The Deep End of Fear

"Patrick?"

I hurried into the third-floor hall, then stopped. It couldn't be Patrick-he wasn't capable of playing songs on that level for another two months. My skin prickled. Each note played was like a ghostly finger touching my shoulder. A wrong note was struck, and the hair on the back of my neck rose. Ashley had delighted in playing that note incorrectly; she had played it repeatedly to frustrate Joseph.

The song ended. I held my breath, waiting for what would happen next. The music started again, the same piece. I hummed the melody, anticipating, dreading that one wrong note.

It was struck. My back grew rigid.

Fearing what I might see-fearing what I might not-l crept toward the schoolroom. I'm not crazy, I told myself; I have to be hearing it. But I couldn't imagine anyone currently living in the house playing that song. The schoolroom door was partway open. The nerves in my fingertips tingled as I laid them lightly against the wood, then pushed the door all the way.

Patrick sat on the piano bench. With no moonlight and just a pale triangle cast by the hall night-light, I could see only his silhouette and the rectangular shape of the piano. A feeling of deep uneasiness seeped into me, a sense that something hidden in the dark was watching me, and it didn't want me there.

"Patrick?" I called softly, approaching the bench. "Patrick." I spoke it with more insistence, but he didn't turn around. "Patrick, stop playing!"

He didn't move his head, didn't show any sign of hearing me.

His failure to listen made me bolder. I placed a hand on his shoulder, then leaned over to look at him. Though his hands moved, his face was still, strange, inanimate as a molded puppet's. His eyes were partially closed, the pale irises and whites of his eyes like half-moons, his mouth slightly open.

"Can you hear me?" I asked.

He continued to play.

"Patrick, stop!" I grabbed his hands and held them still. After a moment, he raised his chin to look at me. His eyes slowly opened to full size. He didn't speak.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

He glanced down at the keyboard. "Playing."

"What song was that?"

He thought for a moment. "'Little Red Rooster.'" I could picture the page in Ashley's songbook, for she had crayoned a waxy red rooster next to the title. How could he have learned it? What made his hands suddenly able to play the song? "Who taught you that?"

"I just know it," he said.

"I think you may have played the song incorrectly. One note was wrong."

"I played it the way I play it."

I let go of his hands and backed away from him. The words were the same, the intonation exact, his child's voice no deeper than Ashley's. Each time Joseph had corrected her, that had been her response.

My mind groped for explanations. Brook might have remembered the song, but it seemed unlikely, given that he had avoided the schoolroom as much as possible. Robyn had rarely come to the third floor. Perhaps Trent or Mrs. Hopewell knew the song and remembered how Ashley had played the incorrect note, but how could they have taught it so quickly to Patrick, who had shown no piano skills the previous afternoon?

And why wouldn't Patrick admit that one of them had taught him? There were so many eerie similarities between the playmate Patrick called Ashley and the little girl I had known. It was growing increasingly difficult to pretend there wasn't something haunting this house, haunting this child.

Patrick sat with his hands in his lap, shivering.

"It's cold and late," I said. "You should be in bed."

"I wasn't cold till now," he told me, then slipped off the bench.

As he did, something leaped from beneath the keyboard. I screamed, then muffled the sound with my hand.

"It's just November," Patrick said.

The feral cat stopped short of the doorway.

"November! Why is he here? Did you let him in? You know you're not supposed to go downstairs by yourself at night."

"He was outside my bedroom window."

"Patrick, there is no way a cat can leap up to a second-story windowsill."

"My window by the roof."

I remembered that one of his side windows faced the extension that joined Robyn's wing to the house. Perhaps there was a trellis or some other structure that gave the cat passage to the low roof, then up to the window.

"There was snow on his fur, so I let him in to get warm."

"I'm sure the snow made him look cold," I said, "but he's a wild cat and used to being outside. He has a thick coat of fur. He's probably happier out there."

"No, he'll freeze. He'll freeze to death like Patricia!" Patrick's voice grew panicky. "He'll die!"

"Shh! You'll wake the others. November may stay here tonight, just tonight," I said, hoping I could close the cat in the schoolroom till Roger helped me put him out. I knew better than to fool with a feral animal that hadn't had its shots. "We'll talk about it further in the morning. Now let's get you in bed."

As soon as we moved, the cat ran out the door and disappeared down the main stairs. I sighed. There was no point in my bumbling around the dark house trying to find him. Patrick and I crossed the third-floor hall to my room, then took the back steps down to his. When I turned on Patrick's small nightlight, November slunk out from the shadows and leaped onto the bed. Patrick was charmed; I found it creepy. Ashley used to bring in the cat and hide it till bedtime so she could sleep with it. After a lapse of twelve years, what had suddenly drawn this wild animal back to her room?

"He can't stay with you, Patrick."

"But he likes me."

"You have allergies," I argued. "You're already starting to sniffle. Come on, November. Scoot!"

I waved my hand at the cat. He hissed. Determined to get rid of him, I moved closer. He hissed again and swung a paw, claws extended. He meant business.

"I don't think November likes you" Patrick observed.

"Can you get him off the bed-without touching him, I mean."

Patrick shooed him halfheartedly, and the cat moved down to the foot of the bed. Patrick happily climbed in at the other end.

"I'm running out of patience," I said. "Listen to me. The cat hasn't had his shots, and if he bites you, you could get rabies. You are not to touch him. Do you understand?"

"Yes, but he won't bite me."

I wouldn't admit it and encourage petting the cat, but I sensed the same thing. I decided I could leave them alone long enough to fetch some bait and get the cat out of the room. "Stay in bed and don't touch him. I'm going downstairs for a can of tuna and will be back in a minute."

The hall door had been knocked ajar by the cat. I opened it all the way.

"Someone has turned out the rose lamp," Patrick observed.

"It probably burned out."

With all the bedroom doors closed but Patrick's, and his night-light casting no more than a dim glow inside his room, the hall was black as night itself, its walls and corners invisible. Knocking over an antique rose lamp in a clumsy attempt to find and light it seemed a bad idea. Lighting the bright overheads in the hall might wake up Emily and Adrian. The more fuss there was, the harder it would be to get Patrick back to sleep, especially after Emily had strung me up for allowing the cat in his room. The best plan was to walk straight ahead till I reached the steps at the other end of the hall. There I could turn on the stairway sconces.

Holding one hand out in front of me, I walked slowly, slower still as I reached what I thought would be the wall next to the stairway. I finally touched it, but I must have veered slightly to the left while crossing the hall, for there were no switches there. I slid my foot to the right, feeling the wooden edge of the step. I moved farther to the right, my hand searching for the heavy wood banister and the wall with the light plates. I heard a noise behind me, a sound as light as padded feet. Something rushed against my legs.

I stifled a scream. The cat, I thought, teetering on the step. Just the cat. Relax, Kate.

The next moment something hard and flat, the size of a hand, slammed between my shoulder blades. I cried out and pitched forward. I reached out desperately for the banister-the wall-anything that could stop my fall. My bare feet slid, my arches rolling over the hard edge of the step. I began to tumbleheadfirst into the darkness-and yanked myself backward. For a moment I touched nothing, then suddenly I made contact, my right shoulder and hip banging down against the steps. I could count the steps I was sliding down, each one a blow against my upper arm.

At the landing, I stopped. I couldn't move. My ski jacket had padded the fall, but the right side of my body ached, and the feeling of tumbling helplessly had taken my breath away. So simple, I thought, so simple and effective-it didn't take much effort to hurt a person.

I sat up slowly, hearing movement in the hall above me. It was Patrick's light footsteps running across it. "Stop, Patrick! Don't run. You'll fall down the steps."

Lights came on, all of the ceiling flights, flooding the hall with whiteness. The door to Adrian and Emily's room opened.

"Kate!" Adrian exclaimed as he reached the top of the stairs. "Are you all right?"

Emily grabbed Patrick's hand, and Adrian started down the steps.

"What happened? Emily, you had better call 911."

"No," I said quickly. "I'm fine-a little shaken up, that's all."

"I'd rather be on the safe side," Adrian replied, arriving on the landing, bending over me.

"No, really, please don't. I didn't hit my head. I didn't break anything," I said, flexing my arms and legs, hoping to convince him. "I'm bruised, nothing more."

A door on the second-floor hall banged open.

"Why are the lights on, the emergency lights in my hall?" Trent asked, coming from the wing behind the stairs. He cleared the corner, looked down, and saw Adrian standing over me. "Good God! What has happened?"

"Kate fell," Patrick said.

"When we heard the noise out here, Adrian pushed the master switch," Emily explained.

A door at the opposite end of the hall opened, and quick footsteps crossed it. Robyn and Brook joined the others at the top of the steps.

"Hey, a family reunion at three a.m. What a great idea!" Brook said. "Let's open a keg."

"You're ridiculous in the middle of the day," Trent told Brook. "Don't push your luck in the middle of the night."

"No more ridiculous than you in your red silk designer robe," Robyn responded in defense of her son. I wonder who gave you that?" She gazed down the steps at Adrian and me. "What happened, Daddy?"

Adrian sat down two steps above me. "Apparently, Kate tripped and fell down the stairs."

"What was Kate doing?" It was the steely voice of Mrs. Hopewell, who had silently joined the others.

Adrian gave me a sly wink. "Meeting her sweetheart for a romp in the snow. Or perhaps, Louise, sneaking a piece of that delicious pie you made."

"Was November with you?" Patrick asked. "He left my room."

"Who's November?" Brook asked.

"The cat," I replied. "The orange tabby. Patrick said he found him outside his window, the one by the roof, and let him in. I was going downstairs to get some bait to coax him out of the room."

"Oh, wonderful," Trent observed, "we have a rabid cat in the house."

"Just lock your bedroom door, Trent," Robyn responded sarcastically, "and you'll be safe from all ten pounds of him."

"Darling," Emily said to Patrick, "that cat is dirty. It has diseases."

"Where is it now?" Mrs. Hopewell asked.

"I don't know. It brushed past me at the top of the steps."

"And tripped you," Adrian said.

"No. It wasn't the cat." I looked him in the eye and spoke loudly enough for everyone to hear. "Someone pushed me from behind."

Adrian's blue eyes narrowed. I gazed up at the group standing at the top of the steps, but with the ceiling lights shining brightly behind their heads, I couldn't see their faces.

"Someone pushed me. I felt a hand against my back."

Adrian's face became grim. Whether it was because he thought that a member of his household was capable of the act or that I was getting paranoid, I didn't know.

"Certainly you would have seen someone," Robyn said, breaking the silence.

"The night lamp is off," Brook observed.

"Louise?"

I turned it on before retiring," the housekeeper assured Adrian, "just as I always do."

I heard the light click of a switch, someone testing the rose lamp. "Well, the bulb isn't burned out," Trent said.

"Perhaps you were dreaming, Kate," Emily suggested. "Perhaps-" "Ashley pushed you," Patrick interjected.

His words chilled us to silence. The house itself was quiet, as if the walls and floors were waiting to hear more from him.

"Ashley didn't want you to put November outside," Patrick went on. "She was afraid he'd freeze. So she pushed you."

The flesh along my arms rose in tiny bumps. Standing in the schoolroom I had felt as if something were watching me, something that didn't like me. For a moment I actually believed Ashley was responsible.

You're losing it, Kate, I told myself; it was the cat watching you.

"Father, Patrick has got to stop this crazy talk," Trent said.

"He's your brother," Adrian replied quietly. "If it bothers you, you may ask him yourself."

"Daddy doesn't do what Daddy doesn't want to do," Robyn said, her hips switching. She sounded like a little girl enjoying her brother's discomfort.

Trent turned abruptly and returned to his wing.

"This isn't as good a party as I thought," Brook observed. "I'm going to bed."

Robyn gazed down at Adrian and me, then shook her head, more like an adult now. "Things are getting out of hand, Daddy." She followed her son.

"If you don't need me, sir…"

"No, Louise, good night," Adrian replied.

Mrs. Hopewell started off, then turned back. "About the cat."

"If all of us keep our doors closed, the cat will find a cozy spot by itself," Adrian told her. "We'll put it out tomorrow."

"I shall put Patrick to bed," Emily said.

"No, I want Kate," Patrick protested.

"Darling," Emily replied, "I'm your mommy."

"But Kate puts me to bed."

"Go with your mother," Adrian said sternly.

When the two of them had disappeared, Adrian turned to me. In the harsh lighting he looked years older; for once, he looked like a man who was seriously ill.

"Be straight with me, Kate, and I will keep what you say to myself. Is there any chance you were partially asleep? Is there a chance that you were sleepwalking-dreaming?" No.

"You're certain?"

I recounted to him how I was awakened by the sound of Patrick playing the piano, the strangeness of hearing the song Ashley used to play, and what had followed after that. "I was awake for at least fifteen minutes.

"Is there any possibility that it was an accident-that in the dark, someone came up behind you and knocked into you, then didn't want to admit it?"

"It's possible, but I don't think it happened that way. I believe it was intentional."

"Then you must be very cautious," Adrian said. "I'd like to tell you there is no reason for you to fear, but I know my family too well."

"Then you know why I am worried about Patrick," I replied.

"No one will hurt him. My family will hiss and howl, scratch and nip, but they will not seriously harm one another."

"But what about Ashley? What if-" "Kate, 1, more than anyone, understand your suspicions." He took a deep breath. "After all, I blamed your mother, unable to accept that an event so horrible could have been chance. But it was. It was an accident."

I wasn't convinced, and he saw that.

"Of course, you know you may leave your employment here at any time and I would fully understand. I would make sure you are compensated and help you find another job."

"I'm not leaving."

He studied me for a moment, then nodded. "I'm glad, but be cautious and keep in close touch with me, Kate. Promise me that."

"I will."

Adrian stood up slowly, then held out a hand for me. We climbed the steps together. "Sleep well, if that is not a totally preposterous hope," he said.

"You too. Good night."

I returned to my room and listened to the muffled voices of Emily and Patrick in the room below me. She had closed the door to the stairway that connected our two rooms. A few minutes later, all was quiet. I crept down the steps to check on Patrick. He was already asleep, the night-light casting a pale glow on his face, creating a deceptively peaceful portrait of a child.

Back in my room, I couldn't sleep. I stood at the window, resting my forehead against the freezing glass, my hands on a lukewarm radiator. I ran through the list — Robyn, Brook, Trent, Mrs. Hopewell-trying to figure out who had pushed me. I could have been seriously injured-even killed — if I had broken my neck. I was afraid.

Only the foolish and the dead have no fear. Had Mrs. Hopewell made good on her warning about the danger of prying into family secrets? Clearly, she and Robyn wanted me out of the house, but perhaps Trent and Brook did too. Why? So they could get to Patrick-or was I, myself, perceived as a threat?

I was starting to believe Sam's theory that Ashley had been lured by a murderer onto the ice. What if Patrick's constant talk of her and the questions I had been asking were beginning to fray the nerves of the killer? Then both Patrick and I were in serious danger, and I was the only one who could do something about it. But what I should do, I had no idea.

A brilliant blue sky and fringe of glittering icicles was the first thing I saw the next morning. The sun was high, too high. I wrenched around in the bedcovers to look at the alarm clock and felt a stab of pain in my right shoulder: 8:45. Then I saw the note next to my clock: "School has been canceled because of snow. Mr. Westbrook gave instructions to let you sleep. Patrick is with his mother."

I could imagine the thick fingers of Mrs. Hopewell forming the short, square letters, then turning off my alarm clock. The thought of her creeping into my room and watching me while I slept made me wriggle my shoulders-a painful mistake. When I climbed out of bed and checked myself in the mirror, I saw what looked like a purple map of Norway and Sweden on the right half of my back, Finland on my arm.

Putting on a turtleneck and sweater took some care and time. I pulled on a pair of jeans, figuring that Patrick would be eager to go out in the snow.

When I pushed back my lower set of curtains, the brightness made me blink. Everything below was white, evergreens and hedges dolloped with snowy meringue. After the shadows of last night, the pure light seemed almost unreal.

I descended the steps to Patrick's room, then entered the second-floor hall, pausing to study its layout. It would have been easy enough for Robyn, Brook, or Mrs. Hopewell to follow me across the hall last night to the top of the stairway, since the exit to the wing where they slept was just beyond Patrick's bedroom door. But Trent, whose wing was on the opposite side of the house, also had easy access. The exit to his wing was on a short hall that ran next to the main staircase. Of course, Emily and Adrian's room was on the main hall, its doorway fairly close to the steps.

Preoccupied with the immediate problem of putting out the cat, I had made it easy for whomever had come up behind me. I tried to remember if I had seen the night lamp shining on the landing between the two floors when I was still on the third floor, walking toward the schoolroom. But I had been so caught up in the eeriness of hearing the song Ashley had once played, I hadn't noticed anything else.

The raised voices of Emily and Robyn drew me back to the present. When I arrived on the first floor, I saw them face-to-face outside the laundry room, near Robyn's wing. Patrick stood next to his mother, holding his hands a distance behind him. Brook leaned against the frame of the laundry door, drinking a cup of coffee, surveying his mother, who was dressed in her barn clothes.

"This is outrageous." Robyn's voice shook with anger. "He's a horrid child, a wicked boy. You should be ashamed."

Emily didn't respond; apparently, she wasn't.

"If it makes you feel any better, Mother," Brook said, "I'm ashamed-that I never thought of such a prank," he added, grinning. "And I'm sure Emily will be very ashamed-as soon as she stops laughing. Patrick, you're a little turd, dumping the manure through the hay chute. Of course, Mother is now a big turd."

Robyn shot her son a look.

"What's 'turd' mean?" Patrick asked.

"It's a piece of manure," Emily told him.

I surmised that Robyn had been tending one of her horses, standing beneath a stall's hay chute, when Patrick dropped down a smelly pile from the manure heap. It was tempting to laugh, but if Patrick thought the prank was funny, he might try it again. At the moment he wasn't looking very contrite.

"I don't know what possessed you to do such a thing, Patrick," Emily said. "I don't want it to happen again."

"Oh, it won't," Robyn responded, her eyes flashing. "If I catch him near the barn, I'll rub his face in a pile till he suffocates."

Brook cheerfully saluted me with his coffee cup. "Good morning, Kate. Come join our family fun."

Patrick turned around, but Emily reached for his arm and held it tightly. She and Robyn, locked in glares, didn't acknowledge me.

"That child needs a strap across his backside," Robyn continued. "I'm going to talk to Daddy. He will straighten out Patrick."

"Forty-two years old and still tattling," Emily observed scornfully. "When are you going to stop pretending that you're Daddy's girl? He has a wife now and a little boy."

Robyn's lips trembled. She turned on her heel, entered the laundry room, and slammed the door behind her.

"I'll get your robe, Mother," Brook called, then leaned toward me. "I wonder how long she would stay there if I forgot?"

I didn't reply, and he headed through the door to their wing.

"Come, Patrick, we should wash your hands again," Emily said.

He sniffed his fingers, then nodded in agreement.

She still hadn't acknowledged me. Perhaps she was miffed that I hadn't been at the bam to stop Patrick, but I wasn't the one who had turned off my alarm clock.

"Sounds as if there's a problem," I remarked quietly.

"She's the problem," Emily retorted.

I walked with them toward the kitchen.

"Daddy said I shouldn't wake you up, Kate."

"That was kind of him, and of you, too," I replied. "Speaking of kindness, that was a rather mean thing to do to Robyn."

"I was just playing," he said, then glanced at his mother, as if expecting her to defend him.

"Would you have liked Robyn to dump the manure on you?" I asked.

He grinned. "I wouldn't care."

Of course not-I was talking to a little boy.

I pushed open the kitchen door. "The point is, adults don't like it, and you know that."

"He's just a child," Emily protested.

She would be saying that when Patrick was thirty-five. I felt as if we were replaying a drama that this house had witnessed before: Corinne had always defended Ashley, undercutting Joseph when he would discipline her.

"You had better use the utility sink," I told Patrick. "Did you clean up the mess you made in the barn?"

"No."

"The grooms can do it," Emily said. "I'm sure they already have."

A nice thing to teach a child, I thought: Misbehave, make a mess, and others will clean it up for you. I wasn't letting Patrick off the hook so easily. "Then you owe both Robyn and the grooms an apology."

Patrick's brow furled, just like his mother's. "It wasn't my fault!"

"Whose fault was it?"

"Ashley's. She told me to do it."

Emily sighed. "I thought we weren't going to talk about Ashley anymore."

Patrick stretched his hands over the sink, and I pushed back his sleeves-Emily didn't want to touch anything that might stink. "When someone tells you to do something that you know is wrong, Patrick, you should say no."

I did," he whined, "but she dared me."

"If Ashley dares you again, come and tell me-or your mother," I added quickly, for the color was rising in Emily's cheeks. I wasn't trying to take over her role, but he was only a child, and someone had to teach him.

Patrick scrubbed and dried his hands. I turned to Emily. "Do you think it would be a good idea if Patrick wrote notes of apology to Robyn and the grooms?"

"You're asking me?" she snapped. "Why bother? You'll have him do whatever you want. And if I question it, Adrian will defend you." She picked up a copy of the morning paper and walked off, her flat snakeskin shoes clicking.

"All right, Patrick, let's go upstairs and start those notes."

He looked at me defiantly. "No."

"Sorry?" "I won't."

I studied him for a moment. His blue eyes shrank as he stared back at me, their lids tightening. The skin on my face felt cold. He looked like Ashley when she'd bore into me with one of her looks. No, like any child-I told myself quickly-it was simply the way children's round eyes appear when they become defiant.

"You have made a lot of extra work and trouble for Robyn and the grooms," I told him. "You owe them an apology."

"You can't make me do it."

I gazed at him until he turned his face away.

"No, I can't," I agreed. "And if you want to remain upstairs for the rest of the day, that is fine with me. My shoulder hurts. I don't want to play in the snow that much."

He turned back, the defiance gone from his face.

"Did you hurt it when you fell down the steps?" He laid his hand lightly on my arm. "Does it hurt a lot?"

"It's not too bad."

"Maybe you should put your arm in a sling," he suggested.

"No, nothing is broken."

"You could take some aspirin," he said. "It's locked in the cupboard in my bathroom. I'll get you a soda to drink with it."

"Thank you, but no," I replied, puzzled by Patrick's sudden concern for me. A turn of his head and his mood had shifted dramatically. It was as if he were two people in one.

Shaking off an uneasy feeling, I started up the steps. He followed quietly and, when we reached the schoolroom, sat down to write.

Later that morning I carried the notes of apology downstairs. Ideally, Patrick should have hand delivered them, but I didn't want to push our luck with a second trip to the barn and perhaps another confrontation with Robyn. I gave the grooms' notes to Roger, who was heading toward the barn to finish plowing. I placed Robyn's note in her mailbox outside the office door. As I turned away from the mahogany boxes, a woman emerged from the office.

"You must be Kate," she said, then held out her hand in greeting.

The woman was pretty, in her late sixties, I thought, with pale blond hair that had the molded and sprayed look of someone who went weekly to a salon.

"I'm Elaine, Adrian's personal secretary. I work part-time now, once or twice a week."

"It's nice to meet you."

She reached into a folder she was carrying. "I have a phone number that was requested by Patrick."

I glanced down at the square of paper she handed me, surprised. "Sam Koscinski?"

"He said Sam was his friend." Her eyes brightened with amusement. "Patrick has the same demanding way as his father when he wants a phone number pronto."

"He demanded it?" I wasn't amused at the idea of a seven-year-old talking to an adult as if she were his employee. It was so easy to turn a sweet kid into a brat.

"Well, thank you. Thank you very much." I slipped the paper in my pocket and climbed the steps to the third floor.

I had left Patrick playing a game on his computer and, upon reaching the last flight of steps, expected to hear pinging sounds against a background of music. When I heard an electronic voice asking repeatedly Hey, want to play? I quickened my pace toward the schoolroom. He wasn't there.

"Patrick?"

I checked the playroom, then hurried to my room and downstairs to his. He was nowhere in sight. I listened for footsteps above my head, in case he was hiding, then returned to the third floor to search the two storerooms.

"Patrick? If you're hiding, I want you to come out now."

Nothing in the two rooms appeared to be disturbed. The old hockey sticks, deflated basketball, and other sports equipment lay in the same places as before. The furniture was coated with dust and bore no fingerprints or streaks.

I wavered between anger and fear.

He is playing games with me, being a brat, there is nothing to worry about, I told myself. But after the incidents of the last few days, all I could think of were the dangerous things Ashley had dared me to do when Joseph and my mother weren't around-jumping off a shed roof, wading into the bay during a storm, making a fire by the pond. I debated whether to go immediately to Adrian. If Patrick was simply playing a hiding game, and I created a ruckus by having everyone search for him, he and I would both regret it.

I hurried downstairs to check the coat closet. His snow jacket was gone, though not his boots. I rushed to the kitchen door and saw a set of small footprints leading away from it. Without pausing to put on a coat or boots, I raced out, following the prints. When I got to the orangerie, Patrick's path suddenly veered around a bush, and a second trail appeared. The snow was above my ankles, so it was difficult to see the actual paw prints, but I was sure they were a cat's.

"Patrick?" I shouted.

I couldn't tell if the cat led the boy or the boy led the cat, but both routes were headed toward the tennis courts and the pool beyond it. The evergreen screen around the courts and pool obscured my view. I rushed on, passing the wall of spruce close to the pool, then stopped short.

Patrick stood on the diving board, at the very end, looking down. Far below him was the concrete floor of the pool, covered by a layer of snow and ice.

The cat sat by the steps, watching him.

I called softly to Patrick, afraid I would startle him.

He didn't look up. Continuing to call his name, I walked toward the deep end. For a moment I thought he saw me-clearly, something had caught his attention. He lifted his head. Then he began to jump up and down on the end of the board.

"Patrick, don't! Stop!" I screamed.

He continued bouncing. If he fell and struck his head or neck, he'd kill himself.

I rushed around the corner of the pool and climbed up on the board. The sun glared off the ice below, nearly blinding me as I made my way along the board. Patrick kept jumping, swinging his arms to propel himself higher, landing precariously on the edge. I felt seasick, the flexing board dropping and rising beneath my feet.

I had to think fast. If I caught him from behind, he might lose his balance and throw mine as well. But calling his name drew no response. As soon as I reached him I sat down on the board, straddling it, for the lower my position, the easier it would be to stay on the board. I reached up and grabbed him by the waist. Pain shot through my injured shoulder as I jerked him back against me. "Patrick! Don't fight me."

He pulled forward to get away from me. I yanked him back. "Be still!"

At last he stopped resisting.

The easiest way to get back to the pool's deck was to crawl, but I wasn't about to let go of him and tell him to follow. Who knew what instructions he heard besides mine?

"Don't fight me," I warned, then slid back on the rough surface of the board, pulling him with me. I continued to slide back and pull him toward me, slowly making our way to the pool deck. As soon as my feet touched the cement, I climbed off the diving board, then struggled to remove Patrick. On solid ground again, he wrenched away from me.

"You can't hurt me!" he said.

"Hurt you? What are you talking about?"

He turned his back to me, hunching his shoulders. "You can't hurt me."

"Patrick, you know that I won't. What is going on with you?"

"November hates you," he said.

"I'm not fond of November, either, after what happened last night."

Patrick turned his head to look questioningly at the cat. "Why? What did he do?"

"He came in the house, don't you remember? He wouldn't leave your room. I was going downstairs to get some bait, when I fell and hurt my shoulder."

Patrick turned all the way around to face me. He eyed my shoulder. "Does it hurt a lot?"

"No." I studied him, perplexed, trying to read the expression in his eyes. "We talked about it already this morning, remember?"

He bit his lip and nodded, but I wasn't sure that he did.

"Patrick, you could have killed yourself falling off the diving board. Why did you do that?" I had to ask, though I knew before he answered what he would say.

"You'll get mad," he replied. "You won't believe me."

"Because Ashley dared you?"

He nodded.

Twelve years ago, as in my dream the other night, she had dared me to do the same thing-to jump up and down at the end of the board, to entertain her with a stupid, risky game.

"I do believe you."

I believed in and feared something at Mason's Choice that was as dangerous as the people currently living here-a mind and force that I had never known how to handle: angry, vindictive, careless Ashley.

What did Ashley want, I wondered, as Patrick and I ate lunch. Justice? The company and friendship of another child? Friendship that would ultimately mean death?

Patrick was quiet during the meal, not like a child enjoying a school holiday, nothing like the little boy who had danced in the falling snow the night before. I feared that Ashley was changing him, and I didn't know how to stop her. Though Adrian would listen, he wouldn't believe me if I told him Patrick was haunted. I could tell him that I had found Patrick playing on the diving board, omitting my own experience with Ashley and fears about what was happening, but that wouldn't keep Patrick safe from her.

And it might backfire. I sensed that Emily was turning against me, jealous when Adrian supported me, upset when Patrick wanted to be with me. She could charge me with incompetence for letting her son wander off to the pool alone. If she had me dismissed, Patrick would have no one to watch over him.

I set down my half-eaten sandwich. At the same time, Patrick pushed back his plate. "I'm not hungry."

I immediately picked up my roll again and took a hearty bite. "Try just a little more. You want to have energy to play in the snow."

He didn't respond.

"Do you want to play outside after lunch?" "I guess."

"We can make a snowman. How about a snow fort?"

He shrugged. "Okay."

The Eastern Shore was mostly flat, and there were no hills on Mason's Choice for sledding. The drop of land down to the bay was too steep. "Do you know of a place around here where children like to sled?"

"No. That's okay."

I took a long sip of tea and made up my mind. "I'll be right back. Don't go anywhere. I want to see three more bites out of that roll."

I didn't want to make the phone call in front of Patrick and build up his hopes only to crush them. Standing close to a window in the dining room, hoping I'd hear or see him if he decided to slip out the kitchen door, I pulled out my cellular and punched in Sam's number, the one Elaine had given me.

Someone picked up at the other end.

"Hi," I said after a moment of silence.

"Hi, Kate," he replied.

"How did you know it was me?"

"The way you said hi, as if you weren't sure you wanted to, as if you might hang up."

Was I that obvious? "You have Caller ID," I guessed.

"That too. What's up?"

I issued an invitation to play in the snow. "Patrick would love to see you," I added. Realizing that I was pacing nervously, I made myself stop.

"Can't do it."

"Not at all? Not even for a half hour? Twenty minutes?"

"Would you love to see me?" he asked.

"Uh,"-he had caught me off guard-"yes, I'd like it, of course."

"Okay, then. I don't want to hang out with two people when one of them doesn't want me there."

"I didn't realize your ego was that sensitive," I said.

"Neither did I," he replied with a sigh.

"So… we'll see you in a bit. Do you know how to get here?"

"I can find the gates."

"They open automatically. Come straight up the road to the house."

"By the way, I have to leave by three o'clock," Sam said. "Even though school is canceled, we have hockey practice."

"Lovely. I mean, it's lovely that you're coming, not that you have to leave at three o'clock."

He laughed and I signed off quickly, wishing I could stop the burn in my cheeks. At least we'd be out in the cold where my cheeks always got pink-and my ears looked like roses stuck on either side of my head, I remembered.

When I told Patrick the news, he perked up. We found Emily in her sitting room, working on sketches for an art course she was taking, and received official permission for Sam to visit. Twenty minutes later, as Patrick and I headed to the kitchen to pull on our boots, we passed Brook in the hall.

"Anybody you know drive an old heap?" Brook asked. "One just pulled up in front of the house."

Patrick ran to the front window. "He's here!" he cried, as if Father Christmas had just arrived.

Mrs. Hopewell called down sternly from the top of the stairs: "There is company, and I wasn't informed."

"She has a boxful of eyeballs," Brook whispered to me. "She puts one in each window of the house."

1 walked to the foot of the stairs and spoke loud enough for both him and Mrs. Hopewell to hear. "The guest is a friend of Patrick and mine. We had permission to invite him." There was no need to say permission from whom or that we secured it after I issued the invitation.

Patrick yanked open the front door. "Hey, Sam!"

"Hey, buddy. How are you?"

"Good! Come in. I'll be right back. I have to get something upstairs."

Sam stepped inside and Patrick raced past me. When he spied Mrs. Hopewell at the top of the stairs, he put on the brakes and headed in another direction, choosing a set of back steps.

"Hello, Kate," Sam greeted me.

"Hi." I tried not to notice his rough beard-he must not have shaved-or his dark hair or his intense eyes, or the softness of the sweater he wore beneath an open jacket.

Sam walked toward Brook and held out his hand. "Hello. Sam Koscinski."

Brook nodded without taking his hand. "Westbrook Caulfield," he replied formally.

Mrs. Hopewell had descended half the flight of steps and stood staring down at Sam. I assumed she recognized the name and knew he was related to the man who had investigated Ashley's death.

"Hello, Mrs. Westbrook," Sam greeted the housekeeper.

She pulled back her head with surprise. Brook burst out laughing.

"This is Mrs. Hopewell," I said.

Sam didn't blink. "Hello, Mrs. Hopewell."

Without a word, she descended the remaining steps and strode down the hall toward Robyn's wing, probably to tell her who was here. Brook asked about the condition of the roads, then headed out.

Sam turned to me. "I knew who the old gargoyle was," he said. "She's a legend in town. Besides, I know how a housekeeper dresses-I've seen movies."

"So why did you pretend not to?"

He shrugged. "To get her to stop staring. To remind her that she is not the owner of the house." He glanced around. "Nice place."

"I've got my boots in the kitchen," I said, leading the way.

Patrick joined us there, carrying two battered hockey sticks, the ones I had seen in the third-floor storage rooms.

"Whoa! Look at those," Sam said, taking one in his hands, running his fingers up and down it. "This must have been used in the Revolutionary War."" "No, I think my dad used it," Patrick answered seriously. "We can play on the pond if you want."

"You can what?" I exclaimed.

"Kate says it isn't frozen hard enough to hold us," Patrick quickly confided to Sam, "but I know it is."

"Yeah? How do you know that?" Sam asked.

"Ashley told me."

That answer didn't surprise me anymore, but Sam hadn't expected it, and he glanced at me before responding. "Well, here's the problem. Since, far as I can tell, Ashley is lighter than air, and you and I are not, I'm going by what Kate says. But we can bring the sticks outside," he added. "They'll be good for batting snowballs."

Though disappointed, Patrick was agreeable. He and I tugged on our boots, and the three of us headed to the grounds behind the house, where there were no gardens hidden by snow that we might damage. The stretch of lawn was a white downy quilt against the long, blue horizon of bay and sky.

We took turns tossing snowballs, walloping them with hockey sticks, and running madly around the bases, which were mounds of snow.

"Are you sure you're a leftie?" Sam asked, when the balls I threw kept falling short of home plate.

"Are you implying I can't pitch?" I didn't want to tell him my right shoulder hurt.

Everything Sam did, Patrick did: winding his arm to pitch, sliding dramatically into base, bellowing that he was "safe." Afterward, we made a snowman as tall as Sam and gave him a hockey stick to hold.

"We need eyes and a nose," Patrick said. "And I want to make a number for him to wear."

"You're supposed to use a carrot for his nose," Sam replied, "but I always used broccoli, used it for every-thing-even had broccoli hair-that way, there wouldn't be any left for dinner."

Patrick laughed. "Green hair. Cool!"

"How about you, Kate?" Sam asked.

"It didn't snow much in England, not where we lived, but once we had a big storm and my father gave me loops of undeveloped film to make curly hair, then he and I dressed up our snow lady in paint rags and a drop cloth spattered with colors. She was elegant."

1 hadn't thought about that for years. I blinked before the unexpected tears got beyond the corners of my eyes.

"Cool!" Patrick repeated.

"Very cool," Sam said, his voice unusually gentle.

"So what do we use now?" I asked, glancing about, trying to look as if I'd already forgotten about the snow lady.

"Beach stuff," Patrick said. "Let's go down there."

"Can we?" Sam asked.

"I suppose so." There were steps, steep wooden ones that ran down the side of what Ashley and I used to call "the cliffs," eroded banks of sandy soil and clay that dropped about eight meters to a narrow shoreline of sand, shells, and stones. "We should be careful on the steps. They may be rotted in places. Let me go first, Patrick."

"I'll go first," Sam offered.

I said I would."

He raised an eyebrow. "Is this like the door thing?"

It was, and it was stupid, but I wouldn't admit it. "Fall through the steps if you want to," I said. "You're the one who has a play-off game on Saturday."

"Good point. You go first."

"Kate fell down the steps last night," Patrick volunteered, "down the big stairs, and woke everybody up. Daddy wanted to call 911."

Sam turned to stare at me.

"It wasn't as bad as it sounds. I stopped at the landing."

"Mommy said she could have killed herself."

"I bruised my shoulder, that's all," I told Sam. "Come on. This snowman needs eyes and numbers." I started walking.

"Race!" Sam shouted suddenly, and took off. The snow made it harder for Patrick to pick up his short legs and run. He looked like a bunny hopping after Sam. I waited till Sam slowed down to let Patrick catch up, then shot past the two of them.

Snowballs pelted the backs of my legs. I stopped to taunt the boys, and Sam rushed past me. He stood grinning at the top of the steps, then started down them, kicking off snow as he went. As it turned out, the wood was in good shape; I should have known that Adrian would keep his property perfectly maintained.

At the bottom, strips of snow lay like shimmering froth left behind by waves. It was low tide, and stones sparkled at the edge of the sand. The banks above us looked streaky, red clay and yellow sand sugared over with snow. The fresh smell of snow mixed with the tang of salt.

Patrick skipped along the shore, searching for materials. "We'll use clams for his ears," he called over his shoulder.

"Perfect!" I said, starting after him, but Sam caught me by the sleeve.

"What happened last night?"

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"How did you fall down the steps?"

"I just fell."

"I don't think so," he said. "I think you called me because something has happened to upset you."

"I called because I was worried about Patrick."

"Did you trip?" he persisted. No.

Sam waited for an explanation.

"I was pushed."

"Pushed! By who?"

"I don't know. It was dark-someone turned out the night lamp."

"Who do you think it was?"

"Ashley."

He grimaced. "That answer works only when you're seven. Be honest, who do you think it was?"

I don't know," I told him.

"Why do you think you were pushed?"

"I don't know!"

"You can trust me, Kate."

I bit my lip.

"I went on the Internet," Sam said, "and read the obituaries about your dad."

I glanced at him, startled. He was doing research on me.

"One of the articles said he and your mom had been separated for twelve years."

"That's right. She left us after we got to London. I haven't seen her since."

"That must have-" Sam broke off, seeing Patrick walking toward us.

"I found eyes and ears for the snowman," Patrick said, studying the treasures he carried. He dropped mussels and clamshells into my hands.

Sam admired them. "Great! Now we need a lot of stones, so we can write out the uniform number."

Patrick went off again.

"That must have been pretty tough, your mother suddenly disappearing," Sam said, continuing our conversation.

I shrugged. "The tough part was having to raise my father alone."

He smiled a little, but his eyes were serious. "Do you know how to contact your mother?"

I looked out at the bay, at the cold blue-gray waves, their jagged glitter. "Yes, but I won't. Ever. Can we change the subject?"

He didn't answer right away. "Okay. What do you want to talk about?"

"Patrick." I watched him at the edge of the water, picking up stones. There were others on dryer land, but he wanted the wet ones, the shiny ones. "I am really worried about him."

"Has his loving family killed any more pets?" Sam asked.

"He doesn't have any other pets, unless you count November."

I told Sam about the strange reappearance of Ashley's cat and recounted the other odd events: the way Patrick had played the song Ashley had played, with the same incorrect note; the dare on the diving board-the same dare Ashley had made to me. Once I started, I couldn't stop and I told him everything, though I avoided using the word "ghost."

"Sam," I said, finding my nerve at last, "what if Patrick sees and hears something… something real?"

"Like what?"

I don't know-a force, a spirit, the mind of Ashley. I think you may be right about her being murdered. What if Ashley is seeking justice?" I rushed on. "Or what if she is lonely and wants Patrick with her, in her world, forever?"

"Get a grip, Kate!" Sam exclaimed.

I had one, till someone pushed me down the steps. Maybe it was someone in the family. Or maybe it was Ashley. I can feel Patrick resisting me now when I talk to him, closing his mind to me. What if Ashley is trying to separate us, so she can put him in a deadly situation?"

Sam bent down, picked up the shells that had slipped through my fingers, and put them back in my hand. "We don't need supernatural events to explain what is happening."

I had guessed he would say that.

"Patrick is lonely and hurting," Sam went on. "What do kids like that do? Create imaginary playmates for company and get attention however they can.

He's been very successful at getting it-his dares have rattled you, his talk of Ashley has rattled his family."

"That's what I thought at first," I said, "but too many eerie things have happened. Patrick knows too much about Ashley. He knows things I didn't think anyone else knew but Ashley and me."

"Kate, all little kids have secrets they think adults don't know. Not only do they know, but so do the brothers and sisters who spy on the kids-or, in this case, cousins, like Westbrook Caulfield." He said the name as haughtily as Brook had.

I shook my head, rejecting his suggestion.

"Okay, let's say you're right," he said. "Then you should be able to solve the mystery of Ashley's death pretty easily. Learn ghost talk and ask her who killed her."

I felt mocked. "That's what I get for trusting you."

He took a step back. "Excuse me! Trust doesn't mean you'll get the response you want from someone, but that you'll get an honest response, and that the other person will stick by you even when you can't agree."

Stick by you for how long, through how much? I wondered. What is the expiration date on trust?

I watched Patrick tiptoeing toward a gull, leaning forward, calling to it, trying to befriend it. He was a kid desperate for companions-people, animals, ghosts. I kicked at the stones beneath my feet, then crouched down. "I should collect some of these. Patrick has been distracted."

Sam crouched next to me. "I'm telling you again, Kate, you can trust me."

Saying no more, he quietly gathered stones with me till I called to Patrick.

We climbed the steps and found our snowman sweating, its surface shining in the warm afternoon sun. We pressed the shells in place, then worked on the number for his "jersey." Patrick chose 23.

"Twenty-three!" Sam exclaimed. "Are you saying my ears look like clamshells and my hair like dry seaweed?"

Patrick cackled. "Yup."

When our hockey player was complete, we went for a walk. Patrick wanted to show Sam and me his tricks on the monkey bars. As we passed the garage, November sauntered out of the bushes and followed us to the workers' cottages, where the old play set was. Sam glanced sideways at me, as if to ask if this was the cat I'd told him about.

When the play equipment was in sight, Patrick raced ahead.

"It's not exactly state-of-the-art," Sam remarked, observing the large metal structures.

"It was built by a groundskeeper from equipment he salvaged. Patrick has a new set beyond the pool, but the swings aren't half as tall, and the plastic slide is slow. He prefers this one."

I caught my breath as I watched Patrick swing himself around a bar and narrowly miss whacking his skull. "Don't forget where your head is."

I guess it's genetic," Sam remarked. "Guys just have to show off."

"Watch this! Is everybody watching?" Patrick shouted.

"We see you."

He leaped from a high bar to the ground.

"Good jump!"

"Want to see another?" he called, and didn't wait for our reply.

Sam leaned over and brushed snow off a bench, then gestured for me to sit down. "Which house did you live in?" he asked, turning to gaze at the cottages behind us.

I turned with him. "The one on the end with the green trim."

"And that's where your dad painted?"

"No, Adrian gave him part of the orangerie-the light was better there. Sam, since you mentioned Dad, there's something"-l swallowed in mid-sentence, still awkward with the truth-"something I need to tell you about. Yesterday I learned that Dad was the father of Ashley and that my mother discovered it two weeks before Ashley died. That doesn't mean she killed Ashley," I added quickly. "I'm telling you only because I said your father went after her without a motive. The truth is, your father had a good reason to chase us that night."

Sam nodded.

"You're not surprised."

"No, I knew about your father and Corinne."

"You what? Why didn't you tell me? How long have you known?"

He shrugged. "I guess I was eleven or twelve when I asked my mother to tell me everything she knew about the case. My father left behind some notes.

He always typed separate notes for the client-he never handed over his personal notebook. She had kept it and told me what was in it."

I was outraged. "You knew all along about my dad. Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you correct me when I said my mother had no motive?"

"I didn't want to hurt you."

"I'm tired of people lying to me!"

"I didn't lie," he answered calmly. "I just didn't tell you everything I knew."

"Omitting important facts is the same as lying-it's the kind of lying my father specialized in."

"Maybe he didn't want to hurt you," Sam suggested.

"Or maybe he was ashamed," I said. "Tell me this: If you discovered my mother was guilty, would you go to the police with that information?"

He looked me steadily in the eye. "Yes."

"So if you would do it then, why save me the grief now?"

"Because I don't want to hurt you unnecessarily."

"Don't you understand? It hurts twice as much when you finally discover the truth."

He was silent for a moment. "I guess I never thought about that. I was trying to do the right thing for you."

"Stop trying. I don't need you to look out for me."

"Why does it bother you if I do, Kate?" he asked, his anger surfacing. "What's the big deal?"

The big deal was that it made me vulnerable, ripe for abandonment. But that was telling him too much. "You can't ask me to trust you and, at the same time-" A shout froze the words in my throat. Sam and I turned.

Patrick hung from a metal bar high above the snow. He had climbed to the top of the swing set, onto the beam from which the swings were suspended, halfway between the tall A-frames that were meant to support it. One end of the beam had broken loose from its frame.

I can't-l can't hold on," he cried.

Sam and I rushed forward. The ten meters between Patrick and us seemed to stretch as long as a playing field. Patrick dangled helplessly, kicking his legs. I saw his mittens slipping on the bar. He lost his grip.

"Patrick!"

He fell, landing on his back in the snow. I heard a low, grinding sound and looked up quickly. The long bar above him was pulling loose from its connection to the other frame.

"Roll away!" I screamed. "Roll away-the bar's going to fall!" But he lay there stunned.

Sam reached him first. Grabbing Patrick's feet, he dragged him away from the swing set. Seconds later, the end of the heavy bar broke free. Chains clanked as it dropped on top of the swings and plunged into the snow.

"Patrick," Sam said, breathing hard, "are you all right?"

I knelt on the other side of Patrick. He stared up at Sam, then turned his head to see me. There was something strange about the look in his eyes-a distance, a coolness in their blue light.

"Say something," I begged.

He gazed at me for a long moment, then frowned. You re crying.

"Of course I am," I said, hastily wiping my cheek. "You could have been seriously hurt." I m not.

He didn't appear shaken, didn't seem to understand how close he had come to harm. November ventured near, making a circle around us, continually sniffing.

"What were you doing on the top bar?" Sam asked, his voice rough.

"Playing."

"That's a support for the swings, not a bar to climb on," Sam scolded.

Patrick's eyelashes lowered, then he looked up again. "It was Ashley's idea."

"It was a very bad idea."

"She dared me."

"Then she's an idiot," Sam replied gruffly.

Patrick's eyes widened. "You had better be careful what you say. She can hear you."

Sam shook his head, then rose and walked over to examine the bar that had fallen.

"Can you wriggle your fingers and toes, Patrick?" I asked, gently brushing the snow from his hair.

He pushed my hands away and sat up. "Leave me alone."

Bewildered by his response, I left him sitting in the snow and joined Sam.

"How could this have happened?" I asked. "How could the swing set have fallen apart like that?"

"Looks like some bolts are missing," he replied, then turned toward Patrick. "You were awfully lucky, buddy."

"I'm lucky Ashley is my friend. She watches out for me.

Sam ignored the comment. "We had better take you back to the house. You look okay, but we should make sure, and we should tell your father about the swing set.

"But I want to go the pond," Patrick insisted. "Ashley is-" "Later," Sam said, his voice stem.

This time, crossing the snowy grounds, Patrick trailed behind us. November wandered off. Sam and I walked silently side by side.

"The equipment is old," Sam said at last, "and bolts rust and loosen."

"On both ends at the same time?"

He shook his head. "I don't believe it was an accident. I think someone got out a ratchet and worked on the bolts. I'm just telling you what the others might say.

I glanced over my shoulder to make certain Patrick was with us. He trudged, head down, so I couldn't see his face.

"Kate, this is getting dangerous," Sam said, "dangerous for both of you. Killing a hamster is one thing. Pushing a person down a flight of steps and causing a swing set to collapse is something else. I think the last two incidents are related. What kept Patrick from being hurt just now? You warned him, and I pulled him away before the bar fell. You're Patrick's protector. Someone wants you out of the way so he or she can get to him."

"Maybe," I said, "or maybe someone is getting nervous because Patrick and I are talking about Ashley. I still think this is connected to her death."

"But not to a ghost," Sam replied quickly.

I shrugged. "I don't see why murderous relatives preclude a ghost."

"They don't," Sam said. "But if what you see accounts for what is happening, why bring in what you can't see? It just muddies the situation. It is people, not ghosts, who murder. I think someone has murdered here before and is willing to do it again."

I tried to quell my growing fear. "Maybe these incidents are meant as nothing more than warnings," I said. "If I was serious about killing someone, I wouldn't fool around with attempts that may or may not work, warning the victim."

Sam laughed. "Then you'd make a lousy murderer, Kate. Think about it. The more direct the attempt-the more certain the outcome-the less chance it has of being considered an accident. As long as a murderer has the time to try a few 'accidents,' why not?

"Why not take the safer route, as long as the victims are available?" He turned toward me, grasping my wrists, making certain I was listening to him.

"And you are, Kate. You and Patrick are way too available."

At first, Sam and I thought Adrian wasn't listening. We found him in the office, pacing the floor, deep in thought. As we recounted what had happened, he glanced at Patrick, then drifted over to a pile of opened mail and fingered through it. Sam grew irritated-l could hear it in his voice-but, of course, Adrian had heard every word. When we were done, he checked over his son as thoroughly as we had, then sat down facing him.

"Well, Patrick, did you thank Sam? You owe him a great deal for pulling you away from the swing set."

"Thank you," Patrick said softly.

"And did you tell Kate you are sorry for scaring her?"

"I'm sorry."

Adrian rested his hand on Patrick's shoulder. "We have a problem, son. If we tell your mother about this, she will become quite worried and will wonder what else you might get into." Adrian lowered his head and peeked at Patrick. "You're not getting into any other trouble, are you?"

"No, Daddy."

A wry smile formed on Adrian's face; he knew better than to believe it. "Then why don't we keep this a secret between you and me, so we don't upset your mother. Can you do that?"

Patrick nodded silently.

Sam had to leave for practice, but took a few minutes to accompany Patrick to the third floor to see the playroom, where his hockey picture was enshrined. I remained behind.

"About this secret," I said to Adrian when we were alone, "are you protecting Emily from worry, or me from being disciplined?"

He smiled. "I can always count on you to be forthright. Both, actually. I know it's not your fault, Kate. As for Emily, she worries excessively and sometimes smothers Patrick with her affection, but don't think poorly of her. This is my third child; he is Emily's only."

Then he called Roger on his cell phone, asking him if he had noticed anyone around the metal play equipment and telling him to dismantle it immediately.

When he hung up, he looked tired.

"Do you think someone tampered with the swing set?" I asked.

"It's possible. Stay as close as you can to Patrick," he said, gesturing toward the door, indicating that our discussion was over. I knew Adrian wasn't the kind of person who felt obligated to tell others how he intended to handle matters. Family reputation was important to him; he would address the situation quietly. I left and met Patrick and Sam on my way upstairs.

"I've got to run," Sam said. "I'm picking up some of the other guys for practice."

"Thanks for coming, thanks for everything," I replied. "I know Adrian is grateful too."

Sam grimaced. "I did my best to be polite to him. It wasn't easy."

"Why?" asked Patrick.

Sam glanced down at the questioning face. "Because sometimes I'm a little rude. Don't do anything stupid, buddy, I don't care who dares you.

Understand?"

Patrick nodded.

"Yeah-yeah," Sam muttered, and raised his eyes to me. "Keep in touch?"

"Sure." I met his eyes for half a second, then looked away.

He reached out, resting two fingers lightly on the back of my hand. "Keep in touch, Kate."

After Sam left, Patrick and I put on dry clothes and spent the rest of the afternoon upstairs. Because he was doing poorly in his schoolwork, we used the extra time to work on spelling and math. He was unusually quiet and agreeable. Perhaps I had imagined him pulling away from me, I thought; I was getting like Emily, overreacting when he didn't want to be a cute, cuddly little kid.

Patrick and I endured another family dinner, though Trent was absent from this one-in town with the "kitchen-sink blonde" who managed the hotel. I learned from Brook that Robyn's description meant the woman colored her own hair, which meant that she was a middle-class working type who didn't have much money to spend on herself, which meant she wasn't up to the Westbrook standards.

With one less participant, I had hoped the mealtime squabbling would be less, but instead it became a cat fight between Robyn and Emily. Adrian ignored them, occasionally addressing Patrick and me. Brook assigned points to the ladies' jibes, keeping score. Patrick withdrew as soon as the quarreling began, raising his head now and then to gaze at the flickering candles.

After dinner, when we were alone, he remained withdrawn, wanting to go to bed early that evening. His behavior was beginning to worry me. I asked him if he was ill, if he was sore from his fall, if he was afraid of something, if he was sad-l posed every conceivable question about how he felt, but was told nothing.

I asked Emily to come in and read a book with him, then requested that Adrian do the same, hoping to reassure him with their love and attention.

Neither of them appeared to be concerned, for Patrick seemed like a quiet, sleepy child, the ideal seven-year-old at bedtime, but I knew something was wrong. He barely responded when I said the little rhyme he liked and kissed him good night. It was as if he had fallen deep inside himself, into a world I couldn't reach.

I slept poorly that night, awakening at every sound, checking on him at midnight, 2:15, 3:55.1 awoke again a few minutes after five, tired and cross, but there was no getting back to sleep until I checked him again. Once more, I crept downstairs.

He was gone. I couldn't quite believe it, and yet it was what some part of me had been waiting for all night. I checked the rooms on the third floor, then quickly dressed and hurried down to the kitchen. The door to the outside was locked, but the deadbolt undone, indicating that Patrick may have exited from there. I debated whether to wake the family. A search party might find him faster, but creating that kind of scene would make things worse for him. I thrust my feet in my boots. I would find him myself. I had to.

Checking my pocket for keys, I opened the door and stepped into the brittle cold. A day of March sunlight had melted the surface of the snow, but the dipping temperatures of the clear night had frozen it again, making an icy crust that glimmered in the moonlight. Hanging low in the west, the moon cast long shadows and darkened the craters of footprints, confusing the paths that converged at the back door. Had he gone to the pool? Taken the steps down to the bay? No, it was the pond that drew Patrick. I took off.

The hardened snow made it difficult to run, my feet sinking in at odd angles, my toes catching in the crust. Having circled to the front of the house, I cut across the gardens and suddenly found a fresh trail, Patrick's prints-at least prints small enough to be his. Reaching the drive that ran between the house and the main road, I saw another set of prints in the slushy, cindered snow. A cat's. November. It was as if the cat had instantly appeared and disappeared, leaving no trace of where he had come from or where he had gone on the other side of the plowed road. Then l realized that the animal was light and had probably walked on top of the frozen snow.

Patrick's tracks ran through the orchard and around the barn. I raced across the last stretch of snow toward the pond. The tall ring of evergreen trees that surrounded the pond rose up dark and silent, a forbidding circle. I entered the trees, following the short path that wound through the cedar and pine and emerged several meters from Patrick. He knelt at the pond's edge. A collection of small branches lay piled in front of him like an offering. The cat, sitting close to him, turned his head to see who had come into their circle.

My teeth chattered, not from the weather, but from the cold, otherworldliness of the scene. Shadows cast by long fingers of pine stretched across the pond's dull white ice. Near the center, the circle of dark water that never froze shone like a black moon. Patrick seemed a part of this unearthly place, as if he had stepped over the line that divided the colorful world of the living from the stark shades of death.

I walked quietly toward him. "What are you doing?"

He didn't turn his head, didn't act as if he had heard me. He was striking matches, one after another; they must have been wet, for none of them would light. I could see the thin flannel of his pajama pants beneath his snow jacket. He wore shoes rather than boots. His head and hands were bare.

I knelt next to him. "What are you doing?" I repeated.

"This will keep us warm," he said.

I touched the pile of sticks. "Are you making a fire?"

"Don't be afraid. It won't melt the ice."

His voice. sounded both strange and familiar. It wasn't the slightly high pitch Patrick used when he was trying to convince me of something, but the low, demanding tone of Ashley when she had insisted that I believe her.

"You can't believe what the grown-ups say," he went on. "They tell you things just to scare you."

The tingle started low in my spine and ran to the base of my skull. I had had this conversation before.

"They lie to you."

"Who does?" I asked.

"Everyone. They lie because they want you to do something."

"Not always," I argued.

"They want to hurt you."

"Who does?"

"They hate me, Katie!"

I pulled back. Patrick's fists were clenched with fury. He was no longer just hearing a ghost-he was speaking her words, he was feeling her emotions.

"Patrick, look at me."

He abruptly turned his back, then rose and walked over to November. "They don't know your name," he whispered to the cat. "No one knows it but me.

No one can touch you but me." His fists relaxed as he pet the animal, then he glanced in my direction. "We'll get warm, and then we'll go skating."

"No, Patrick." I said, walking toward him. "It isn't safe."

Kneeling again, I took his face in my hands and turned it toward me. His eyes were open, but I felt as if I were looking into the eyes of a plastic dollunblinking, glittering circles, eyes that did not physically see me.

I shook him lightly. His eyes rolled back in his head, then his lids closed. Panicking, I pulled them open with my fingertips. All I saw were the whites.

"Patrick!" I cried. "Wake up!"

I let go, and his eyelids closed. I shook him, terrified that I was losing him. "Come back, Patrick! Stay with me-stay awake!"

I shook him again, harder than I meant to.

He opened his eyes, gazing blankly at me for a moment. Then his eyes widened. He wrenched away from my grasp. "You can't hurt me!"

He scrambled to his feet, stepping on the cat. November squealed. Patrick rushed toward the path through the woods.

I stood up, bewildered, and glanced around the pond. "Show yourself, Ashley!" I cried out angrily. I dare you!"

I ran after Patrick and caught up with him outside the ring of trees. I followed at a short distance, wary of getting too close. I would wait till he stopped, I thought, wait till whatever frightened and drove him away from me ceased in his mind. But when we reached the road he veered suddenly, turning away from the house toward the cemetery. At its iron gate, I grabbed him and held him tightly against me.

"Stop, Patrick."

He fought me.

"Patrick, be still."

His resistance lessened.

"It's Kate! I'm trying to help you."

At last he sagged against me. I was almost afraid to let go and look in his eyes, afraid I'd set him running again. I slowly eased down next to him. "How are you doing?"

He looked ghastly in the pale moonlight. "I don't feel good."

"I know you don't." I removed my jacket and put it over his. "Climb on my back. I'll give you a ride."

He climbed on and placed his arms around my neck. "Where's November?" he asked.

"I think he stayed back at the pond. He'll be all right."

I stood up, holding on to Patrick's legs, massaging them as I walked toward the house, trying to warm them. I carried him piggyback all the way up the main stairs. When we reached his room, I laid him on his bed. I quickly pulled off his wet pajamas and gave him a dry set along with a woolly pair of socks.

"Better?" I asked as I tucked his quilt around him.

He nodded. I gently rubbed his cold cheeks and ears. He lay there for a long time with his eyes wide open, his body absolutely still. When his eyes finally closed, I turned off his alarm clock, then tiptoed to the stairs connecting our rooms, planning to turn off my own alarm and fetch my quilt. It would keep me warm while I sat by Patrick's bed. At the top of the steps, I found the door to my room shut. Opening it, I felt a rush of frigid air. I quickly closed the door behind me, cutting off the draft so it wouldn't blow closed the door to Patrick's room. Then I saw my window and backed up. The upper half was shattered, jagged pieces of glass hanging from its wooden frame. Shards glittered like ice on the floor.

I walked toward the window, glass crunching beneath my boots. I knew what was outside the dormer, but I couldn't believe what I was seeing and I had to be certain. At the cottage there had been a tree for Ashley to climb when she'd thrown my doll through the bedroom window, smashing it inward. Here-just as I had thought-there was nothing more than a strip of steep slate roof. Still, the window had broken inward, the glass scattering on the floor rather than on the roof outside.

I dare you to show yourself, Ashley," I whispered.

In the thin moonlight I caught the reflection of a rounded piece of glass. The framed picture of my father-and hers-lay as my doll had among the rubble.

I didn't clock it, but I would say that ninety seconds after Patrick was due downstairs, dressed for school, Mrs. Hopewell arrived outside his room to inquire why he wasn't. I was waiting for her by the door and told her that Patrick hadn't felt well during the night, so I was letting him sleep. I also informed her that my window had been broken. She asked how and why I had broken it-as if people routinely break their own bedroom windows in the middle of freezing winter nights. Twenty minutes after she departed, Emily tiptoed in to see the sleeping Patrick. Adrian showed up more than an hour after that, when the others were downstairs at breakfast. I left Patrick in his room getting dressed and accompanied Adrian to my room so that he could inspect the window.

"How is Patrick doing?" he asked, closing my door behind us.

"Physically, all right, I think."

"And emotionally?"

"Not well at all." I quickly told him what I hadn't told the others, where I had found Patrick last night and what he was doing.

Adrian paced my room, and for the first time I saw the color of barely repressed anger in his face. "Someone is planting these ideas in his head." He kicked at the shards of glass. "And someone is playing pranks. I'm going to find out who." He took a deep breath. "I suppose you know there was some opposition to hiring you."

"Yes. I overheard Mrs. Hopewell and Mrs. Caulfield talking the day I was interviewed."

"Trent wasn't happy about it either. As for my grandson, while he has never objected to you, I believe he has a double major in partying and pranks. It is a terrible thing to say about one's own household, but any of them could have done it."

Including Ashley, I thought. I found it odd, the way the glass broke inward," I ventured aloud.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, it would be easy to knock it out and onto the roof, but-" Adrian walked over to the window and looked out. "I see what you're saying." After studying the shattered upper half of the window, he lifted the lower half a few inches and slid his arm under the sash. "I suppose any number of objects could be adapted to break the top inward, something like a pole with a hook at the end. A golf club."

Or a hockey stick, I thought. We had left one with the snowman and the other in Patrick's playroom. I should have thought of it last night.

He withdrew his arm. "Obviously, by scattering glass on your floor, someone meant to be nasty. I have given Mrs. Hopewell orders to vacuum several times, then wash the floor. We'll get you a new rug. In the meantime, don't go barefoot."

"Adrian, would it be possible to turn on the alarm system at night? It's too easy and too dangerous for Patrick to slip out alone. Can't the others come in and reset the alarm?"

"Brook doesn't know the code." In response to the surprise on my face, Adrian smiled a little. "No, I don't trust him, but you are right, I need to set the alarm. Brook will have to abide by a curfew until this nonsense is over."

He started toward the door, then stopped. "You know how grateful I am to you, Kate. You also know I could hardly blame you if you decided to find a less

… dysfunctional family to work for."

"I'm not leaving Patrick."

He opened the door, a grim smile on his face. "I always seem to like the ones who aren't my own," he said, then descended the steps to talk with Patrick.

I drove Patrick to school about 10:15. He was willing to go, and I thought it better for him to spend time away from his family. I walked him to the office and, when he had departed for his classroom, asked if I could meet with his school counselor. I was told that, as caretaker rather than family member, I had to have his parents' written permission to discuss him with her. Adrian had already made it clear that he did not want the counselor's involvement Frustrated, I headed for High Street, hoping to catch Joseph at the store.

"Shop's closed," I greeted Joseph as I entered.

He looked up from behind the counter and smiled, then got a curious look on his face. "Don't take this personally, Katie, but you look wretched."

"I haven't slept much lately."

"Pull up a piece of antique and tell me what's been going on," he invited.

I lugged an old chair over to the counter. Joseph picked up the tarnished necklace he had been examining and poked through a case of jeweler's tools.

He worked on the clasp while I filled him in on the events at Mason's Choice.

"I don't know what to do, Joseph," I said at the end. "How can I protect Patrick if I don't know where the danger is coming from, if I can't even decide if it is human or not?"

I waited for him to respond. So far, he had shown no reaction to my idea that there might be something other than flesh and blood haunting Patrick.

"I can discuss only half of my fears with Adrian," I went on. "He would think I am mad, talking about a ghost Sam is already convinced of it I myself think I'm going mad, and yet…" I stopped and shrugged my shoulders.

"And yet?" Joseph prompted, setting down a tool.

"Ashley seems so real to me. Go ahead, you have my permission to laugh."

"I wish I could, but I find what you have told me too disturbing. I'm sure the family does, too, even if they don't admit it. There's nothing like guilt to make you worry there might be a hereafter."

I laughed out loud, though the idea was sobering. "So you think Ashley might have been murdered."

I don't know, Katie. I've spent the last twelve years believing that Adrian acted stupid and mean when he tried to blame someone for an unfortunate accident. It's a struggle now for me to admit he may have been right."

"I'm going to the college library today to see if I can find a book about ghosts, the kind that takes seriously the paranormal, if they have anything like that.

I don't know what else to do," I said, sounding defensive. "I asked to talk to the counselor at Patrick's school, hoping she could help me understand what Patrick is feeling. She can't see me without permission from his parents."

Joseph gazed at me thoughtfully, "I think I can help you," he said, then set down the necklace and rummaged beneath the counter. At last he pulled out a ragged looking phone directory. "Obviously, Mother believed that when you own an antique shop, it's in poor taste to have anything current. Still, this old book may do. James wasn't the type to move around." He paged through the directory, wrote a number on a store receipt, then searched some more and scribbled another one.

"'Dr. James Parker,'" I read aloud, when Joseph handed me the paper.

"He's an old friend of mine-we went to college together. He works at the high school as a psychologist, so he must know about family problems. But he has a hobby-at least he used to-paranormal psyche. Two for the price of one, Katie, and I believe he is discreet. Why don't you give him a call? He's probably at the school now, the first number there."

I called from the store, then left my cell phone number. I was on my way to the college campus when Dr. Parker returned the call. I told him that Joseph Oakley had referred me and described some of the problems Patrick was having with his family; he said he could see me next week. Then I told him about Ashley; he suddenly had a free period that afternoon and gave me directions to the high school.

It was a brick building with two stories of long windows. Inside, the lockers and speckled floor looked new, but the beige tiled walls definitely were not. A big sign advertising the hockey team's championship game hung in the lobby.

I signed in at the school office, where the psychologist met me.

"I'm Dr. James Parker," he said. "Call me Jim."

I nodded and planned to call him Dr. Parker.

Fortunately, I had been warned by Joseph not to let the psychologist's "fashion sense" put me off. He wore a short-sleeved flowered shirt and pink tie with a long gray sweater vest. I estimated that the sheep that had produced the sweater had been dead for at least seventy years. Perhaps the same sheep had produced the wool socks that puffed out under his sandals. But the man had inquisitive eyes, and a cheerful smile peeked through his beard; I suppose the world looked very rosy to him, given his tinted glasses.

He led me to his office and soon proved himself a skillful reader of people. He gestured to the sofa first, then quickly changed his mind and pointed to a stiff-backed chair, which was fortunate, because I had no intention of getting comfortable. He chose a wheeled chair for himself, which he pushed back a half meter, putting a little more distance between us. For a moment we simply looked at each other.

"So you are a friend of Joseph Oakley."

"I knew him twelve years ago, when he and my mother took care of Ashley Westbrook. This is the first time I've been back to the States since then. I met up with him last week and he has been helping me, listening mostly."

"I hope he hasn't been telling you tales from our college days," Dr. Parker said.

I suspected he really hoped that Joseph had. "No, sir.

"Joseph and I were two locals-'farmers' are what the dorm kids called us. We were hopeless-neither of us jocks, both of us lousy at cards. Joseph was good at music, but he didn't listen to rock. We were about as un cool as you could get, until he got that great car-a used Jaguar. Even used, it cost him a bundle, but it was worth every penny." Dr. Parker laughed. "A lot of kids wanted to ride around in that Jag."

I smiled, trying to imagine Joseph and this late-blooming flower child cruising in a British sports car.

"So tell me what has been happening, Kate."

There was a lot to recount. I was grateful that he didn't interrupt me, though I wondered from time to time whether he was thinking with his eyes closed or taking a short nap.

"Interesting," he said, when I had finished. "Extremely interesting." He opened his eyes and took off his glasses, glancing around as if surprised to see the world less pink, then put the spectacles back on. "Tell me, Kate, how do you account for these events?"

"As I said a few minutes ago, I have two theories. Either someone in the family is setting things up and seeding Patrick's fears, or there is an actual ghost-but I don't like either theory. I don't believe in ghosts, and the fact is, I don't see or hear something that might be considered the ghost of Ashley. But when Patrick speaks of her, when he speaks the same words she did and does the same things she was daring me to do, she feels so alive. In the beginning he claimed that she liked me, but that is changing. Patrick is distancing himself from me, sometimes acting afraid of me, and I think it is she who is causing this. It is as if he is possessed by her. I don't know how to protect him."

"And you feel as if you need to."

I stiffened. Was he turning this into a psychological analysis of me? "When it results in something as dangerous as standing on a diving board over an empty pool or walking on thin ice-yes!"

"There is nothing harder to do than to protect another person from himself."

From himself? I thought. "If you are saying Patrick is making this up, I don't believe it," "I'm not suggesting that he is making it up, but that he is making it possible."

The psychologist stood up and walked around. The two deep-silled windows in his office bloomed with plastic flowers, a contradiction to the bag of "All Natural" health food sitting by his briefcase. He picked up a bouquet of faded roses and shook it, creating a cloud of dust.

"Based on what you've told me, I would be very surprised if Ashley is a ghost the way we normally define ghosts, i.e., a spirit from the other side, the personality and soul of someone who is dead. For one thing, no one else has seen her. Now, you might be particularly insensitive-" "Excuse me?"

"Insensitive to the spiritual world, but I doub't that everyone on Mason's Choice is that way. And yet no one has admitted to seeing her. I would very much like to talk to Patrick."

I bit my lip. "I don't think I can arrange that. I am certain Adrian would not give his permission, and while I, myself, can come here without telling Adrian, I don't have the right to bring his son without him knowing it."

"I understand, but I can't offer you an opinion on Patrick without an evaluation of him. I don't venture opinions on what I haven't examined myself."

I thought quickly. "I don't want an opinion, just a hypothesis I can test out. I'm not asking for a diagnosis of Patrick but a theory about Ashley, whom no one can examine."

I was trifling with words, for it all amounted to the same thing, but I needed Dr. Parker's help. Perhaps he saw my desperation. I found it interesting that this man, who studied the mind and other unseen things, looked so carefully at my face and hands, depended on the physical to give him clues. He returned to his chair.

"Theoretically," he said, "it is possible that Patrick is tuning in to a psychic imprint left behind by Ashley."

"A psychic imprint?"

"A record of her thoughts and emotions. He is the same age as she was when she died, correct?"

"Yes. Seven."

"He lives in the same house, in the same room, and in the same emotional environment, spoiled by his parents, aware of the hostility that members of his family bear toward him."

Dr. Parker's wheeled chair edged forward. "It is possible that what Patrick perceives is not something happening now, but something that happened twelve years ago. Being on the same wavelength as Ashley, he may have access to the psychic trace of her thoughts and feelings-some very powerful ones — and is perceiving them as if they are occurring in the present.

"In a way, it is like reading an autobiography in which you strongly identify with the hero. The events happened in the past, but you, when involved in the book, experience them as if they are occurring now. Or, it is like perceiving stars that are light-years away. That light was shining eons ago, but you see it now-at least, those people with the right equipment and focus perceive it now. Others cannot. Do you understand?"

I think so. . but then-then there is nothing I can do to change what he is perceiving. It was set twelve years ago."

The doctor nodded.

I rubbed my arms, chilled by the idea. Ashley's childish perceptions, selfishness, and quick anger were not a world inside which I wanted Patrick trapped.

"What about the cat?" I asked. "How do you explain that?"

"I don't explain anything. I offer theories, possibilities, nothing more."

"And one theory is?"

"Of course, you cannot rule out coincidence. A cat's life could easily span the twelve-year period, and cats, especially half-wild ones, will wander in and out of people's lives. Still, the timing is striking."

1 made my fingers still, though they wanted to tap with impatience.

"In folklore, cats have long been associated with the paranormal-with witches, for instance. They may have a certain sensitivity to psychic elements. If Patrick is experiencing Ashley's thoughts and feelings, the cat may be sensitive to those it recognizes as belonging to a little girl who cared for him."

"So November won't hurt Patrick."

I don't guarantee anything. I offer theories, possibilities" Yes, I know." I stood up, weary of his theories now, wanting answers, needing to know exactly how to help Patrick. I walked over to one of the windows filled with artificial flowers, then picked up a box of plant fertilizer.

"Just a little joke," Dr. Parker said.

I set it down. "What can I do to help Patrick? You have to understand-Ashley was a daredevil. She was often angry and mean-spirited. If your theory is correct, it scares me to think of Patrick being imprisoned inside her thoughts and feelings. Isn't there some way to get him free of her?"

"Well, if Patrick did not have the same family problems and situation as Ashley had, his connection to her psychic imprint probably wouldn't be as strong. I believe it would fade completely with time. Can you convince the Westbrooks to get him and themselves some therapy?"

Even if I could convince Emily, the others would never agree to it. I doubted that Adrian's opinion of psychologists was the only obstacle; ugly and personal things would come out, precisely the kind of things that no one in the family wanted to admit.

"I'll try again, but I think it's impossible," I said, frustrated. "I'm afraid I don't like your theory any more than my own."

He smiled. "Good. It's when we like our theories too much that we should be wary."

Dr. Parker gave me his card and told me not to hesitate to contact him. I emerged from his quiet office deep in thought and found myself in sudden bedlam. Classes were changing. A river of people flowed down the hall. I hesitated, then took the plunge, trying to make my way to the front door.

"Kate!"

At the sound of Sam's voice, I turned around.

"Over here."

I struggled to make my way toward him but was swimming upstream. He reached out and grabbed my hand, towing me to a wall of lockers.

"Looking for me?" he asked, smiling, propping an arm against a locker, framing me with his body. He was so good at it-getting close without touching.

"No."

He dropped his arm. "Well, maybe you could pretend."

"Sam, we're going to be late," a girl called to him.

"Go on, Sara," he answered. "Tell Campbell I'm finishing a test."

"Tell him yourself," the girl said, sounding annoyed.

Sam turned back to me. "So why are you here?"

"I was talking to Dr. Parker."

Sam grinned. "No, really."

"Really. Why would I make that up?"

"Because the man is flake-o, Kate."

I shrugged.

"You went to see him-like a counselor?"

"Yes. Joseph suggested him." The bell rang; the hallway cleared and grew quiet. "Dr. Parker has not only a background in psychology, but an interest in the paranormal."

Sam hooted softly.

"Just because you are unwilling to keep an open mind and consider all the possible causes-" He interrupted me. "The problem with keeping your mind open to impossible causes is that it distracts you from chasing down the real ones, from talking to the people who can definitely help you."

"Like who? If you have a suggestion, tell me. I'll follow up on it."

"Your mother."

I took a step back.

"I want to talk to her, Kate. I need her phone number or e-mail address."

Five years ago, my father had given me the contact information that she had sent for me. I had attempted several times to tear up the slip of paper but never succeeded. As if he had guessed I might do that, he'd also left the information with his attorney.

"Do you have it?" Sam asked.

"Not with me," I said brusquely.

"When you get back to your room, call and leave it on my voice mail, okay?"

I don't remember hiring you as a private investigator."

"You didn't."

"What makes you think you have the right to interfere with my family?"

His eyes narrowed. "You forget, this involves my family too."

"So you're picking up where your father left off, solving his case-" "Maybe."

"Proving my mother did it."

"No! That's no fair, Kate. You're jumping to conclusions."

"But it's a possibility, isn't it? Isn't it? And as much as I may despise my mother, I am not going to help you hang her."

I turned quickly to walk away. He grabbed my hand.

"Let go!"

He did, but he stood very close. "Listen to me, Kate. I am definitely interested in solving my father's case, and it is possible your mother is guilty, but that's not my main reason for pursuing this. You've gotten yourself mixed up with a vicious group of people, and I'm not going to stand by waiting for something to happen to you. You know that Patrick is in danger, but when it comes to yourself, you just don't get it."

The intensity of his eyes and voice made me feel shaky inside. There wasn't a nerve in my body unaware of him. "I get it. I'm scared."

Then let me help."

"Help Patrick, okay?"

He threw up his hands. "You just can't trust, can you?"

"Not easily," I said, and left.

When I picked up Patrick that afternoon, he handed me a note from his teacher addressed to his parents. I quickly parked the car and brought him and the sealed note back into school, hoping I could speak with the teacher. While Patrick stood in the pet corner of his classroom, silently watching a hamster in its cage, Miss Crichton explained that the rule that applied to counselors applied to teachers as well. Without permission, she could speak only to the parents.

By the time I got Patrick home and into his play clothes, I could guess what was in the note that I had placed in Adrian's mailbox: Patrick showed no interest in what was around him. I didn't know if it was Ashley or the hostility of the others that was draining him of his energy, but I found the seeping away of his spirit more frightening than the recent dares and danger he had encountered.

Since he didn't appear to be physically ill, I gave him a snack and took him outside, hoping the sunlight and fresh air would help. The melting snow was ankle-deep now. To my relief, when Patrick spotted his snowman, he ran toward it, kicking up the sloppy snow, acting like a normal kid. He snatched up the hockey stick and gave it a swing.

"Goal!" I shouted. "Westbrook scores!"

He raised his arms in triumph, as Sam and the other hockey players did, then froze in that pose, his mouth opening with surprise. He dropped the stick.

"November! November!" he cried.

He raced forward, then crouched in the snow. I saw the strip of orange fur lying still on the ground. My heart tightened. Don't let it be, I thought.

"November, wake up! Wake up! Move! Come on, you can."

I hurried forward and knelt next to Patrick. The cat lay motionless, his eyes staring ahead, his mouth open. Piles of vomit had gelled in the snow around him. I glanced about for an empty food dish; no evidence had been left behind, but I suspected that someone had poisoned the cat.

I put my arms around Patrick. "I'm so sorry."

His small frame felt rigid.

"I'm so terribly sorry."

His bottom lip quivered, but his eyes were dry. "Why did they do it?" he asked. "Why do they want him dead? Was it because of me?"

"Of course not. November was very old, and old cats die naturally," I replied, unwilling to admit the truth, wanting to spare Patrick as much pain as possible. I sounded like my mother when she'd told me the "deer" weren't harmed.

Patrick wasn't fooled. "When Tim's cat ate weed killer, he threw up and died. November ate poison."

"Well, yes, he could have. It does look that way."

Patrick's fists tightened. "He killed him. He killed November!"

"Who did?" I asked, taken aback by the certainty in his voice.

"Daddy."

"What?"

Patrick trembled with anger. "He didn't like him."

"But your father loves animals."

"He didn't want me to keep him."

"Because wild cats can't be pets," I said.

Patrick's shoulders sagged, his sorrow greater than his anger. He took off his mittens and gently touched the cat, petting around his torn ear, softly stroking the whiskers. Large tears rolled down his face.

I wanted to rip into whoever had done this. I wondered if Brook had graduated from tormenting Ashley's pets to killing Patrick's. Or was it Trent? I thought. He had disliked and feared the cat when Ashley had loved it, and it would be a painful reminder to him now. Because of Robyn's love for animals, I had trouble imagining her doing it, though perhaps Patrick's animals didn't count to her, or perhaps she had asked her son to handle it. Mrs. Hopewell also could have done it-it wasn't hard, it wasn't messy, putting poison in food.

I watched as Patrick ran his fingers down the back of the cat. He rubbed around its ears again. "November didn't like to have his paws touched," he said, honoring that even in death.

I ached for him.

"Did he hurt a lot?" Patrick asked. "Did his stomach hurt bad?"

I could hide behind a half-truth and say that I didn't know how it felt to be a cat.

"Does your stomach hurt you when you throw up?" I asked back.

"Yes. But sometimes I feel better after I do."

I nodded. "I would think it's the same. If there is a cat heaven, November feels much better now."

The cat needed a larger and deeper hole than the hamster, so I asked Roger to help us bury it in the cemetery. Afterward Patrick and I took a back route up to the third floor, successfully avoiding the others. He didn't want to talk and didn't want to play. I put on a video, a superhero story that, as far as I could remember, didn't have any animals in it, then went downstairs to speak to his parents. Emily was still at the college that afternoon, working on an art project, so I talked to Adrian alone.

Perhaps because I was shaking with anger, he remained very calm when I told him about the cat's death. But when I warned him that Patrick believed he had poisoned it, Adrian looked incredulous, then hurt.

"Why would he think that?" he exclaimed, like a stung child. "Because I wouldn't let him keep it as a pet?"

"Patrick has blamed me for things, as well. Sometimes he pulls away from me and tells me that I can't hurt him. Did you read the note from his teacher?"

Adrian nodded.

"I don't know what she said, but I would guess he is withdrawing at school, too. It's dangerous, Adrian. He is separating from those of us who care most for him and want to help him. I haven't told anyone but Roger about my suspicion of poisoning. I can't handle it yet. I'm furious that someone would do this, knowing how deeply it would hurt Patrick."

"Don't worry, I'll see to the others. And I will fill in Emily as soon as she gets home."

"Adrian, what about having a vet do an autopsy?"

He shook his head. "It would do nothing more than prove what you and I already know."

An hour later, Emily arrived and came upstairs. I left her alone to talk with Patrick, telling her I'd be in my room if she needed me. "Stay upstairs," she advised me. "Adrian is having a word with the family and staff."

Fifteen minutes later she came to my room, her face drawn. "He would barely talk to me."

"To anyone, it's not just you," I assured her.

She twisted a handkerchief in her hands. "You see, Kate, this is another reason why Patrick should not have pets. They can break a child's heart."

"It's people who are breaking his heart," I replied.

"He refuses to eat dinner."

"I'll have my dinner up here and maybe he will discover he is hungry."

Two trays were brought up, but Patrick didn't touch his. I retrieved a pack of crackers from my purse, and he ate two. Henry came upstairs to clear our dishes, then brought back dessert.

"Just one piece?" I asked, as he handed me the fruit pie.

The old man looked embarrassed. "Mrs. Hopewell says that Patrick cannot have dessert until he eats his dinner." He glanced at Patrick. "I'm sorry. She makes the rules."

She doesn't make them for us, I thought. When Henry was gone, I offered Patrick my pie, but it didn't tempt him.

We sat side by side on the sofa in his playroom, watching the telly. I edged closer to him and finally put my arm around him. For a moment he gave in, leaning against me, then he pulled back, as if suddenly remembering a reason to keep his distance. I hated the thought of all the pain bottled up in him. I decided to call Sam. Though we had parted on a bad note, I counted on him to ignore that when it came to Patrick.

"Stay right here, Patrick," I said, then fetched Sam's number from my room. I stood in the hall, where I could keep my eye on the door to the playroom, and punched in the digits.

"Hello?"

"Mrs. Koscinski? This is Kate, Kate Venerelli."

"Oh, hello, Kate. It's nice to hear from you."

"Is-uh-Sam there?"

"Well, no, dear, not at the moment. May I take a message?"

She sounded so cheerful, so normal. I hadn't realized how cold and oppressive life seemed at Mason's Choice.

"Do you know when he'll get home?"

"It may be late. You sound concerned, Kate. Is something wrong?"

"No. Yes. I'm worried about Patrick. A cat that he loved"-l hesitated-"uh, died today. Patrick is upset."

"Oh, poor child! I'm very sorry."

"Sam is good with him. I thought maybe he could drop by, tonight or tomorrow."

I have the number where he can be reached-it's somewhere here-give me a moment to put my hands on it. Practice should be over now. Afterward, Sam was going to study at Sara's house."

Sara, the girl who had called to him in the hall; I got a hollow feeling in my stomach. "Never mind. We'll talk tomorrow."

"Wait. Here it is." She read the number to me. "Did you get it?"

"Yes, thanks."

"Be sure to call him, Kate," Mrs. Koscinski added. "Sara's parents won't mind. They're very nice."

"Right. Bye."

He must go there often, I thought, if Mrs. Koscinski knows the parents don't mind being called. Well, even Sam couldn't make Patrick's pain go away tonight. I'd try to reach him tomorrow-perhaps take Patrick to the ice rink so he could talk to him after practice.

When I returned to the playroom, I saw that Patrick had taken a bite from the pie.

"It smells delicious," I said encouragingly. "How does it taste?"

"Good. I think it's raspberry."

"Have some more."

He ate another spoonful.

"Eat all you want. Raspberries are good for you."

He took one more spoonful, then pushed the pie away. I sat next to him again and watched the cartoon. Just when the hero was about to storm the castle belonging to the evil wizard, Patrick announced, "I want to go to my room."

"Don't you want to see what happens?"

No.

I looked at my watch. "Patrick, it's not even seven o'clock. Let's try another channel."

"I want to go to bed."

"How about this-we'll put on your pajamas and read a while."

"I want to sleep."

He was probably exhausted from the accumulation of things that had been happening. But what if he planned to slip out and see Ashley as soon as his bedroom door was shut? Perhaps he imagined that she alone could understand how he felt about November. Adrian had promised to turn on the alarm system before retiring, but I wasn't taking chances; I planned to spend the night in Patrick's room.

We took the main stairway down, Patrick walking ahead of me. I carried the piece of pie, hoping I could coax him to eat a little more. As we crossed the second-floor hall to his room, Patrick suddenly stopped. He looked back at me, then quickly turned away.

"What's wrong?"

His body shuddered violently, then he bent over and threw up. I quickly set the pie on a side table and put my arm around his waist, supporting him. He heaved and heaved, but nothing more came out after that first sickening puddle of reddish purple.

"My tummy hurts, Kate. It hurts bad."

Even in the warm light of the hall lamps, his face was pale as milk. He clutched his stomach, his fingers digging into his clothes. I laid my hand over his, then rubbed his tummy gently, trying to soothe him.

"Do you think you can make it as far as your bathroom?" I asked. It was the next door down the hall, just before his bedroom. "We'll rinse your mouth and wipe your face, then get you in bed."

We had taken only five more steps, when he began to shudder again. I dropped down next to him. He strained forward in my arms and wretched a second time.

"I can't help it. I can't stop it."

"Oh, Patrick, I know that. You're ill."

"Mrs. Hopewell is going to be mad."

"I'll clean it up before she sees it. It's hardly anything," I said, glancing at the second puddle, less red this time, with a lot of clear liquid.

He has nothing in him to vomit, I thought, probably less than the cat had, just crackers and three bites of raspberry pie. Then a chill went through me. The crackers were plain soda wafers, packaged in cellophane. I doubted they had caused the problem. But the raspberry pie had come from downstairs. Had someone dared to taint his food? I was ready to believe it. If Patrick hadn't been so miserable, I would have rushed down the steps, screaming at the lot of them.

"I guess I shouldn't have eaten your pie," Patrick said.

My pie. I was so focused on protecting him, I had forgotten-the piece was intended for me.

"Come on, Patrick, a few steps more. Let's get you cleaned up."

From the bathroom I buzzed the intercom for assistance.

"Henry is coming," Mrs. Hopewell responded, then clicked off before I could tell her what I wanted.

I buzzed again. "Mrs. Hopewell, please send up Emily and Adrian. Patrick is ill."

"I will tell them after dinner is over." Click.

I pushed the button a third time.

"You will tell them now. The pie may have been tainted," I said, avoiding the word "poisoned" for Patrick's sake.

A long silence followed. "I don't understand," Mrs. Hopewell replied at last. "What exactly is the problem?"

"He ate a few bites of the pie. He has thrown up twice."

"That wasn't his dessert!"

Was she irate because a plan to poison me had gone awry or because her rule about dinner before dessert had been ignored? It was difficult to tell with her.

"Mrs. Hopewell, send Adrian up before I make my own decision to phone for medical assistance." I clicked off.

She, Adrian, Emily, and Brook arrived upstairs shortly after, meeting Patrick and me in the bedroom. I made him comfortable under his quilt and quickly recounted what had happened. Patrick was no longer holding his stomach, and his color had started to return. Still, when Emily wanted to call a paramedic, I pressed Adrian for the same thing. "At least his doctor," I said.

"The child is already recovering," Mrs. Hopewell observed. "You can't call a pediatrician every time a child sneezes or throws up."

"My mother did," Brook remarked. "Though sometimes she got confused and called the vet."

"The last time the doctor was called, all of Wisteria knew it," Mrs. Hopewell reminded Adrian.

He nodded. "It was most unfortunate. Call the doctor, Louise."

While Emily sat by Patrick's bed holding his hand, Adrian paced back and forth in the room. The expression on his face was calm, his hands steady, but I had observed his son enough to recognize the stiffness in his shoulders and the set of his jaw. He was upset and steeling himself against something.

Brook lounged against the bedroom door. Since he had no affection for Patrick, I wished he had stayed downstairs with Trent and Robyn. "Thank you, Brook," I said quietly, "but I have all the help I need."

He gazed at me, surprised. "I'm not here to help. I'm bored."

Adrian flicked him a look.

I handed Patrick's favorite old picture book to Emily, hoping he would find it comforting to read with her. Outside in the hall, Henry cleaned the Oriental rug. Mrs. Hopewell returned to say the doctor was coming. When the housekeeper told Adrian she wanted to speak to him in the hall, I followed them uninvited, as. did Emily, who closed the bedroom door behind us. The door opened and Brook darted out from Patrick's room, then hung like a roach on the wall, listening.

"No one informed me that Patrick had an allergy to raspberries," Mrs. Hopewell said to Emily. "Not that the dessert was intended for him," she added, glancing at me.

"How could I inform you if I wasn't aware of it?" Emily replied, sounding defensive. "You know as well as I do, he has never had a reaction before, not to berries or to any other kind of food."

"And he didn't now," I said. "He was poisoned."

"Poisoned," Emily echoed faintly.

Adrian turned to stare at me. "Do you mean deliberately?"

"I believe the tainting was deliberate-though it was meant for me, not Patrick. If I hadn't been concerned about him, I would have eaten the entire serving myself. What do you think"-l looked from one face to the next and tried to keep my voice steady-"was the pie meant only to make me ill, so I couldn't care for Patrick, or did someone want to kill me?"

"That's a ridiculous question," said Mrs. Hopewell.

"It is somewhat melodramatic," Emily observed.

"But interesting," Brook added. "In my opinion, the pie was intended to do the same thing that pushing you down the steps was intended to do."

"And what was that?" I asked angrily.

No one answered.

"We'll sort this out, Kate," Adrian assured me. "I want the pie wrapped up," he instructed Mrs. Hopewell "We'll have it tested." He turned toward Patrick's room.

"That won't be possible," the housekeeper said.

Adrian swung around. "And why not?"

"I have cleared it away."

"Then take it out of the trash, Louise." He said each word distinctly.

"I do not put spoiled food in the trash. It may develop a bad odor and attract wildlife. I ground the dessert in the garbage disposal."

"What about the rest of the pie?" Adrian asked.

"The rest!" I cried, frustrated. "Tainting can be done after a piece is cut, done to just one serving. A test will prove nothing."

Mrs. Hopewell went on as if I hadn't spoken. "I thought it best, sir, to dispose of the entire pie."

Adrian grimaced. "Have the doctor speak to me first when he arrives. In the meantime, inform Trent and Robyn of the situation. And take Brook downstairs with you. Kate, I want you to stay with Emily and me." He led the way into Patrick's room.

Patrick was turning the pages of his favorite book, looking at pictures of Max and "the wild things," paging forward and backward. Emily resumed reading aloud. I couldn't tell if Patrick was listening; his eyes followed me around the room as I mechanically straightened things that didn't need straightening. Adrian sat in the rocking chair, motionless, deep in thought.

When the doctor arrived, Adrian met with her briefly in the hall to explain the situation, then introduced her to us as Dr. Whelan, informing Patrick that she was covering for his pediatrician. Emily pointed out the door to Patrick's bathroom, so that the physician could wash her hands before examining Patrick.

She returned to the bedroom with an odd expression on her face. As she checked Patrick's eyes, mouth, and ears, she questioned him.

"Tell me what you ate," she said softly.

"Some of Kate's crackers."

"A package from a vending machine," I told her.

"And some of Kate's pie."

She got out her stethoscope. "What kind was it?"

"Raspberry."

"What else did you eat?"

"Nothing."

"Take a big breath for me. Good. Take another. You ate nothing else?"

"No."

"He had an after-school snack around three forty-five," I said, "a piece of buttered toast and a small glass of apple juice."

"Any tremors, convulsions, labored breathing?" she asked.

"No, ma'am," I replied.

"Patrick, did you have anything to drink later?" No.

"Why don't you whisper the answer to me?" the doctor suggested.

"He didn't have anything else!" I said, frustrated that she wasn't keying in on the pie. "Why do you keep asking him?"

She turned to me. "Because there is a bottle of cough syrup lying open on the bathroom sink."

I stared at her dumbfounded.

Emily's red eyebrows pulled together. "His medicine cabinet is kept locked." She looked at me accusingly. "At least, it's supposed to be."

"I keep it locked, just as you told me to," I said, starting out of the room to see for myself. "Besides, there was nothing on the sink when I washed up Patrick."

I stopped at the bathroom's marble transom. There was now-a half-empty bottle. I had been in a hurry to clean him up and get him in bed, but surely I would have noticed it.

I returned to the room. "I don't know how that bottle got there."

"How much of the medicine did you drink, Patrick?" Adrian asked wearily.

"None."

"Tell the truth."

I am!"

"Did Ashley dare you to take some?" I asked.

"Kate," Emily pleaded.

"Who is Ashley?" Dr. Whelan asked.

Emily sighed. "Patrick's imaginary playmate."

"Did she?" I persisted.

Patrick shook his head no.

I turned to Adrian. He met my eyes, but I couldn't read his gaze — he didn't want me to.

"Dr. Whelan," I said, "is it possible that Patrick ate something that was poisonous enough to make him sick and, if he had eaten more, could have killed him?"

The physician studied me, the lines in her softly weathered face deepening. "There are an endless number of poisons, some more potent than others, some more deadly in a higher dosage. Why do you ask?"

"Are some tasteless?" I persisted. "Some odorless?"

"Yes. Why?"

"Because I don't think Patrick drank any cough syrup. And as it happens, that raspberry pie-the entire piece, not two bites-was intended for me."

Dr. Whelan glanced at Adrian.

"When you have finished examining Patrick, we will discuss matters downstairs in my office," he said.

"I'm done," she told him.

"Emily?" He held out his hand for his wife. "Kate, would you mind staying with Patrick until he is asleep?"

He was not allowing me to talk further with the doctor. What was he afraid of-that I would give her even more reason to question the situation she found at Mason's Choice?

"I'm staying with him all night," I replied.

The doctor rewashed her hands and accompanied Adrian and Emily downstairs. Patrick resumed looking at the illustrations in his old book. I sensed he didn't want me sitting on his bed reading to him, so I pulled a chair next to it and sat quietly.

"I didn't have any medicine, Kate," he said, looking up from the book. "And Ashley didn't dare me."

"I know, Patrick."

I knew that flesh-and-blood hands had tainted the pie and unlocked the medicine cabinet. Whether by poisoning or by framing, someone was desperate to get rid of me. After twelve years, someone's nerves were starting to fray, and I was pretty sure it was Ashley's killer.

I spent the night on Patrick's bedroom floor, getting more rest when I wasn't asleep, for in my dreams I ran continually, searching for Patrick, all the while being chased by someone or something I couldn't see. It was a relief when the alarm clock rang.

Patrick ate all of his breakfast and wanted to go to school. Emily was uncertain about sending him, but Adrian was pleased and praised him repeatedly for being "a strong boy," which made me wince. While Patrick waited for Emily to finish a note to his teacher, I went out to get the car. I stepped into a soft gray day, the warm air and melting snow blanketing the land with fog.

"Good morning."

"Sam!" I exclaimed, startled to see him leaning against his car in the Westbrooks' driveway.

I got home too late to call you back," he said.

"Your mother told me you were out."

"She told me that she gave you Sara's number." He cocked his head. "Why didn't you call?"

"I didn't want to interrupt anything."

"Anything like what?" he asked, laughing.

"Anything."

He moved closer, examining my face, his own becoming more serious. "You don't look like you got a lot of sleep."

"Right you are, Sherlock."

"What happened?" He opened the front door on the passenger side of his car. "Have a seat here in my office. Talk, Kate."

I sat sideways, keeping my feet outside the car, and told him about the poisoning of November, the dessert intended for me, and the sudden appearance of the cough syrup.

"I think Adrian is losing faith in me," I concluded, lapsing into silence. I was more tired than I had realized.

Sam's verbal explosions woke me up. His eyes flashed and he kicked the tires of his car. "You've got to leave, Kate. Do you hear me?"

"I hear you. I can't."

"You've got to!"

"I will not abandon Patrick," I said firmly. "I know how it feels to be left as a child."

"Like I don't? You keep forgetting about my father."

"That's different," I argued. "Your father didn't choose to leave. Something happens, Sam, happens to your heart, when you know a person has chosen to leave you. You keep waiting for the next person to go."

He kicked bits of dirty snow out from under his car's tires. "Okay, maybe I don't understand that part," he said.

"But here's the thing: If your goal is to help Patrick, I'd like to know how you are going to do that dead."

"Dead?" I shook my head. "Is there something you know that I don't?"

"The steps were a warning-I think they were just a warning. The pie, if you had eaten the whole piece-" "Think about it," I interrupted. "It wouldn't have been very smart for someone to kill me with a piece of pie. An autopsy would have shown I was poisoned." It was the argument with which I had been trying to reassure myself since last night.

"Some poisons show up, some don't."

"All the same, I think you are getting a bit melodramatic," I said, borrowing Emily's line.

"You haven't yet seen melodramatic," he replied, suddenly pulling me out of the car. He held me tightly in his arms. I could feel the blood pulse beneath my skin each place where his body touched mine.

"Why can't you drop the act, Kate?" He pulled back his head to look at me. His black eyes burned and became liquid with tears. "Don't you get it?" he asked, his voice trembling. I will go crazy if something happens to you. Don't make me any crazier than you already have."

"Hi, Sam."

At the sound of Patrick's voice, Sam released me. We both sagged against the car. I felt as if I'd had the wind knocked out of me. My eyes burned, my throat was dry.

I had thought your heart was supposed to break when someone left you, not when someone wanted in, but I felt as if Sam were chipping away, putting deep cracks in mine.

He rubbed his mouth. "Hey, short stuff. How's it going?"

"Okay," Patrick replied.

"Yeah? Is it?"

Patrick dropped his book bag next to the car, then shrugged.

"You think you might like another lesson in ice skating?"

"Okay," he said, with only a touch of enthusiasm.

Sam knelt in the snow. "I'm going to be straight with you. I heard that yesterday wasn't okay. I heard it was tough when you got home."

Patrick didn't reply.

Sam put his hand under Patrick's chin, gently lifting it. "I'm sorry about November."

Patrick took deep, sniffly breaths.

"It hurts bad; huh?"

Patrick nodded, and Sam put his arms around him. "It's okay to cry. When my dog died, I cried my eyes out. I cried when my friend's dog died. Heck, I cried when my friend's grandmother's cat died!"

I laughed quietly, but the kindness in Sam's voice and the tender way he held Patrick made my own eyes warm with tears. Patrick suddenly gave in, sobbing against Sam's shoulder. Sam stayed quiet till he was done.

"Feeling better now?"

"Yes," Patrick said softly.

"So, here's the bad news: You might want to cry again. And that's okay. Sometimes crying comes and goes."

Sam took out a package of tissue to wipe Patrick's tears, then handed him one. "Big blow," he said. "We don't want no boogies hanging out. No boogies for you, no boogies for me," he chanted, then blew his own nose.

Patrick giggled. "I like boogies."

"They are interesting. But girls don't like them. I bet Kate thinks they're gross."

"You bet right. Need more tissue?"

"What'd I tell you," Sam said to Patrick, and stood up. "Have a decent time at school today. Don't do anything I wouldn't do." He leaned closer to him.

"That still leaves you with a pretty long list.

"I'll call you tonight, Kate," Sam went on, turning to me. "Do you have a direct line?"

I wrote down my cell phone number. As he slipped it in his pocket, he glanced toward the house and gave a casual wave. "Just saying hello to the nice people watching us-someone upstairs, someone down."

I turned quickly, but all I saw was a blur as a figure withdrew from the library window.

Sam drove off, leaving greasy black snow where his car had been parked. Patrick and I trudged silently toward the garage as if we were already at the end of a very long day.

I think I woke up Joseph. He sounded a bit cross when I phoned him from the school parking lot, but recovered quickly when he realized I was the one calling. We agreed to meet at Tea Leaves. Twenty minutes later he arrived at the bakery and cafe, looking like a rumpled schoolboy who had overslept "I shouldn't have called you so early,'' I said as we placed our breakfast on a table by the window and sat down. "Middle button," I added, and he fastened his shirt.

"No, no," Joseph replied, "I had planned to be at the shop by now. I should be wrapping things up faster than I am and getting back to my job in Baltimore. Ah, coffee." He took several sips, then examined the china mug. "I wonder if Jamie would buy off any of my mother's collection? Nothing else here matches."

The owner had painted the cafe's furniture in a rainbow of hues, making no effort to match the sets of tables and chairs. With the fog enveloping the town, pressing against the cafe's street-front windows, the room was a cheerful island of color and warmth. I watched Joseph eat his muffin with a knife and fork. I bit into mine, messy but content.

"Did you talk to Jim Parker?" he asked.

That single moment of ease evaporated.

"Yes. He was very helpful. He doesn't think Ashley is a ghost."

I explained the psychologist's theory.

"Well, I find that easier to believe than the walking dead," Joseph remarked when I had finished, "though not much easier."

"But you see the possibilities," I said.

Joseph took a long sip of coffee, "I-no, I don't think I do."

"If Patrick can tap into the record of Ashley's thoughts and feelings, all I have to do is get him on the right page."

"The right page?"

"Get him to connect with Ashley's thoughts on the day she was murdered."

He slowly set down his cup. "I see."

"I'm taking him down to the pond as soon as we get home from school today. I'll talk to him about the day she died, try to get him to think about it, and hope that he taps into her memory trace. If Ashley saw someone when she was lured out on the ice, saw just a piece of clothing through the treessomeone's jacket, for instance-it could be an important clue. Maybe she noticed footprints or heard a familiar voice. I don't know what exactly I'm looking for, but there may be something in her thoughts and feelings from that time that could tell us who killed her."

Joseph chewed thoughtfully. "If someone killed her," he said at last. "Katie, I'm not telling you that she wasn't murdered, but I do worry that, without realizing it, you have turned a possibility of murder into a fact."

I picked up my juice glass and swished it around, watching the little particles of orange swirl.

He went on. "I think that-don't be offended-in a way, you want it to be murder. I understand why. It would explain a lot of things that are happening now to Patrick."

I thought about Dr. Parker's warning: It is when we like our theories too much that we should be wary.

"The day Ashley died," Joseph went on, "she was distraught over her missing rabbit. And she was always an impulsive child. If anyone would have run across dangerous ice to catch her pet, Ashley would have. Remember, they found the rabbit when they drained the pond. And when the coroner examined Ashley's body, he found no sign of trauma.".

"That doesn't prove anything," I argued. "No one had to touch her. All they had to do was lure her onto the ice. It would be easy enough to kill a rabbit and slide it out on the ice with a pole, leaving it there for her to see. A rabbit is light; ice that was soft enough to give way beneath Ashley could have held a rabbit."

Joseph chewed some more, thinking, then set down his knife and fork, picking the crumbs off his plate with his fingers, licking the tips.

"What you're saying makes sense. Just remember that if you start out with the wrong assumption, you may misinterpret whatever follows."

I nodded.

"So take Patrick to the pond," Joseph advised. "It can't hurt, and maybe it will help. See what he tells you. I admit, I'm getting curious." He glanced down at his plate, which was now crumb less. "Would you like another muffin?"

"No, but get one for yourself. I have some tea left."

Joseph shoved back his chair. "Wouldn't want to get thin," he said.

As he headed toward the glass cases that ran along the back of the cafe, I gazed at the buildings across the street. In the fog, the Queen Victoria, with its second- and third-story porches, looked like a faded photograph of a nineteenth-century hotel. The illusion was broken when someone in a bright green business suit emerged from the entrance. She reached back and the man behind her put his coat over her shoulders. It was Trent-and the woman from the other day, the hotel manager, I assumed. They crossed the street and entered Tea Leaves.

Walking to the cases at the back of the cafe, they passed Joseph on his return to our table. I thought Joseph hadn't noticed them, but when he sat down he leaned forward and said in a hushed voice, "Trent is seeing Margery?"

"I think so."

He offered a toast with his coffee. "Here's to women who know how to latch on to money."

Trent glanced over his shoulder at us.

Unfortunately, the only table in the cafe available to them was close enough to ours to limit our conversation to Joseph's progress in organizing his mother's estate. I hope her soul was in better shape than her finances," he kept saying.

He finished his muffin, and we rose to leave. I smiled and said hello to Trent as we passed his table. Just as Joseph and I reached the cafe door, Trent called to me.

"I had better see what he wants," I said.

Joseph looked irritated and glanced at his watch. "I've got to keep going. I have an appointment with Mother's no-good lawyer."

"Thanks for listening, Joseph."

"Sure, Katie," he said. "You know I'm just an old grouch and don't mean anything when I fuss."

He left, and Trent rose from his seat, meeting me halfway aaoss the room. "We'll go outside for a moment," he said, taking my arm lightly and steering me in that direction.

I pulled my arm free, then glanced toward Margery. She showed the training of a discreet hotel manager, acting as if she hadn't noticed me and had come to the cafe to eat by herself.

When Trent and I were standing on the brick walk, he started right in. "That's the second time I've seen you with Joseph Oakley."

"And it's the second time I've seen you with her," I replied, nodding toward his companion inside.

"I hope you are not involved with Joseph."

"Involved? Don't you think he is a little too old for me?"

"I wasn't speaking romantically," Trent said stiffly. "I feel it is my duty, Kate, to tell you that Joseph is a dishonest man, an unreliable person. When you are young and naive, it is sometimes difficult to see people for what they are."

"Oh. Well, since you are old and wise, what do you think about Sam Koscinski?" I asked. "You were looking out the library window this morning, weren't you?"

"Yes."

"You know he is the son of the private investigator your father hired after Ashley died, the man who was killed when pursuing my family."

"Yes," Trent replied, his lips barely opening.

"Why was Mr. Koscinski chasing my mother? Why wasn't he pursuing you as well?"

Trent's eyes shifted away from me.

"Both you and my mother were cheated on."

Trent's face washed white. Some people redden with anger; he paled with it.

"You would have the same motive," I continued.

"Motive for what?" he asked.

I ignored the question; we both knew its answer. "Why do you think Ashley keeps talking to Patrick?"

"Patrick is an exceptionally spoiled and confused child," Trent said. "His behavior is easy to understand. It is yours that baffles me. On the surface you appear to care too much for the boy to want to make things harder for him."

"I'm making things harder?" I exclaimed, so loudly that a person passing by turned around to look at us. I waited until the man had moved on. "I'm not the one who-" "You," Trent interrupted, "are the only one in the house who still has a choice in the matter. You can choose to let go of the past and encourage Patrick to forget about Ashley. Let sleeping dogs lie, Kate."

"They've lied too much already," I said.

He shook his head. "Don't make Patrick pay the price for your curiosity about the past. I'm warning you, Kate, and I'm not going to warn you again." He pivoted and reentered the cafe. I stared through the window at him, but he had sat down and turned his attention to his lady friend.

I walked away, upset by his words. Was I pursuing the truth for Patrick's sake or my own? I had thought I was doing it for Patrick-at least, it had started out that way. But I had learned that the past was tied up in lies, lies that had changed my own life. I was doing this for both of us now, though it was only myself I had the right to endanger. The question was, which was endangering Patrick more: pursuing the truth or letting it go?

When I picked up Patrick at school that afternoon, he seemed happier than he had earlier in the day. He had done well on a spelling test and had discovered another boy in his class who liked ice hockey. But the little bit of brightness in his face faded by the time we reached the end of the long road up to Mason's Choice. A few minutes later, when I offered him an after-school snack, he took a tiny bite out of the peanut butter cracker I had fixed, then set it down.

"What's wrong?"

He looked at the plate of crackers warily. "I don't want a tummy ache."

"They won't hurt you. I fixed them myself."

"I'm not hungry."

Trust me! I wanted to say, but even I could recognize the irony of that coming from me.

"Do you want to go for a hike?" I asked.

"No."

"Not even down to the pond?"

"The pond?" He was interested.

"Why don't you change into your play clothes? I'll put your crackers in a bag, and we can take them along for a picnic."

His face lit up, then he reconsidered. "No, thanks. I'm not hungry."

"Then we'll skip the picnic part, but go change your clothes."

Mrs. Hopewell entered the kitchen as soon as Patrick left. I had the feeling she had been eavesdropping.

"Patrick and you will eat with the family tonight."

"Is that what Adrian wishes?" I asked.

She hated it when I called him by his first name. Yes.

I nodded, put an unopened bag of crackers in my coat pocket, and headed upstairs. When I got to Patrick's bedroom, I saw that he had taken out his ice skates.

"Patrick, can you see how foggy it is outside?" Yes.

"When warm air comes in contact with the cold of the melting snow, it makes fog. The air is very warm today, the temperature well above freezing. The ice on the pond will be too soft for skating." "No, it won't."

"I'm sorry, but it will."

"It won't!" he said, swinging his skates, banging them against his closet door.

"It will," I said firmly.

He dropped his skates and threw himself on the bed. "Then I don't want to go."

"All right. You stay here and do your homework. I'm going on a hike to the pond." I strode across the hall, wondering how far I could go before having to give up the bluff. He followed me down the main stairs, keeping about ten steps behind. Out of the corner of my eye I saw that he was carrying his skates.

When I reached the first-floor hall, I heard voices in the library-more fighting. I walked quietly toward it, trying to decipher Robyn's words. Trent cut her off, then Emily's high-pitched voice interjected something. Patrick caught up with me just as the library door opened. At the sound of their angry voices, he cringed.

"It's okay," I whispered.

Brook emerged. Seeing Patrick and me, he grinned as if he knew a secret. "The cat's away," he told us, "and you know what happens then." He pointed to the library.

"My cat is dead," Patrick replied solemnly.

"Oh yeah, I forgot about that old thing."

"Close the door, Brook," I said.

He reached back and pulled it shut, muffling the sound of the raised voices, then walked toward us. "Do you think your cat ate some raspberry pie?"

I glared at him. "Sometimes, Brook, I can't tell if you are exceptionally mean-spirited or simply stupid."

"I've never been exceptional at anything," he replied, shoving his hands in his pockets, "so I must be stupid. Grandfather thinks so." He shrugged, as if it were unimportant, but there was an edge in his voice. "He has gone into town to see his attorney. Grandfather's personal attorney always comes here, of course. I guess the old man wants some privacy while deciding how to divide up his loot. Anyway, when the cat's away-" "The mice will play," I finished for him. "It's just a saying, Patrick."

"Oh, it's more than that," Brook said. "It's advice. Be on your guard. The mice can play rough, especially when the cat frustrates them."

The library door opened again. Trent emerged, his face the color of vanilla ice cream, his brow pinched. With barely a glance in our direction, he headed toward his wing. Robyn came out and stared straight at us, but I wasn't certain she saw us. Her cheeks flamed with anger. Emily was still in the library, her fists clenched, tears running silently down her face. Hoping Patrick didn't see his mother, I quickly turned him in the direction of the kitchen, where we kept our boots, and gave him a little push.

"So where are you going, Patrick?" Brook asked.

Patrick didn't reply.

"To the pond," Brook guessed, noting the skates. "What a great idea, ice skating on a nice warm day like this!"

I told him the pond was too soft. He wants to see for himself. Excuse me."

Patrick was halfway down the hall and I took long strides to catch up with him. In the kitchen, we pulled on our boots, then exited out the back of the house.. Patrick walked swiftly, wordlessly toward the snowman we had built two days ago. Our hockey player had shrunk into a troll.

"He's melted," I observed.

Without replying, Patrick picked up the snowman's hockey stick and circled the house to the front. I could have stopped him there and given him the choice of dropping the skates and stick or going to his room, but going back inside that angry house was too stiff a penalty for any child to pay. We'd settle the matter when he could see the ice for himself.

We walked silently down the main road, then cut across a garden and orchard, Patrick leading the way, making a wide circle to skirt the horse bam. The stand of trees around the pond looked eerie in the fading afternoon light, like an island floating in the snow and mist. We entered the ring of cedar and pine, following the short trail through dripping branches. Fog darkened the wood and hung over the pond, turning the straggly trees near the shore into ghostly figures. The ice was leaden gray. Off-center, larger than before, was the circle of black water.

Patrick picked up a stick and threw it on the ice. "See? It's frozen."

"Patrick, sticks float on water."

"But it's not floating," he replied. "It's just sitting there."

"The point is that sticks are so light, they can float on water. You are much heavier."

"I float," he argued. "I float on my back."

Struggling to keep my temper, I took the skates and hockey stick from him. "You can't go on the ice. I don't want to hear any more about it."

I put his things at the entrance to the path, then dragged two heavy limbs to the narrow margin between pond and trees, and pushed them together.

"Do you want to sit on my new bench?" I asked, taking out the bag of crackers. I had brought the buttery ones, his favorite. "You may open them if you like."

The sulk could be sustained for only so long. Patrick sat down next to me. After a moment, he tore open the crackers and gobbled up several of them. As he did, I thought about how to facilitate his contact with Ashley's thoughts the day she died. I knew the first part of the story; perhaps all I had to do was get it started, and let Ashley finish it.

I never mentioned this, Patrick," I said, "but I used to play with Ashley-" My cell phone rang, startling both of us. I reached in my pocket to turn it off, but before I could, the three-note ring sounded again.

"It's your phone," Patrick said.

I sighed and pulled it out. "Hello."

"Miss Kate?"

"Yes."

"It's Jack, one of Mrs. Caulfield's grooms."

"I'm sorry?" The voice sounded low and raspy, the connection unclear.

"Jack, from the bam. We got a kind of problem here. I found some painting on the bam, spray paint, low down on the west side. Don't know how long it's been there-no one goes around that way. I had to call Mrs. Caulfield about it. She's mad and coming down to see herself."

He paused.

"So?" I asked, but I could guess what was coming.

"She said you should be here waiting to explain."

"Did she now."

I reminded myself that it wasn't the groom's fault that Robyn had leaped to this conclusion. And, to be fair to Robyn, Patrick had earned her suspicion.

"Would you hold for a moment, please?" I pressed the mute button. "Patrick, did you spray paint the outside of the horse barn?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

His face grew anxious, his mouth moving silently before he spoke. "I don't have any spray paint."

I mentally ran through the forty-eight hours since he had dropped the manure through the hay chute. He had slipped off that afternoon when I had found him on the diving board, and had slipped away again at dawn when I had found him here at the pond, but I doubted he had gone anywhere other than the pool and pond. Of course, the vandalism might have been done before that and not noticed till now. "Have you had any dares from Ashley that I don't know about?"

"No. Am I in trouble?" He had taken off his mittens to eat the crackers, I saw the tense way he curled his hands, leaving his knuckles bony white.

"Not if you didn't paint the barn." Someone else could have, I thought, someone hoping the blame would fall on Patrick.

I released the mute button and spoke into the phone again. "Please tell Mrs. Caulfield that I have questioned Patrick, and that it would make more sense if the person who did it was there to explain."

"Uh, yeah, I know what you mean. But she's my boss and told me to get you, so I have to do it. Maybe you, uh, want to leave young Mr. Westbrook behind and talk to her yourself first, just until she cools down. She's a little-you know. You know how she is."

I know very well. Neither Patrick nor I will be there." I clicked off and slipped the phone in my pocket.

"I don't go too close to the barn now," Patrick said to me. "Really, I don't."

I heard the tremor in his voice.

"I believe you."

"Do you think Ashley did it?" he asked.

"No. I think someone else in the house is playing pranks."

"They don't like me."

It was pointless to deny it. "It's their problem, Patrick, not yours. I want you to remember that I like you very much. So does Sam. Tim did-he was your good friend, and I bet the boy at school who knows about hockey likes you."

"Ashley, too," he suggested softly. "She doesn't say it, but I think she does."

"I believe so. You know, Ashley was my friend too."

He took another cracker from the pack, then gazed up at me, frowning slightly. "Ashley usually plays with Katie."

I nodded. "That's right. That's what Ashley called me. We used to play in many of the same places that you like. One of them was the play set by the cottages. Ashley was an excellent swinger. She could go really high."

"And sing," he added.

A shiver went through me. "Yes, she always sang when she swung. We liked to climb trees. She and November could climb all the way to the top of some of them. I wasn't as brave."

Patrick stared out at the pond, no longer worried about the barn, in another world now.

"I thought she had the best toys. Often we played with her horses-Silver Knight was my favorite."

"I like Silver Knight too," he confided.

"Ashley's favorite was Banner."

He nodded. "She likes his mane, the way the plastic looks ripply, like it's blowing in the wind."

I was talking in the past tense, he in the present, but we knew the same girl.

"Ashley had lots of pets-puppies and rabbits, some chickens she kept in the old cow barn, hamsters and fish. But her favorite pet was her brown and white rabbit, the one named Silly."

"Because he has one floppy ear," Patrick said knowingly.

"Yes. One day, when the weather was foggy, like it is now, Silly disappeared from his cage."

Patrick looked surprised for a moment. "Like my hamster?"

"Yes. Ashley was very angry, and afraid, too. My mother, Joseph, and I tried to calm her and help her find Silly."

Patrick thought for a moment, then nodded, as if he knew that now, as if he had caught up with the story told by the trace of Ashley's mind. "Silly isn't in the house," he said quietly.

"No, no, he wasn't. We thought someone might have let him outside."

"She thinks Brook did it," Patrick said.

"Yes. So my mother and I and Ashley and Joseph went out to look for the rabbit."

"Ashley is crying."

"She… is," I said, shifting tenses. "She… loves Silly very much."

Patrick nodded and continued to gaze out at the pond.

"The four of us are looking for him. Each of us goes a different way. Though my mother tells us to stay close, we don't Ashley runs here to the pond. The ice looks as if it might be frozen." That was as much of the story as I knew for sure. "She-she thinks she sees Silly on the ice," I ventured.

"She does see him." So" Kate!" Robyn's shrill voice broke into our story. Patrick's body went rigid.

"I've had all I can take of that hellion!" Robyn shouted, sounding as if she were on the path, coming toward the pond.

Patrick turned to me, his eyes wide. "She found us."

With Brook's help, I thought, for he knew we were going to the pond.

"Don't worry, I'll handle her. I want you to stay quiet, Patrick, and let me talk to her. Stay on these logs. Don't move a millimeter, all right?"

He nodded.

I rose to intercept Robyn at the end of the path, keeping an eye on Patrick and, at the same time, blocking her access to him. In the last twenty-four hours he had become too fragile to withstand her explosions.

"Kate," she cried as she rounded the final bend of trees, "I'll have you fired for this!"

Her barn jacket sat crookedly on her shoulders, buttoned incorrectly, its mismatched front flapping open. Long strands of hair had come loose from the clasp that held it at the back of her head. The fury on her face was far out of proportion to a spray-painted patch of bam.

"We can discuss it later," I said, "when you have your temper under control."

"We'll discuss it now. Brook told me what that monster did."

"I was talking to Brook before we left the house," I said, glancing back at Patrick. He was still on the logs. "Why didn't he say something then?"

"He just received a call from the bam and relayed the message to me. That child is a juvenile delinquent," she hissed.

"Patrick or Brook?"

"By the time he is ten, the police will be picking him up.'' "That's absurd, and you know it. In any case, Patrick didn't go near your barn."

"It's a child's work," she insisted. "The groom said so."

I glanced back again at Patrick, then turned to her. "Most people could imitate a child's painting. Even Brook would be capable," I added, unable to keep the sarcasm out of my voice.

"He's a hateful child. Hateful!" Her fingers flexed with anger.

I found myself staring at her hands, her bitten-off nails. One of them was bloody.

"Adrian should take a strap to him," she said. "If he doesn't, I will."

"You touch Patrick, and I'll have the authorities here in a flash."

She smiled. "If you're still here."

"I will be."

Robyn looked past my shoulder. "Not the way you're tending to Patrick."

I spun around. He was on the ice, hurrying across it. "Patrick! Patrick, stop!"

I rushed toward the pond and halted at its edge. He was already ten meters from shore. "Help me,'' I called to Robyn. "Patrick, come back!"

At last he stopped and glanced around warily. Though he looked straight at me, he didn't act as if he saw me. We had been talking about Ashley: Was he seeing the present or the past? I wondered.

"Don't move."

I quickly surveyed the ice, trying to see which sections appeared most solid. My weight might be too much for the area he was on. I needed a long branch, one I could extend to him.

I glanced over my shoulder. Robyn was gone. She didn't care if he drowned-she was crazy, truly mad with jealousy. I continued to look for something that could be used as a pole. The logs were too heavy; the lighter branches and hockey stick were shorter than I wanted.

Patrick had turned his whole body around now and was watching me.

"Walk toward me," I called.

He stood still.

If I moved toward him, he might retreat onto thinner ice. Oh, God, I prayed, tell me what to do, tell me how to get him back. Aloud, I said, "Patrick, you need to get on shore. Come here."

He gazed at me, but his mind was elsewhere. He was like a person on a phone, listening to a voice I couldn't hear.

"Patrick, come here!"

He didn't blink.

I picked up the longest branch within reach and started across the ice. Its surface was soft, uneven. My heart pounded. If he fell through, it would be hard to find him in the black depths. He might panic and swim under the ice.

I wanted to race to him. Even so, I forced myself to move slowly, steadily, afraid the impact of running steps would break the ice.

I was seven meters from him and getting closer. "I want you to grab hold of the branch," I said.

He edged away from me. He looked afraid.

"Grab the branch and-" He took a step back. I heard the soft crunching, then the sickening sound of fractures running through the ice. Patrick tumbled into the water. I screamed and raced forward. For a moment his snow jacket buoyed him up, and I thought I could reach him before his head went under. Then he flailed his arms, compressing the air pockets that kept him afloat. He was still on the surface, but barely. I trained my eyes on him, memorizing his position relative to the shore.

I was caught by surprise when the ice gave way beneath me. Frigid water rushed over me. I gulped it, then thrust my head upward. The pond water ringed my throat, but I could touch ground-both feet touched ground. I pressed forward.

"Float! Turn on your back and float!" I cried.

Patrick was terrified and choking down water.

I couldn't move fast enough. It was like walking against a wall of mud, the heavy pond water feeling solid to my neck.

Patrick's clothes, weighted with water, sucked him under. I could still see the top of his head, his hair floating near the surface. Two steps more-l moved in slow motion. Help me God, please.

I reached out and grabbed him. My cold hands felt as lifeless as shovels, my fingers so numb they were unable to grasp. I held him against me with just the strength of my arms. He was breathing, still breathing-and coughing.

I waded toward shore, continually pushing against an edge of ice. The upward slope of the pond's floor seemed steep as a mountain. As I struggled, I thought about what to do next-call 911. Get him to the warm barn.

The water grew shallower and Patrick heavier. When the water was at my hips I struggled to hold him and reach for my cell phone. The sooner I called the paramedics, the sooner they would get here. It shouldn't have been hard to push 911, but my fingers couldn't feel the buttons. The phone slid into the dark water and disappeared.

Keep going, you have to keep going, I told myself.

Patrick felt twice his weight, but it was easier now to kick at the ice and push my way through it. At last I was on shore. He breathed heavily, sounding congested. I debated what to do. "Mrs. Caulfield?" I called out in the desperate hope Robyn had stayed to watch. There was no answer.

If I laid him on the ground, I might not be able to pick him up again, and I didn't know how to administer the medical care he needed. I kept going, finding the trail through the wood, amazed that my feet could walk with no sensation of ground beneath them. When I got to the end of the path, I stopped and screamed for help, hoping someone in the barn would hear me.

From the road that led to the employee cottages, Roger shouted back. He streaked toward me, calling to the barn as he did. Someone responded.

With Patrick still in my arms, I dropped in a heap, unable to do one thing more.

Toger called 911, then contacted Emily, who rushed down from the house followed by the others. The paramedics from the volunteer fire department arrived. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry when Mrs. Hopewell informed them that their assistance would not be needed after all — the boy was nothing more than cold. They looked at her as if she were quite mad, then followed Emily's instructions. Emily insisted that I, too, be checked at the hospital, and I agreed because I wanted to be with Patrick.

Adrian called the hospital from his attorney's office and was assured by the E.R. staff that Patrick was stable. An hour later, when Adrian arrived at Easton Hospital, Patrick's body temperature and other vital signs were normal. The doctor informed Adrian that I was unharmed and Patrick would be ready for release in another hour, as long as an X ray for aspirated water proved negative. When the physician- departed, Adrian asked me for an exact account of what had occurred, reminding me to keep my voice low.

How many strange stories could I tell Adrian, I wondered, before he stopped believing me? I began with the phone call from the bam and was quickly interrupted. "There is no groom named Jack."

"But there has to-" I didn't complete my sentence. Maybe not, I thought. I believed Brook was responsible for the vandalism; maybe he was also responsible for the call. Had he disguised his voice and manner of speaking? I had thought the connection was poor, but I hadn't expected the call, so I wasn't trying to detect a ruse.

"Did you look at your Caller ID?" Adrian asked.

"I didn't think about it at the time," I admitted, "but I don't remember seeing a listing. You should ask Brook the same question. His mother said he received a call about the barn and passed on the message to her. Perhaps he did, or perhaps he or one of his friends was playing a prank. Brook enjoys family fights-they make his life less boring. You should question Mrs. Caulfield, as well. She saw Patrick on the ice and didn't stay around to help."

I couldn't read Adrian's reaction to what I had said, but Emily's face was transparent: She held me responsible; she believed I was negligent and pointing a finger at others to cover myself. Each time I moved within the curtained area around Patrick's bed, she moved, positioning herself between her son and me, making it clear she didn't want me near him.

"Why did you go on the ice, Patrick?" Adrian asked. "Kate told you not to."

"I saw November."

"What?"

The answer caught both Adrian and me by surprise.

"I saw November."

"The orange cat," I told Adrian.

"He was running across the ice."

Adrian shook his head.

"Patrick, November is dead," I said. "We buried him in the cemetery, remember?"

Patrick turned his gaze on me. There was a look in his eyes that I had never seen before-defiance masking fear. "You killed him."

"Me? Why would I do such a thing?" I asked, taken aback.

"You don't like him."

"Patrick, I would never kill an animal, not intentionally."

"I think this is just a decoy, Kate," Adrian interjected. "He's trying to distract us from that fact that he ran out on the ice when you forbade it."

"The other day he accused you of killing the cat. Now he's accusing me," I replied, exasperated.

"I was mixed up," Patrick said calmly.

"You're mixed up now," I told him, but he had turned away.

An hour later, when Patrick was released, Emily insisted that I ride back to the estate with Roger. I knew I shouldn't blame her for keeping Patrick away from me. In her eyes, her son had nearly died because of my negligence. How did I appear in Adrian's eyes, I wondered-like another Victoria?

On the way home I questioned Roger but learned nothing. He hadn't noticed anyone lurking about; of course, with the fog, it would have been easy to slip unseen from the woods along Scarborough Road to the pond and barn.

"I don't have a good feeling about this," he said. "Too many funny things have been happening lately."

"Do you have any idea what is going on?" I asked.

"No idea, no idea at all, just a bad feeling that we haven't seen the last of it."

That evening, Emily told me she would take care of Patrick herself. I nibbled on a late dinner alone in my room, wondering why she was letting him stay up. Finally, when it was well past his bedtime and I hadn't heard anything below, I took the back steps down to his room. I discovered that the door at the bottom had been locked from the other side. Taking the main stairs down, I found Patrick's door to the hall wide open, his room empty.

I was about to return to my quarters when I heard a ruckus downstairs. Someone was knocking on the front door and repeatedly ringing the bell.

"Henry, I told you not to answer it," Mrs. Hopewell called out.

I hurried across the second-floor hall and down the steps, then paused at the landing. Henry, retreating toward the kitchen, met my eyes for a moment.

"What the devil is going on, Louise?" Adrian shouted. He sounded as if he was emerging from the office.

"It's a trespasser," she told him. "I was just about to call the police."

"Do you know who it is?"

"A local boy."

Sam, I thought. He was supposed to call after practice.

When I heard Adrian's heavy footsteps moving toward the front door, I hastened down the last set of steps. Having lost her battle, Mrs. Hopewell marched off to the kitchen.

"Hello, Sam," I heard Adrian greet him. I hope you haven't been waiting too long."

"Where's Kate?" Sam replied, in no mood for pleasantries.

"I do apologize," Adrian continued. "Mrs. Hopewell protects us a little too well at times."

I want to talk to Kate." Sam saw me crossing the hall toward them. "Why didn't you answer your phone?" he demanded.

"Because it's in the bottom of the pond."

I tried the house number. The old gargoyle wouldn't let me through."

I saw the flicker of a smile on Adrian's face at Sam's reference to Mrs. Hopewell. "Kate," he said, "I'm working in the office, and Emily has Patrick with her. She wants to keep him in our room tonight. The others have gone to their wings, so use whatever room you want here on the first floor. I will tell Mrs.

Hopewell to remain in the kitchen." He turned toward the office, then turned back. "I'm afraid I'm somewhat old-fashioned when it comes to young men and ladies," he added with another wisp of a smile, "and must ask that you keep the door open wherever you are."

I nodded and led Sam into the library because that was the warmest room. I could still feel the pond's cold in my bones.

"I thought something had happened to you," Sam exploded, once we were inside the paneled room. "If you knew I couldn't get through, why didn't you call me?"

"I–I forgot about my phone. So much was happening."

"You make me crazy," he said, turning his back on me, banging the palm of his hand against the fireplace mantel.

"I'm sorry. I really am sorry."

"Yeah-yeah… So what's been going on?" he asked, his voice moderating, sounding almost flat.

"Patrick fell through the ice in the pond."

Sam spun around.

"Could we sit down? It's been a long day."

"Not near the fireplace," he said. "Sound travels through flues."

We went to the corner of the room. Sam tried the Westbrooks' deep leather chairs, then sprawled on the rug. I sat on the floor facing him, hugging my knees, and recounted what had happened, backtracking to Dr. Parker's theory to explain why Patrick and I were at the pond.

At the end, Sam sighed. "I don't believe in that kind of stuff. And I especially don't believe a theory by a guy who wears pink glasses. Even so, it's creepy the way Patrick senses things when they are dead."

"I've been thinking about that," I replied. "Orange tabbies are common, and November has probably fathered a few litters. Since little kids don't always grasp the finality of death, Patrick may have seen an orange cat and thought-or hoped-it was November. He may even have imagined the whole event.

He's been very upset since the cat died."

"You said Brook knew you were at the pond."

"We talked to him as we were leaving the house. He could have painted the back of the bam long before and been waiting for the right moment to set his prank in motion. Adrian had an appointment with his lawyer today, supposedly about his will. I think Brook found himself with the perfect opportunity to stir an already boiling pot."

"And then he got lucky," Sam went on, "because Patrick decided to cross the ice? I don't think so. Kate, hasn't it occurred to you that, according to Patrick's story, he was lured onto the ice, lured by a favorite pet, just as Ashley was?"

I shifted uncomfortably and stretched my legs out in front of me. I thought of it, yes."

"And have you thought about the fact that you were supposed to be watching him, just as your mother was supposed to be watching Ashley? And that if he had drowned, you would have been blamed, just as your mother was for Ashley's death?"

I had thought about that quite a bit.

He leaned toward me. "I'm telling you again, you have to leave this place."

"And I'm telling you I'm not."

He rubbed his head. "Maybe your mother will talk some sense into you."

At first I thought I hadn't heard him correctly. "Sorry?"

He rested his back against the base of one of the big chairs, seeming a little too pleased with himself, I thought. "I contacted your mother through the Internet. It wasn't hard-I had a hunch she wasn't hiding the way she did twelve years ago. I got her maiden name from her birth records, poked around some, and found her."

I stared at him.

"I told her what was going on, just about everything I knew, including how pigheaded you are. She said you inherited that from her."

I swallowed hard.

"She said she had to get her passport updated, but would come as quickly as possible."

"Here?" I could barely get out the word.

"Yeah," he said casually, but he was faking. He had seen my reaction and was trying to downplay things. "She can stay with Mom and me."

"I can't believe you did that." My words came out in a hoarse whisper. "How dare you!"

His face colored. "You need her, Kate, whether you want to admit it or not. You need someone on your side, and you won't let it be me. So I asked her."

I was speechless.

"I want you to lock your bedroom door tonight," he said.

"It doesn't have a lock."

"Then push some furniture against it. You've seen movies, you know what to do. I'm serious, totally serious." He stood up. "Call me tomorrow. I'll keep trying to reach you, but Stone-Face probably won't let me through. If I don't hear from you, I'm coming here-understand? I'll park in their driveway and stand outside and howl if they don't let me in. I'm sure they won't appreciate another visit," he added. "My car's dropping a lot of oil on their drive. Call me."

I nodded mutely. My mother was coming. I felt as if I couldn't move from where I was.

"It's okay, I can see myself out," he said, and left.

I ignored Sam's advice to barricade my bedroom doors that night. Though Emily kept Patrick with her, I wanted to be available if he wandered off and needed me. I should have listened to Sam, for as it turned out, exhaustion took over and I didn't hear a thing. The next morning I awoke ten minutes before I was scheduled to drive Patrick to school. I knew I had set my alarm to ring an hour and a half earlier; someone had entered my room and turned it off.

I hurried down the steps to Patrick's room. His pajamas were flung on the bed, which meant he was already dressed. I returned to my room, pulled on my clothes, and arrived on the first floor in time to hear a motor rumbling in the driveway. Peering through the hall window, I saw Emily buckling Patrick into the back of Roger's Jeep. She was keeping him away from me.

"Good morning."

The greeting was cold, and I took my time turning from the window.

"Good morning, Mrs. Hopewell. Why was my alarm clock turned off?".

"Mrs. Westbrook said that she was tending to Patrick today. I saw no reason for you to rise."

"Thank you, but I'll make my own decision about rising."

"Breakfast is being served," she went on, without a trace of emotion on her face or in her voice.

"I'm not hungry."

"Mr. Westbrook has asked that you see him in the office-after you breakfast," she added.

"I'll see him now."

"He is not prepared to see you until after you breakfast."

"Fine," I said. "Shall you prepare him for a change in plans, or shall I?"

She pressed her lips together, then walked stiffly toward the office door and knocked.

"Yes, Louise."

"Miss Venerelli has refused breakfast and insists on seeing you now."

"Come in, Kate," he called.

I took a deep breath and entered. I knew this wasn't going to be a pleasant conversation. Adrian rose and nodded at Mrs. Hopewell, who, for once, departed willingly, closing the door behind her.

Adrian gestured for me to sit down. "How are you this morning?" he asked.

"Fine." I folded my hands tightly in my lap.

He chose the chair nearest to me. "Kate, I am not going to beat around the bush, except to say you don't know how much I hate doing this."

I met his eyes. "That's all right. I can take correction."

His hands opened and closed with frustration. "There is nothing about your work to correct. Nevertheless, I have to let you go."

"Let me go? You mean fire me?" I should have seen it coming, but I didn't.

"In business," he said, "we call it resigning. You resign before I terminate your position. It looks better on your record."

I thought about it for a moment. "The problem is, I'm not resigning."

He raised an eyebrow.

"If you want me to leave, you will have to fire me," I said.

He leaned forward in his chair, moving his head closer to mine, as if we were friends discussing a problem. "I am counting on you to understand. This isn't my choice. You have done a wonderful job with Patrick. Unfortunately, on some issues, I need to defer to Patrick's mother, and this is one of them. I have stood up for you against Robyn, Trent, and Mrs. Hopewell, as I'm sure you know. But too many things have happened now-things that are not your fault, of course. Still, for the sake of family cooperation and my wife's peace of mind, I need to let you go."

"Who is going to look out for Patrick?"

"I will. I promise you I will take a more active role. I should have done so long ago."

I don't trust any of them," I said. "Robyn, Brook, Trent, Mrs. Hopewell-l don't trust anyone with him but Emily."

"I understand what you are saying," Adrian replied, "and I will heed your warning." Then he offered me a preposterously large amount of money for only a week's worth of work, calling it severance pay.

I rejected the offer. "I'm not resigning."

So he fired me, handing me the large check anyway, and promising to write a stellar recommendation for whatever job I wanted in the future. Roger would drive me where I needed to go; I was to let him know when I was packed.

"What are you going to tell Patrick?" I asked.

"I'm not sure yet."

"May I stay till he comes home from school?" I saw in Adrian's eyes that the answer was no. I felt tears in my own. "Can't I say good-bye to him?"

"His mother is going to pick him up from school today and take him to Easton. They will have dinner there, which will give me some time to talk to the rest of the family. I am afraid that Emily doesn't want you to have further contact with him. I'm sorry, Kate. I can see that this is painful for you."

I stood up shakily, grasping the check, feeling it crinkle in my hand. I would keep it until I had transferred bank funds from England to insure that I could get by for several weeks more. Then I'd return the check to Adrian, just as I had returned the ring my father took.

Roger dropped me at Tea Leaves Cafe, as I requested. After two cheese pastries, I decided to call Amelia Sutter, who was kind enough to pick up me and my luggage, though returning to the Strawberry Bed and Breakfast may not have been the wisest of moves.

Amelia was bursting with curiosity about the Westbrooks. Fortunately the weather that day was mild, only a tattered blanket of snow remaining on the small lawns of the town, its sidewalks clear and dry. I escaped her questions and spent the afternoon wandering the back streets of Wisteria, avoiding Joseph's shop, feeling too raw to talk.

I left a message on Sam's home phone telling him that I had been fired and asking him to keep an eye on Patrick. I didn't mention where I was staying, for I was even less ready to talk to him. I knew he might go to Mason's Choice that evening to ask where I had gone, but I decided that was a good thing because he would check on Patrick while he was there. And perhaps Joseph, curious to know if I had learned anything at the pond and unable to reach me by cell phone, would call the estate. All the better. Attention from outsiders might persuade those at Mason's Choice that it would be risky to harm Patrick.

I wanted to think that Patrick was safe and that Sam was right: The real goal of the recent events was to get rid of me. I, with my interest in Ashley's death, was the true threat, and all that had happened to Patrick was staged to make me seem irresponsible, to frame me so that I would be fired. But each time I reached that logical conclusion, my gut told me that much more was going on.

I awoke Saturday morning ready to deal with what had occurred. I waited till ten o'clock, when the week-end guests at the Strawberry had left on their excursions, then called Joseph from the tiny room equipped with the B&B's guest phone. I found him at his mother's house.

"Katie!" He breathed into the phone. "Thank God! Where are you? I've been worried. Why didn't you tell me you resigned from Mason's Choice?"

"I'm calling to tell you now. And I didn't resign, I was fired."

"Yes, yes, but where are you? Adrian has been trying to reach you. And Sam Koscinski, both last night and this morning…." Joseph blew hard into the phone. "I know you like him, Katie, but he's a lunatic."

"I won't argue that. Why is Adrian looking for me?"

"Patrick's missing."

"What! When did this happen?"

Amelia, who was passing by the small phone room, paused outside the door.

"Sometime between last night and this morning." Joseph made his voice calm, perhaps to counter the panic rising in me. "According to Trent, Patrick was gone from his bed when Emily went to awaken him."

"He got outside the house unnoticed? Adrian didn't set the alarm?"

"If he did, someone turned it off. Trent said there was no forced entry."

I turned my back on Amelia, whose mouth moved as if she were silently repeating my words, trying to milk their full meaning.

"Did they-did they check the pond? Did they look for signs of-" I couldn't complete the thought. "Did they look for some sign of him there?"

"Yes. Trent said they have looked everywhere on the estate."

"The empty houses and the hayloft? The pool, the orangerie-" "Everywhere on Mason's Choice."

"The old barn, the beach, the cemetery, the docks-" I couldn't stop thinking of places that were full of danger for a child like Patrick.

"Everywhere, Katie."

"Trent told you this?"

"He left here about twenty minutes ago. Adrian sent him as his envoy. He thought you might be staying with me.

I glanced over my shoulder at Amelia. There was a door to the room, but it was propped open by an iron doorstop. "Excuse me a moment," I said to Joseph. "Amelia, would it be all right if I moved that doorstop and closed the door?"

"No need," she said cheerfully. "There's only me here."

"I understand, but this is a private conversation."

"Oh. I wasn't really listening." She moved on, walking rather slowly.

"What do the police think?" I asked Joseph, keeping my voice low. "Adrian did call the police."

"No, not yet."

"What is he waiting for!" I exclaimed. But, of course, I knew why he hadn't contacted the authorities and why he would put if off as long as possible. "He suspects someone in his family removed Patrick."

"Katie, I don't like telling you this, but Trent came here because Adrian suspected you."

"Me! Why would I do such a stupid thing?"

"Revenge," Joseph suggested. "Anger at being fired."

"But it makes no sense," I argued. "It would confuse and upset Patrick and, in the end, where would it get me?"

"You keep believing that Adrian is as rational and compassionate as you," Joseph replied.

"Perhaps. I need some time to think. Are you going to the shop?"

"I was just about to depart."

"I'll meet you there in a half hour," I told him.

As soon as I hung up, I punehed in the numbers for Adrian's cell phone. I reached his voice mail and left a message saying I knew nothing about Patrick's disappearance and could be reached for a limited time at the antique shop, leaving that number as well as Amelia's. I saw no point in speaking to anyone else in the household. I didn't trust Emily to keep a clear head and relate accurate information; as for the others, I didn't trust them at all.

Finally, I called Sam's home. I thought I was calm and collected, but as soon as I heard Mrs. Koscinski's voice, I felt the moisture in the corners of my eyes. She said Sam had gone on an errand. "He received your message last night and has been trying to find you, Kate. Is everything all right?"

"Yes." My voice shook. "No."

She waited patiently till I found the words to tell her that Patrick was missing.

"Why don't you come here and wait for Sam," she said. "He should be back soon. Come over and I'll fix you some breakfast."

"Thank you, no."

"A cup of tea," she offered. "Tea or coffee or juice."

I blinked back the tears. It was tempting to run to her, sit in her kitchen, drink her tea, and have a good cry, but I wasn't that kind of girl. At least, I hadn't been till now.

"Thank you, but another friend is expecting me," I said, then gave her the name and number of the bed-and-breakfast. "I'll try to call back. It's Sam's playoff game tonight, isn't it? I know he has to get ready for that," "First, he has. to know you are safe," she said. "If he could talk to you, Kate, he'd feel better. If he saw you, he'd feel more assured. Me too."

"I–I'll be in touch," I said, and hung up. It was bad enough to fall for a guy, without liking his mother, too.

I grabbed my coat and headed out, glad for the long walk to the shop on High Street. The stiff March breeze blowing up from the water helped clear my head. It seemed to me there were two possibilities: Patrick had run away, or he had been abducted.

If he had run away, where would he have gone? A seven-year-old couldn't walk far and would head for a place familiar to him. I remembered when I was eight and had run away from home-all the way to our next-door neighbor. Perhaps Patrick was just beyond the estate boundaries. Perhaps he had tried to walk to school; given the tension and fighting at home, school may have become a safe haven for him.

It seemed odd, however, that no one had spotted a young child walking alone and questioned the situation, though he could have fallen asleep beneath some bushes, somewhere out of sight. When I got to the shop I'd leave another message for Sam, asking him to gather a group of friends and search the area around the estate as well as the route between the estate and school.

If Patrick had been kidnapped, it had to be by someone who had easy access to him, someone on the estate who could silently remove him from the house. Had the anger and envy within the family finally boiled over? It seemed absurd for any of them to think they could get away with harming Patrick, but then, murder had happened before at Mason's Choice and no member of the family had been charged. I refused to think about that possibility-Patrick had to be alive. I made myself focus on the question of where he might have been taken.

The Eastern Shore, with its large rural stretches, had a million places to hide a child. If Robyn had done it, someone she knew through the horse business might have a barn or shed, some isolated building that could be easily secured. If Brook, a friend might have his own place now and hide Patrick there. I didn't know where to begin if Mrs. Hopewell had taken things into her own hands; I couldn't imagine her having friends or family. If Trent had done it? It came to me when I turned onto High Street: Why not the Queen Victoria, the hotel where his friend, Margery, was manager?

I mentioned this as soon as I saw Joseph, who was standing before a table of hardware, preparing to work on a lamp.

He shook his head. "Too many people would recognize Trent and would wonder why Patrick was with him."

"Not if he showed up at three A.M.," I argued, "wrapped in a winter scarf, hidden under a hat, and carrying a sleeping child bundled against the cold. He could have sedated Patrick and brought him in a back entrance with the help of Margery."

Joseph played with the lamp's switch, then sorted

2 through his tools. His deliberate movements calmed me. "Trent is too cautious to take risks like that."

"It's unlike him," I admitted. "He isn't first on my list, but it won't hurt to check the hotel while I figure out where else to look."

After leaving another message with Sam's mother about searching the area between Mason's Choice and Patrick's school, I paged through the shop's phone book, then rang up the Queen Vic.

"Mr. Westbrook's room, please."

"I'm sorry," the desk clerk replied, "that room is not accepting calls. May I take a message?"

I stared at the phone's mouthpiece, surprised at succeeding. Joseph, noticing my silence, set down a tool and took several steps closer.

"I said, may I take a message?" the clerk repeated.

I thought quickly. I have a delivery for Mr. Westbrook at the Queen Victoria Hotel. What room is that, please?"

"I'm sorry, we don't give out that information. You may leave the delivery at our front desk, and we will be happy to take it to his room."

I thanked the woman, then set the phone back in its cradle.

"He's there?" Joseph asked, incredulous.

"Someone named Westbrook is, but the person isn't accepting calls."

"I guessed wrong. I never would have thought-" I interrupted him. "It could be that Trent keeps a room there simply to be with Margery. In any case, we are supposed to leave our delivery at the front desk, and they will be happy to take it up to his room."

"What delivery is that?"

"Something large enough that, when they see it, they won't really be happy to take it up themselves. Something ugly enough that they won't be much happier about keeping it in the lobby."

Joseph smiled. "So they will give us the room number, wanting us to deliver it." His hand swept the air, indicating all the merchandise in the shop. "So much to choose from."

I surveyed the items around us, then spotted it in the corner. "Yes, oh yes!"

An hour later, Joseph and I, breathing hard, leaned a large painting wrapped in brown paper against the hotel's front desk. Carrying the artwork, which was as tall as Joseph and as long as a sofa, through the elegantly furnished lobby of the Queen Victoria hadn't been easy. The desk clerk greeted us coolly and, at our request, studied the store tag from Olivia's. The date and time of delivery, as well as the name of the hotel, were printed clearly on it; the customer's "signature" was unreadable. Joseph and 1, afraid a delivery for Mr. Westbrook would raise too many questions, had decided on a different strategy.

"The writing on this tag is illegible. I can't possibly help you," said the clerk, a twenty-something man with a fake British accent. He looked past us, as if he thought we might go away.

I rested both arms on the counter, not planning to go anywhere but upstairs. "I remember the customer coming into our store. We spent quite a bit of time discussing Olivia's fine selection of paintings. I am certain I would recognize the name if I saw it again."

The clerk pursed his lips and refused to take the bait.

"Perhaps if you looked at the registry," Joseph suggested.

"No one," said the clerk, "is allowed to look at the list of guests. May I help the next in line, please."

"I think it began with 'S,'" Joseph continued, propping his elbow on the counter, occupying more space. "I hope it's Superman. This masterpiece must weigh a hundred fifty pounds."

"'S'? I thought it was 'M.'" I could hear the people who were waiting behind us shifting their belongings.

"I must ask you to step aside," the clerk said to us.

"But we have to deliver this," I replied.

"Step aside, please. You may use the public phone if you would like to contact the store for the necessary information." He cocked his head, indicating that he was addressing the guest behind us. "Yes, sir. Thank you for waiting so graciously.'' I stepped aside-slightly. "Perhaps we should leave the painting here, Joseph. Surely the purchaser will recognize it."

"I'm sure of only one thing," Joseph responded, "I'm not lugging it back to the shop."

Though this was part of our script, Joseph wasn't acting; he had sweat profusely during our effort to get the painting in and out of his S.U.V.

We carried the painting toward a mahogany pillar, a prominent position in the tastefully restored lobby. Working quickly, we peeled off its wrapping. The huge gilt frame, which had enough dips and waves in it to make a person seasick, caught the light and made the perfect border for a painting of very plump women bathing in a pink, soda-pop spring with strange winged creatures darting about.

Three middle-aged ladies who entered the hotel saw the painting, glanced at one another, then laughed out loud. The desk clerk looked up. When he saw what the patrons were staring at, a look of horror crossed his face. "What are you doing?* he demanded.

"We thought we'd leave it here till the owner claimed it," Joseph replied.

"You must be joking!"

More people entered the lobby. "Mommy, those ladies don't have any clothes on," a child observed.

A quiet buzzer sounded behind the desk. The office door opened and I held my breath, hoping it wasn't Margery, who might recognize me. To my relief, a dark-haired woman emerged.

"What's the problem, Francis?" she asked the desk clerk, but she spotted it as she spoke.

Francis explained how this "unfortunate painting" had materialized in the lobby, then boldly suggested that it be stored in her office.

The woman, whose name tag indicated she was the assistant manager, studied the canvas. "Not while I work there," she said.

"If I could look at the registry," I interjected, I think I would recognize the customer's name."

She nodded. "Come behind the desk. It's on the computer."

I did so, scanning the list, making sure to search beyond Westbrook, Room 305.

"Got it. McCutcheon. Room 313."

Joseph scribbled the number on the tag.

"She's expecting us, but we'll use the house phone to tell her we're coming up," I said, hoping to keep Francis from making such a call.

"Thank you, we are rather busy," the woman replied, smiling, then disappearing into her office, leaving behind a pouting desk clerk. A few minutes later, after faking the call, Joseph and I discovered that the antiquated guest elevator was too small for transporting the painting. Francis exacted his revenge by informing us that only employees were allowed to use the service elevator. I could have demanded to speak again to the assistant manager, but I was afraid she would tell an employee to accompany us.

"Looks like it's the steps," I said to Joseph.

Wide enough for a dozen people to climb shoulder to shoulder, the Victorian staircase swept up to a large, stained-glass window, then split into two stairways that doubled back, rising to the second floor. After pausing at the split, Joseph went left and I went right. We nearly dropped the painting between us. Then he went right and I went left, both of us grunting as we slammed our foreheads and shoulders against the ornate frame.

"Which way?" he asked, mopping his brow on his sleeve, puffing hard.

"You choose, I'll follow." Usually, the stronger person follows, bearing the weight of an object when climbing stairs, and that was me.

We carried the bathing ladies down to room 313, in case someone checked on our delivery. "Sallie McCutcheon," I said, remembering the name on the registry, "is going to be very surprised."

Joseph, who had lost his sense of humor, simply dried his hands on a handkerchief and walked back to Room 305. I caught up with him at the door and pressed my ear against it. At first I couldn't figure out whose voices I heard, then I squeezed Joseph's arm. "It's the telly," I whispered, "tuned into a children's program. Patrick's here!"

"Do you think Trent is with him?"

I listened a moment longer. "I doubt it. He's probably back at Mason's Choice, pretending he has nothing to do with this." I knocked on the door.

When no one answered, I rapped harder.

"Patrick may be bound or drugged," Joseph said, then slipped from his pocket a case of small tools. In the last few weeks he had become skilled at opening locked boxes and bureaus, both in the shop and at his mother's house. What he lacked in muscle, he made up for with dexterity. A minute later, he turned his head toward me, smiled a little, and softly opened the door.

The room was dark and stuffy, its heavy drapes pulled across the windows. Patrick lay on the bed, sunken into the pillows. I ran to him. "Patrick, are you all right?"

His glassy eyes slid away from the cartoon he was watching. He turned his head slowly, his eyes gradually focusing on me, then he pulled the bedcovers around him.

"I'm so glad to see you!" I said, hugging him. I felt him recoil, though his drugged body didn't have enough strength to pull away from me. I let go.

"Patrick?"

"He's been given something," Joseph said, standing on the other side of the bed.

"It's more than that," I replied bitterly. "Someone has been telling him things about me. They've been lying about me."

I reached for Patrick's hand. He flinched.

"Patrick, listen to me. I didn't want to abandon you. I was fired. I was forced to leave."

Patrick moved closer to Joseph.

"You may be right," Joseph observed.

"We're here to help you, " I continued. "We're going to take you back to your father."

Patrick didn't respond.

"We should call Adrian," I said to Joseph, "and tell him where we are, in case something prevents us from getting Patrick out of here."

"The front desk may be able to monitor hotel phones," Joseph replied, pulling out his cellular. "What's the number?"

I gave him Adrian's private line.

"Should we leave a message if he isn't there? — Wait, I have him. Adrian, hold on for Kate." He handed me the phone.

"Kate? Where are you?"

"At the Queen Victoria," I answered. "Joseph and I have found Patrick. He has been sedated, but he seems all right. He was here alone."

"At the hotel? Do you know how he got there? Did he say who took him?"

I suspect Trent, since he is friends with the manager. We slipped into the room with the help of Joseph's tools from the store. Patrick is awake, but hasn't spoken yet. I think he's afraid of me, Adrian."

"Let me talk to him."

I handed the phone to Patrick. "It's your father."

Patrick listened for a minute or two, then handed back the phone.

"Was he there?" Adrian asked, sounding both irritated and anxious.

"Yes. He's just not speaking. We'll bring him home."

"Not yet," Adrian said. "Get him out of there-Trent just left the house and may be headed in your direction. But don't bring Patrick here. Emily is hysterical, and I want to talk to him before she gets him upset and confused. I don't think Trent is alone in this, and Patrick may be the only one who can tell us the details we need. The hotel must have a back way out, a fire exit."

"We'll find it."

"I'll meet you at the auction house. It's closed today. No one will be there, and we can talk. I'll go in the back way to turn off the alarm and lock up the dogs," he continued. "Then I'll meet you at the front. You should make it in twenty minutes. If you're not there in forty, I'll call the police. What vehicle are you taking?"

I gave him a description of Joseph's S.U.V. When I hung up, I told Joseph the plan, then checked the hall for a fire escape. A set of inside steps was designated as the fire exit, but I thought I had seen the stairway's door near the front desk. Having entered the lobby with a large, ugly painting, we'd surely be remembered and questioned if we exited with a drugged child.

There was an old iron fire escape, a zigzagging ladder, attached to the outside of the building. The problem with that route was that Patrick, in his doped-up state, couldn't be counted on to climb down safely by himself. Returning to the room, I told Joseph that I would carry Patrick piggyback down the outside steps.

But Patrick refused to let me touch him. With unexpected energy, he kicked at me, then punched me with balled-up fists. I caught his wrists, but he continued to kick.

"Patrick! What is going on?"

"I won't go with you! I won't!"

"You have to."

"You're pig snot," he said. "You're a bucket full of pig snot."

I let go of him. It was one of Ashley's expressions, a description she had used for Joseph.

"Why don't you ask him what color it is?" Joseph remarked dryly.

I had asked Ashley that more than once.

"Green swirled with pink," Patrick said.

Joseph grimaced at the "correct" answer. "It is creepy, Katie. It's as if she's inside him."

"I know." I reached for Patrick again. He squirmed away and lurched toward Joseph, who caught him. "Will you let Joseph carry you?" I asked.

Joseph's eyes widened. "You're trying to give me a heart attack, aren't you."

"At least, this time, you're headed down."

Patrick finally agreed, and Joseph helped him put on his shoes, since he wouldn't allow me. We used Joseph's belt and a sheet to tie Patrick onto Joseph's back, in case he let go.

"Now he's secure, but my pants aren't," Joseph complained.

Opening the room's door, I looked both ways and led them down the hall. I climbed down the fire escape first, testing it for safety. When I reached the bottom, Joseph slowly descended with Patrick on his back. Each time Joseph's foot felt for a rung, I held my breath. I kept checking the back windows of the hotel to see if anyone was watching us. So far, so good.

The fire escape ended several meters off the ground. I argued with Patrick about letting me catch him. Finally, I pushed a pile of garbage bags and boxes over to the spot to soften his fall, then stepped in and caught him at the last moment.

He wrenched himself away from me. "I hate you!" he said. "You're goose poop."