Who do you trust? These days, anybody can be anybody, for all you know. Even a neighbor.”

“True enough.” I might as well agree with him.

“The police were here yesterday, miss. You called them?” Oh, so that was it. He was curious about the police. “Yes, Charlie, I called them.” “Why? What happened?”

I didn’t want to tell him about the finger. Lord, if I did, we’d be out here for hours, discussing it. “I had a problem.” “There was trouble, so you called the police.” “Yep.”

“Well, that’s natural. That’s what they’re there for, to help people. You trust them, don’t you? You trust the police, Miss Zoe?”

I thought of Detective Stiles. His steady pale eyes. “Yes, Charlie. I trust them. Look, I really have to go in.”

“But you didn’t tell me what the trouble was. Even though you’ve known me for thirteen years. Even though we share the same street.”

“Charlie. It’s not that I don’t trust you. I just don’t want to discuss it.”

“Miss, you trust the police, but not old Charlie. I understand that. You know me, but you don’t know if you can trust me. Right?”

I started to get up. “It’s not that I don’t trust you, Charlie, but really, I’ve got to—”

He put his hand up. “Don’t be in a hurry. Settle down and listen. Because you can trust me, Miss Zoe. I want you to know that. Even with your life. Or your child’s.”

Trust him with my life? With Molly’s? Why would he say that? Did Charlie think we were in danger? Actually, I didn’t want to know. I wanted to end the conversation. “Thank you, Charlie. That’s nice to know. You can trust me, too.”

He didn’t look at me; he scanned the street, the rooftops, the sky. I followed his glance. Alongside an empty house, Jake’s dump truck backed up, beeping, parking for the night. In Victor’s window, a curtain snapped shut. On Phillip Woods’s porch, Santa beamed red and green. I wanted to go inside.

“But except for me, miss, don’t trust anybody. Not around here.” His tone had changed. It was suddenly blunt, gruff. Disturbing.

“Charlie—”

“I mean it. Keep an eye on your back all the time.”

probably Charlie was worried because women were disappearing. He was concerned about the single mother and child who lived across the street. He was being protective, that was all. And, in his way, sweet.

“You don’t have to worry about us, Charlie. We’re fine.”

“No, listen. I tried to tell you before. There’s lots of depravity these days. Swelling appetites for evil. It’s all around.” His eyes rested briefly on the Santa flickering across the street.

I fidgeted. The cold cement step was freezing my behind. There was no point in arguing with him. “Thanks, Charlie. I’ll be real careful.” Again, I started to stand; again, Charlie put his hand on my arm.

“Miss, wait. Don’t look alarmed or run away. Somebody may be watching us, even now. Listen, I know things. I’m taking a big risk, telling you.”

Oh dear. Maybe it was worse than I’d thought. Charlie thought people were watching him? poor Charlie. He might be losing it. How old was he, I wondered. Seventy-five? Older?

“You don’t want to listen to me, but you must.” His whisper was urgent. “I’m just a handyman. But I see things. In the alleys, the basements. I have the tools to work under the floorboards, inside closets. In old houses or new. In basements of every house on this street. people don’t think much about me, but I know things. Houses have secrets. There’s evil here, miss. Close by. Serious evil. And it’s gone too far—into the bricks, the dry-wall, the wood.”

Apparently, Charlie had gone too far, too. He’d crossed a line, entered a place where perceptions got twisted and played tricks on the mind. Where truth became fragmented and jumbled, patched with imaginings. Still, with all his ramblings, he wasn’t scary. Old Charlie seemed damaged, not dangerous. Like a worn-out teddy bear.

“. . . so you can’t tell,” he went on. “Anybody can wear anything. Disguise themselves as police or doctors, judges. Businessmen. It’s their clothes, their costumes that tell you who they are. If you see somebody driving a fire engine, you assume he’s okay, right? He’s a fireman. You trust him. Or the mailman. Certainly you can trust the mailman! But how do you know that the mailman’s really a mailman? That the fireman’s really a fireman? Because of the uniform, right? But how do you know that he’s not really a madman—a