my fever broke, I reversed the spell, changed the current from my brain to his. I’ve read his waves. I know his thoughts. Believe me, you must listen. Today, all day, you must stay put. Stay home. Lie low. Don’t let go of your child. Evil is close—it’s disguised, not as it seems—”

“Ma’am?” The taxi driver was getting impatient. “I’m missing calls here—”

“One minute, please.” I glared at him, then looked poor Charlie full in the face. “Charlie,” I spoke slowly. “You need help.”

“No, Miss Zoe—it’s you who needs help—”

“No. No more. Listen carefully.” I looked into his eyes. “You’re ill, Charlie. The illness is affecting your thoughts. You need to see a doctor. Do you understand?”

“No, miss, you must listen,” he began. Wet snow was clinging to his hair.

“No more, Charlie.” I had to go. “Please, call your doctor. Or call the Family Center for a referral. Tell them I said you need to be seen today.”

I removed his hand from my arm and fumbled in my bag for a card and a pen. “That’s the Center number. And that’s my office number. Call me if you can’t get a doctor’s appointment. I’ll make sure somebody sees you.”

I put the card in his hand, but he didn’t budge. “I told you, miss. I warned you not to go.” He shook his head sadly and stood at the curb, arms by his side. And he stayed there, watching as I got into the cab and rode away. I had no idea how much I would later regret not heeding his advice.

THIRTY-THREE

WHEN I GOT TO WORK, BEVERLY GARDENER WAS WAITING OUTside the art room, a vision in cherry red. To what, I wondered, did I owe this celebrity visit?

“Zoe, sugarplum,” she cooed. Her eyes beamed green lasers. “How are you coping? Are you managing all right?”

“I’m fine, thanks.” Why wouldn’t I be? “How are you?”

I unlocked the door, and she followed me inside, her presence filling the studio.

“Oh, I’m peachy. Got a second to chat?”

I assumed it was about her profile report. “Sure. In fact, I wanted to ask you about a note you wrote on the report.”

“The report?” She seemed baffled.

“The profile.”

“Oh—not now, creampuff. I have television interviews in a minute—all morning long about the Nannynapper. The media love my name for him. I bet he loves it, too. All the attention it’s getting him.”

“You think he watches Tv news?”

“His coverage? Of course. He’s glued to his set. Probably jerks off to it, or would if he could get it up. He loves the fame, basks in the feeling of being a star.”

Well, you’d know all about that, I thought.

“Believe me, I know all about that.” She smiled, as if reading my mind. “There’s nothing like being a complete nobody and suddenly being discovered and seeing yourself all over the media. It’s an incredible ego trip. It happened to me ten years ago with my radio show, and it’s happening to the Nannynapper now.”

She sidled up next to me, her voice husky and confidential. “But, see, fame can be tricky. It’s an illusion. It can make you forget who you really are and set you up for a fall.”

I met her eyes, and for the briefest moment Beverly Gardener looked vulnerable. Then she looked away. Suddenly, for the second time in as many meetings, I found myself flattered, basking in her attention and apparent candor. There was a reason the woman captivated audiences. When she focused on you, somehow you felt important. As if you, not she, were the star. Still, I didn’t quite trust her or her confidential tone. The woman who for years had never bothered to greet me in the hallway now spoke to me in confidence, as if we were dear friends, united by time-tested sisterly bonds. What was she up to? What did Beverly Gardener want?

“So, do you think fame will bring the Nannynapper down?” I asked, following her lead.

“We can only hope so. It might embolden him so he gets careless.” She toyed with her collar, fingers skittering across her lapel, then glanced at her watch. “Look, pumpkin, he’s not the reason I wanted to talk to you. Actually, I came by for personal reasons.” She paused, as if not sure how to proceed. “It’s about Nick. I want to make sure we understand each other.”

Understand each other? “Sorry?”

“See, Nick told me—I mean, you do understand about Nick and me—our . . . deal?”

Nick and her? I stammered, unsure how to respond. “Your deal?”