How do you know it’s him?”

“I just know.”

“Okay. What does he look like?”

She shrugged. “I dunno. Big. He has a baseball hat.”

Okay. The killer had been seen “all over,” he looked “big,” and he wore “a baseball hat.” That’s what I got for interviewing a kindergartner. Her imagination was running amok; she was scared and had reason to be. I hadn’t paid enough attention to what she’d heard and overheard. She must be terrified. It was time to reassure her.

“Listen, Molly. You’re safe. Nobody’s going to hurt you. I won’t let them. And Nick’s a policeman. He and the other police are going to catch the bad guy.”

She looked convinced—but small and cold, shivering inside her hooded pink down jacket. I hugged her, and we held hands as we continued our walk. It must be wonderful to be six and still believe that there was order in the world, that grown-ups loved you and could pick you up in their arms and keep you safe, that they really had control over what happened in life.

Karen and Nicholas greeted us at the door, and the children ran off to play. It wasn’t until later, when Molly and Nicholas were decorating holiday cookies, that I understood the effectiveness of my reassurances.

“You know Angela?” she asked Nicholas.

“Course.” He smeared blue icing on a Santa cookie.

“She might be killed.” Molly spread colored sprinkles over a pink snowman.

“How do you know?” He took the sprinkles from her.

Karen put down her spatula and touched my arm, eavesdropping along with me. She still hoped Tamara was alive. She didn’t know about the finger I’d found or the bag of limbs that had been discovered a few blocks away.

“I’ve seen him. He sneaks around and watches her.” Molly knocked over the bottle of cinnamon candies. “Oops—uh-oh.” They began stuffing the spilled pieces into their mouths, giggling.

Karen whispered, “What’s she saying?”

“It’s anxiety,” I whispered back. “She’s imagining stuff.” She had to be. There was no other explanation.

Karen nodded and went back to taking cookies from the tray. “I love these.” Nicholas’s mouth was stuffed with candy. “Me, too.”

Karen’s eyes began to relax. “I guess it’s her way of coping,” she whispered. But we continued to eavesdrop on the children. “Where’d you see him?” “By my house.” “For real?” “Uh-huh.”

“Then what’s he look like?” “Like—just—scary.” “You’re making it up—” “I am not—I’ve seen him—”

“Nicholas,” Karen interrupted. Her eyes were disapproving. Alarmed. “Here’s a batch of stars. You haven’t done any stars yet.”

The conversation was halted, the topic changed. The rest of the afternoon, nobody mentioned Angela or a scary man or any of the missing nannies. But when we said good-bye and left with arms loaded with cookie tins, I knew what would linger there, so I avoided Karen’s eyes.

TWENTY-FOUR

MONDAY MORNING, ANGELA ARRIVED WITH AN ATTITUDE. SHE was miffed, wouldn’t talk to me, wouldn’t even look at me.

I tried to deal with her. “You got your nails done,” I said. They were about three inches of crimson acrylic, a pattern of rhinestones glittering on her ring fingers. Molly craned her neck over the kitchen counter to see.

“Yeah.” Her word pierced the air like a shot.

“Your hair looks nice, too.” It had a few extra layers of spray, tough to break through.

She didn’t answer.

“Can we paint my nails, too, Mom? Can we?”

“Sure. If Angela wants to. Go get the nail kit.” The nail kit was an old shoe box where we kept polish and clippers; Molly scampered off to get it. As soon as she was out of the room, I asked, “Okay. You want to tell me what’s up?”

“Nothing’s up.”

“Angela. Either tell me or don’t, but either way, deal with it.”

She turned to me, hand on hip. “Okay, you wanna know? You got no business setting me up with that guy.”

It took me a second to figure out what she was talking about. Then I remembered: Jake. The ride home.

“I got you a ride home so you wouldn’t have to walk alone—”

Angela wheeled around. “Look, there’s just somethin’ about that guy.”

“He was probably flirting. Don’t take it so seriously.”

“No, no. I don’t like him and I don’t want his damn rides. I can take care of myself.” Her fingers flew, nails carving the air. “I don’t need no personal bodyguard. I take kickboxing. Don’t worry about me. I know what to do, anybody messes with me.”

“You take kickboxing?”

“I do. I’ll teach you, too, if you want. I’m teaching Molly.” “You’re teaching Molly?”

“Sure. Why not? She’s gotta know how to defend