBI. I’m here to help you”—she looked around at what was obviously a prison—“get out of here.”

  The girl balled herself up tighter and shrank deeper into the corner in which she was cowering. She had a blanket half wrapped around her because of the chill. As Pine raised the light beam to show the girl’s face, it shook back and forth as though answering Pine’s statement with disbelief and also a refusal of the offered help.

  Pine put her gun back into its holster and took out her badge. She turned the light on herself, so the girl could see both Pine’s face and the shiny FBI shield.

  “I’m with the FBI. Do you know what that is? I’m a federal cop.”

  Pine turned the light on the girl once more to see her reaction. She looked even more terrified, if that was possible.

  Pine slid over, snagged the lantern, and turned it on. The light feebly illuminated the space, but it was strong enough that Pine could put her flashlight away. She sat cross-legged on the floor across from the girl and studied her. To Pine, she looked to be around thirteen or fourteen, with gangly arms and legs, about five five. Her skin was as pale as milk, her build scrawny. There were bruises on her face, and a cut on her lip. Her hair was blond, stringy, and dirty looking. The eyes were of someone who distrusted everyone and everything.

  “Can you tell me your name?”

  The girl hugged herself and shriveled back.

  Pine said quietly, “I can get you out of here. Do you want to be…free?”

  The girl shook her head and finally spoke. “N-no.”

  “Why not? You can’t possibly want to stay here.”

  “S-she’ll be m-mad.”

  “Who, Dolores?”

  The girl nodded.

  “You let me worry about Dolores. We can leave right now. I can take you to a safe, warm place.”

  Pine reached out a hand but the girl shrank back. “N-no. Th-the d-dog. It’ll b-bite me.”

  “What dog?”

  The girl pointed upward.

  “I’ve been through the whole house. There is no dog.”

  “O—outside,” said the girl, her eyes widening.

  “I came from the outside. I saw no dog. Do I look like I’ve been attacked by a dog?”

  The girl ran her gaze over Pine and for the first time looked more confused than scared.

  “Dolores told you there was a dog?”

  The girl nodded.

  “What’s your name? I’m Atlee.”