“Y’see? Ready to fire.”

  Hannah feels a shiver of dread, light-headedness, seeming to see, in her own shaky hand, the weapon ready to fire.

  “I would only—we would only—use this if someone broke into the house, if our family were in danger. And if I’m away, you must be prepared to take my place.” Wes speaks in a lowered voice though they are alone in the master bedroom, door shut, at four A.M.

  “Hannah? Do you understand? You would call out to him that you’re armed, if he’s downstairs, for instance—chances are he’ll get out of the house immediately. Though you might have to fire a warning shot …”

  Hannah laughs nervously. Who is him? What if it’s them?

  Hannah knows nothing about guns, but she does know that before using a gun you should be trained to use a gun. Wes claims to have had a lesson or two, at the gun store, but Hannah suspects he knows little more than she does.

  “Like this.”

  Wes holds out the revolver, aiming the barrel toward the door. His finger is very loosely on the trigger, Hannah sees, uneasily.

  (Is the safety on or off? Hannah can’t recall.)

  Steadying his right hand with his left hand, clasping his right wrist as he has seen in movies and on TV, partially shutting one eye, creasing his forehead in a frown.

  “Fire.”

  Hannah steels herself for the earsplitting shot. But there is none.

  Wes insists that Hannah do the same. Gun in her right hand, gun lifted, barrel aimed toward the door, finger loosely on the trigger … Certainly this isn’t a plastic gun, there is nothing toylike about it. Hannah thinks—Death in my hand.

  Wes lifts and steadies Hannah’s wrist, sinking beneath the weight of the gun, for of course Hannah is doing this incorrectly, her heart isn’t in it, or her concentration.

  In an alternate world, the gun goes off, a bullet penetrates the door, behind the door is the couple’s seven-year-old son who screams and falls down dead …

  Hannah shuts her eyes, cringing. When Hannah opens her eyes nothing has changed.

  We are all still here.

  Wes in his usual nighttime attire—shorts, T-shirt. Hannah in an attractive apricot-colored silk nightgown, beneath a sashless chenille robe. How bizarre, they are awake at four, whispering, focusing on a “revolver.”

  Wes, who’d been drinking earlier in the evening, seems stony-sober now, exuding an air of subtle reproach as if, for a long time, he has resented his wife’s indifference to the urgent need to defend the household, but is coming to forgive her now.

  “The cardinal rule of self-defense is—d’you know, Hannah?”

  “The—rule?”

  “‘You don’t owe your adversary the first shot.’”

  Wes laughs with grim satisfaction, in an expansive mood now, swiping the gun against his T-shirt and locking it away with a flourish, replacing the key in the drawer of the bedside table and shutting that drawer, too, with a flourish, as if he were being observed.

  “That wasn’t so bad, was it? Think Annie Oakley.”

  Hannah laughs, this is so absurd a remark. She, too, is feeling elated, or rather relieved, the gun is locked safely away, the marital crisis has passed.

  Each day a marital crisis, for months. Since it.

  For never will Wes forgive his wife, for having succumbed to it.

  But for now Wes turns to Hannah, his face warm, enlivened. He is a handsome man, Hannah sees. When the muscles in his face relax and he doesn’t look so angry.

  Wes kisses Hannah roughly, a mock sort of kiss, mocking its very sentimentality. He squeezes her breast inside the nightgown, dares to press the palm of his hand between her legs. Hannah steps back astonished, laughing nervously.

  The first defense, laugh.

  Lovemaking for the first time in memory. Many months, Hannah thinks. She has forgotten how even to mime the act, wincing with pain, but not an unbearable pain, certainly she has felt worse pain. He is laughing at them, fumbling and drowning amid rumpled bedclothes.

  Self-defense. You don’t owe your adversary the first shot.

  On the second day of the vigil the name of the missing boy is released to the public: Robbie Hayden.

  The names of the parents are released: Jill and Brian Hayden.

  Relief!—these names are not familiar to Hannah.

  No one Hannah knows. She is sure.

  Though the Hayden family lives less than a mile away at 16 Ashtree Circle.

  Though Wes insists that they have indeed met the Haydens who are close friends of the Cavanaughs and the Mears, in fact (Wes is certain) he and Hannah went to a Boxing Day gathering at the Haydens’ two years ago.

  Hannah repeats no. She is sure.

  Also, Wes points out, the Haydens belong to the Far Hills Country Club where (certainly) Wes has met Brian Hayden on the golf course, more than once. Wes expresses doubt that Hannah hasn’t encountered Jill Hayden at the club or at their children’s school since Hannah attends Far Hills Day parent-teacher evenings and it would be surprising if Jill Hayden didn’t, also.

  Nervously Hannah insists no, she doesn’t think so. Trying to recall “Jill Hayden” and her mind goes blank.

  Attractive woman in her late thirties, stylishly dressed, scissor-cut “lightened” hair, cochair of the membership committee at the Friends of the Detroit Institute of Arts.

  No!—Hannah has never met Jill Hayden. Hannah has never glimpsed Jill Hayden at Far Hills Day picking up a child—or two—at the rear of the school in a Cadillac Fleetwood station wagon in a long line of vehicles.

  They have come to arrest me for the murder of Zekiel Jones.

  By chance Hannah is standing at an upstairs window in her house when a Michigan state police vehicle turns into the driveway and approaches the house. Her heart beats calmly, unalarmed.

  But no, the plainclothes officers only want to ask questions about unusual or suspicious persons or activity in the neighborhood, anything out of the ordinary on the morning of the abduction of Robbie Hayden, or on the preceding day.

  Neighborhood. Hannah considers this word. As if Cradle Rock Road residents in their large stately homes on never less than three acres of land are attuned to the street side of life and not rather to the domestic, fortified life within those houses.

  There are no sidewalks on Cradle Rock Road as there are no sidewalks on Ashtree Common. There are no children “playing in the street”—there are no “streets” only roads, drives, lanes, passes. Rarely are children visible from the roadway. Rarely are adult residents visible. Daytime traffic is almost exclusively service-oriented—delivery trucks, repairmen, lawn crews, contractor crews, pool maintenance, sanitation truck, UPS.

  Nonetheless, Hannah replies to the officers’ questions with care. She speaks so softly, the officers ask her to repeat what she has said.

  Hannah feels a fleeting excitement for the thought comes to her—I have the power to confess. That is in my power.

  But Hannah tells the officers apologetically that she has seen nothing, she has heard nothing, nothing unusual, nothing suspicious, not on the morning of the abduction of Robbie Hayden, not the previous day, not ever. Not here.

  Asked if she is acquainted with the Hayden family, Hannah says no.

  Asked if her husband is acquainted with the Hayden family, Hannah says no.

  Asked if her children know Robbie Hayden, Hannah says no.

  (Adding: Robbie Hayden is much older than her children, who are only seven and four.)

  Asked if she is aware of sex offenders residing in the neighborhood, Hannah says with a look of disdain no.

  Asked if she is aware of “formerly incarcerated” individuals residing in the neighborhood, Hannah says sharply no.

  Asked if she is aware of sex offenders or formerly incarcerated individuals living anywhere in Far Hills, Hannah shakes her head irritably no.

  Hannah knows that these are formulaic questions, no insult is intended. Still, Hannah feels subtly insulted, as if one of the police officers has wiped the sole of his shoe on her carpet.

  Hannah is surprised that, instead of leaving, the officers ask to speak with Ismelda, too. As if the housekeeper were a resident of Far Hills on a standing with her employers.

  “I don’t see how Ismelda could help you, but of course,” Hannah says stiffly.

  As it turns out, Hannah is impressed that Ismelda can provide the officers with much more information than Hannah could: which delivery trucks she’d happened to see on the morning in question, at which house she’d recently seen a plumber’s van, which lawn crew services are on Cradle Rock Road on which days, which mornings the Oakland County sanitation truck is in the neighborhood … To Hannah’s astonishment, Ismelda knows the names of the Jarretts’ lawn crew and their pool-maintenance service, which Hannah herself doesn’t know, or would never remember if asked; Ismelda knows that, in recent weeks, there have been two or three new lawn-crew workers at the house, Hispanic she thinks, maybe Guatemalan, who don’t speak much English—“But none of them would be him, who you call ‘Babysitter.’”

  “And why do you say that, miss?”

  “Because the man who takes children, he could not be one of them. He could not work so hard as they do. They would be too tired to take away children. They would have to have the time. He has a van, to put the children in. He has some place to keep them that was not a crowded place, that nobody would know. He has to be ‘white’ to go anywhere he wants to go, and not be seen and asked questions like they would be.”

  Hannah listens in astonishment. Shocking to her, that Ismelda speaks so astutely in her soft humble voice. That Ismelda should utter the word “white” in a way both matter-of-fact and condemning.

  After the police officers leave the house Hannah turns away without a word to Ismelda. Hurriedly she goes upstairs, she is too upset to speak with Ismelda just now.

  She doesn’t help Ismelda prepare the children’s evening meal as she usually does when she is home. Her heart flutters with dislike, or fear, of the Filipina housekeeper, the unerring soft voice, the resolve. The betrayal!

  As sharp as a steak knife when it’s the bland dullness of a bread knife you have depended upon.

  Fourth day of the vigil, still no news.

  In the matter of a child abduction, no news is not good news.

  “Mommy, what’s wrong? Why can’t we go anywhere?”

  Conor is petulant, peevish. Tugging at Mommy’s arm, appealing to Mommy in his whiny voice.

  Hannah assures Conor that nothing is wrong. Hannah assures Conor that he and his little sister are safe, nothing bad will ever happen to them. And they will be going away soon to northern Michigan to stay in a beautiful quiet place on a lake.

  “Is he coming back—the little boy? Where is he?”

  “What do you mean? What—‘little boy’?”

  Hannah is mystified, how Conor knows as much as he knows. He has approached his questions in a roundabout way twitching, and squirming, and squinching up his face like an anxious little monkey.

  Hannah acknowledges that there is a “lost” little boy—but he is much older than Conor, and his parents had not watched over him carefully enough, the way Mommy and Daddy look after him and his little sister. But everybody thinks that the “lost little boy” will be found and brought home soon so Conor shouldn’t worry about it, and above all Conor shouldn’t tell his little sister about it, and worry her.

  Conor says with a smirk: “They don’t take girls.”

  “What do you mean, ‘they don’t take girls’?”—Hannah is astonished by this remark, and the scornful certainty with which Conor utters it. “But—who told you that?”

  Conor shrugs. No idea how he knows, but he knows.

  In fact, Babysitter has abducted girls, though most of the recent victims have been boys. Hannah isn’t about to explain this to Conor.

  The children haven’t left the house since the Hayden boy was abducted, they haven’t been allowed to see newspapers or TV news. Hannah wonders if Conor has overheard Wes on the phone, or another adult speaking carelessly.

  Not Ismelda, surely. Hannah knows that she can trust Ismelda never to upset the children.

  Wes, Hannah can trust less certainly. Even if he doesn’t say anything about the abduction his moods have been extreme, the children sense that something is wrong. But Hannah has no intention of confronting Wes.

  Later that day Katya runs to Mommy tearful because Conor has told her that a “big dog” is waiting outside to bite her. A “big dog that bites and bites and bites.”

  The Haydens’ dog, Hannah thinks. Whatever Conor has heard about the “lost” boy involves a dog in some way.

  Hannah assures Katya that there is no dog. Conor has made it up just to scare her.

  Hannah asks Conor where he has gotten such a silly idea and Conor again shrugs, with a smirk.

  Hannah doesn’t scold Conor but hugs him and Katya assuring them that there is no dog, certainly no dog waiting outside to bite them. Hiding her face against the children as she hugs them, hugs them tight until they fidget, recalling the Saint Jude warning: no tears.

  At last! Hannah dares to drive to Ashtree Common.

  These several days she has been in a fever of curiosity. Not for “news”—she does not want to confront “news.” She wants just to see where the Haydens live.

  Taking a detour off Cradle Rock Road, impulsively turning left instead of right, winding her way into the upscale subdivision as if this were the most natural route to the Mayhews’ house on Dupont Drive, where Conor and Katya have been invited to swim with the Mayhew children.

  Hannah is surprised to see at 16 Ashtree Circle a fieldstone Colonial that resembles, to an unnerving degree, the Jarretts’ fieldstone Colonial at 96 Cradle Rock Road.

  What a shock! The houses have been built to the same architectural plan, it appears. Though the Haydens’ house looks slightly older, perhaps a little larger. Four chimneys instead of three.

  Red-painted shutters and front door at the Haydens’ house, dark-green-painted shutters and front door at the Jarretts’.

  In the driveway are several vehicles, Hannah wonders if one of them is law enforcement. She feels uneasy, she would not want to attract attention and be discovered.

  The house looks empty, or deserted. Drawn blinds at all the windows and outdoor lights burning at midday.

  Because a catastrophe has happened to the residents of the house. They have lost all track of time. They are clinging to their lives for the unspeakable has happened, a child has been taken from them.

  Babysitter takes only children not loved & not deserved.

  So unfair, Hannah thinks. Surely this is not true, such an accusation.

  She feels a sensation of vertigo, unease. As if the unfairness, the injustice, of the accusation might spill over onto her.

  “Mommy, come on.”

  Conor squirms with impatience, Mommy is parked in the road staring at a stranger’s house.

  Hannah wonders how Jill Hayden is bearing this vigil. If Jill Hayden knows something about the fate of her son that has not (yet) been released to the public.

  Hannah had seen the sick-stricken parents interviewed on local TV the other day. Pressing her hands against her mouth, scarcely breathing. A man’s slow pleading voice—Please if anyone is listening if you know anything about where Robbie is, who has taken Robbie, please call this number, there will be a reward …

  On Ashtree Common Hannah drives past what she assumes must be the “wooded area” from which Robbie Hayden was taken. A three-acre lot that has been allowed to grow wild, a short walk from the Haydens’ house. No one should blame parents for allowing a ten-year-old to walk the dog in such a place, so close to home.

  Yes but they should have known. In the summer of Babysitter.

  The “wooded area” is very attractive. Not a park, a natural woodland, mostly deciduous trees, a field of tall grasses and thistles, wildflowers. Wood-chip trails, a single bench. No parking lot, vehicles park on the shoulder of the road.

  Strange, the crime scene isn’t restricted. Surely it was, days ago. But now someone is nonchalantly walking a dog on one of the trails. A couple is sitting on the bench. As if nothing terrible has happened here recently.

  Strange, too, that Babysitter would come here. Risking being detected so easily.

  He has to be white to go anywhere he wants to go, and not be seen and asked questions.

  The Tip

  Hannah stands in the hall, listening. Is that someone knocking?

  The children will be at the Mayhews’ until five-thirty, Ismelda has the afternoon off and will pick them up as she is returning home, Wes is at work, Hannah is alone in the house in the kitchen when she hears a curious sound from the rear of the house—a kind of knocking, not loud but persistent, coming not from the front door, nor from the side door that leads into the kitchen, but from the back hall that leads to the garage.

  Why is someone knocking at the door to the garage instead of at the front door?—Hannah is alarmed.

  Who could this be, Hannah wonders. Not a friend or an acquaintance. Not a delivery person though (possibly) the man who delivers oil at the rear of the house and leaves the receipt attached to the door in the garage.

  Fortunately, the door is locked. Hannah is faint with relief, she’d remembered to lock the door when she’d returned from driving the children to their friends’ house.

  Before Babysitter, Hannah rarely locked doors during the day. Such a practice was commonplace in Far Hills, where crime has been a rare occurrence.

  There might be wind, inside the garage. Might be a raccoon. Raccoons, burrowing in the green trash container.

  Frequently in the morning Hannah discovers the green container overturned, trash scattered on the floor, food-stained paper napkins torn to shreds.

  Possibly, Wes has returned home early and has misplaced his house key. Knocking now for someone to let him inside except (of course) Wes wouldn’t be knocking so quietly, he’d be shouting to be let in.