listening for moaning or panting or any signs of life. Nothing.

“Victor?” I called softly, knowing he wasn’t there. I could see that he wasn’t. “Victor?”

He had to be here. Unless I was mistaken. Maybe Victor had gone out the back door. Or up to the second floor. Maybe the blood wasn’t even Victor’s; maybe it was Jake’s—he might have had an accident—that might be why he was hurrying away—

But if so, why was it smeared on the steps as if someone had been dragged into the basement?

I looked at the paneled wall where the path stopped. There was a patch of blood, not just drops, beside it. Why? I pictured Jake tugging a bloody Victor down the stairs, resting him against the wall at the bottom. That would explain the patch. But then what? What had Jake done with him? Where could Victor be?

I walked around the basement, looking again for a door, a crawl space, a closet, a trunk. Nothing. Just an empty expanse of space with concrete walls. Except for one. The one at the bottom of the steps was wood. Why?

I didn’t know much about construction. In fact, I knew nothing about it. But I tapped the paneled wall and heard a hollow sound. I tapped harder, above my head, down at my knees. I walked from one end of the wall to the other, knocking, hearing a reply of vacant space from the other side. And I knew. Victor was back there. Jake had put him there. And I had to get him out.

I shoved the wall. I pushed and banged it. It didn’t budge. I called out Victor’s name and got no answer. Go home, I told myself. Call Nick. Let the police take care of this.

“Victor,” I told the wall, “I’m going to get help. I’ll be back.”

Turning to go, though, I saw the toolbox lying at my feet. I looked at the wall again, saw screws embedded in the wood. It took a few minutes to unscrew the center panel, but when I finished, surprisingly, almost effortlessly, I’d dislodged an entire segment of the wall. It moved easily to the side, opening to a secret room, releasing the odor of something foul.

SEVENTY-NINE

A DIM LIGHT INSIDE REVEALED A CUBICLE ABOUT THE SIZE OF my bathroom. The walls were covered with art—some kind of textured work. Collages? The floor was covered with Victor.

His legs were splayed; his head remained in shadows. I knelt beside him, vaguely noticing the garbage bags lining the floor. I felt his throat and found a pulse.

“Victor,” I kept saying, “wake up. Please wake up.”

He didn’t stir. His face was masked with blood. Don’t move him, I remembered. Go get help. I turned to go, but stopped. What was that form huddled in the shadows? Was someone lying there, not moving? I dreaded what I’d see, but I made myself look closer. Angela lay on a foam mattress, tied up, motionless, unconscious or dead.

EIGHTY

HER HEART WAS BEATING, BUT HER SKIN WAS COOL, THE TEMperature of basement air. Her neck slumped to the side, loose like rubber. Jake. Jake had taken her, had taken all of them. Jake was the Nannynapper. Not Charlie, not Phillip Woods. Jake had watched the nannies on the street, selecting his victims. He’d seen Angela on her way to work, had trapped her and taken her here, just like the others. My God. Why hadn’t I known? I hadn’t even suspected him. Nobody had. Jake had been around the neighborhood so long, he’d become a fixture. As unnoticeable as a streetlight. Camouflaged by his obvious presence.

I had to go call Nick. Get an ambulance. Find help. I spun around, inhaling a rotten stench. Don’t panic, I told myself. Just go.

I took the steps two at a time and ran through the kitchen into the hall. I headed for the front door, was almost there.

Maybe I heard a thump. Maybe I even felt a blow. But I had no memory of either. In fact, I remembered nothing, not even darkness.

EIGHTY-ONE

I WAS BLIND. I STARED AT BLACKNESS, TRYING TO FIND A CONtrast, a shape, an outline of anything. Nothing. Not a shadow, not a shade. My head throbbed, pulsing white pain. I tried to call out, but something—a rag?—was stuffed into my mouth, gagging me. I couldn’t move my arms or legs, turned my head slightly, felt a cloth draping my face—a blindfold? Maybe I wasn’t blind. I turned my head again and the cloth slipped slightly, just enough