and poorly lit. A catacomb.

But I was supposed to meet her there at nine to pick up a copy of her report. So, bracing myself, I walked past Agnes to the elevator at the end of the corridor and pushed the down button. Tired metal rattled and creaked, and slowly the dial indicated that the car was groaning its way to the first floor.

Finally, the elevator doors slid open. I was uneasy about the meeting. Dr. Gardener might think I wasn’t qualified to work with her—after all, I wasn’t headline material. But I didn’t have to justify my role was here at the request of the police. Nick had said he’d discussed my involvement with her.

The doors opened, and I entered the dimly lit labyrinth of marble floors and drafty corridors. A maze of gray walls lined with frosted glass doors. What was behind all those doors? Private offices? Patients’ rooms? Closets? Passing an open one, I peeked in. A huge expanse of white tiles surrounded a four-legged bathtub in the center of the floor. Nothing else was in there. Not a sink. Not a cabinet. Not a towel rack. Creepy. I kept walking.

I saw nobody, heard only my own footsteps echoing along the walls. I followed the numbers. 77, 75. At 59, I encountered a pungent smell. Pipe tobacco? At 53, shrill laughter rolled under the door. When I got to 47, a door slammed behind me; I looked around. No one was there. The click of high-heeled shoes echoed from an intersecting corridor. Somewhere a door opened and closed. Then silence. Just the padding of my own shoes. I looked behind me. The hallway extended emptily back to the elevator. I walked on. Now the door said 92. Damn. I was lost. I turned back and retraced my steps. At 84, harsh laughing erupted, then abruptly ended, emphasizing the silence that followed. At 43, the hallway veered left. 42. 41. I was back on track.

From somewhere came a dull, rhythmic thumping. Maybe from an alcove up ahead, a waiting area. Was it footsteps? Yes, maybe someone pacing. Maybe in the alcove. I slowed, listening, watching. A lone shadow emerged from the alcove and slid along the hallway floor. Back and forth. Then it stopped, lay still, a dark stripe among shadows. Had it heard my footsteps? Why was it so still? Who was there?

A clammy draft tickled my neck; I wheeled around, saw no one. The hallway was deserted, except for me and the shadow in the alcove. No stalkers. No ghosts. No reason to be nervous. Besides, Dr. Gardener’s office was just a few doors ahead, within easy reach. I pictured myself breathlessly bursting through her door, panicking. No. I wasn’t going to do that. The shadow began to pace again.

Okay, I told myself. Enough. The hall is dim and creepy, and every sound makes eerie echoes, but that doesn’t mean that there’s a serial killer in the alcove. Just keep walking and mind your own business. I made myself continue, step by step. I was fine. Even so, the hairs on my neck stiffened as I approached the waiting area. Passing the opening, I braced myself, ready to bolt.

I didn’t bolt, though. I did a double take, not registering the face at first. I recognized it but needed a minute to place it; the face didn’t belong at the Institute. Gradually, though, I recognized the spectacles, the pale face, the cashmere coat. The man in the alcove was my neighbor Phillip Woods.

Phillip Woods? I was so relieved, I almost hugged him and laughed out loud. But we were in a psychiatric hospital. I wasn’t sure he’d want to be recognized, let alone to be embraced with laughter by his neighbor. What was he doing here? Was he a patient? Or visiting one? He gaped at me, wide-eyed, apparently as nervous as I’d been. I nodded and kept walking, trying to be discreet, trying to absorb the oddity of finding Phillip Woods pacing the bowels of the Institute’s basement.

Finally, number 37 was just across the hall. The door featured large block letters announcing the doctor’s name. I knocked but got no answer. Knocked again. Finally, I tried the doorknob. The door was locked, the office dark. What was going on? Beverly Gardener knew I was coming; Nick had set up our appointment. I didn’t notice the envelope until I stepped back to leave. It was taped inconspicuously to the wood below the knob, and my name was