arthritic knees? No one. That’s exactly why the nannies didn’t run off while they could.”

I wasn’t convinced. “Charlie didn’t have the physical strength to overpower all those healthy young women.”

“No, but he didn’t need it. He was the handyman. When a babysitter let him in to do repairs, he’d pull a knife on her, or some other weapon, and she’d go with him without a struggle. Or he’d walk up to a sitter in the park and shove a weapon into her back. No one even noticed him. He was nonthreatening. Inconspicuous. An old man. What a perfect disguise.”

What had Charlie said? “Looking normal would be the best disguise of all.” Something like that. Had he been warning me against himself? The thought gave me goose bumps.

“Beverly agrees. She says that, as a paranoid schizophrenic, Charlie could fit the profile despite his age.” Nick seemed sure.

“So. You’re not looking for anyone else?”

“The case is closed, Zoe. Relax. It’s done.” He resumed cooking. Bits of garlic cloves, cherry peppers, and anchovies lined his butcher block. The windows had darkened; ice crusted their corners. We’d emptied our bottle of wine, opened another. Aromas of spices and warm bread swelled around us. We were almost getting comfortable being together, settling in, but I couldn’t let go. I simply could not believe that the killer was Charlie. Did Nick really believe it? Or was he lying again, hiding the truth, withholding privileged information? Stop it, I told myself. Nick hadn’t necessarily lied. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe Charlie had been a serial killer. But doubts still nagged at me. “Charlie said the killer used his tools.”

Nick pushed chopped veggies into bowls. “Zoe. Forget what Charlie told you. He’d divided himself into two, remember? He talked about the killer as if it was someone else.”

“But why nannies? If, as Beverly said, the women represented me, why did he kill younger women? And why nannies? Why not mothers?”

I thought of answers as soon as I asked the questions. To Charlie, I was a young woman. And I wasn’t a typical mother; I’d adopted Molly. Didn’t that make me sort of a permanent nanny? One of the victims had been an adoptive mother like me. If I’d been the person he modeled victims after—no, that idea was absurd. Wasn’t it?

Still, I expected Nick to give me a glib answer. Some easy explanation that would banish my doubts. But Nick didn’t say a word. Instead, he lapsed into silence. He stood rapt, back rigid, legs apart, arms folded across his chest. Why? What was he thinking about? Charlie? Whether to reveal another secret? How long to simmer his sauce?

“What’s going on?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Sorry. Just thinking.”

About what? He didn’t say. He stood silently, staring out the window at darkness.

“Smell my hair, Mommy.” Molly joined us, wrapped in an oversized towel.

I did. It smelled clean and sweet, like vanilla. We went to the guest room to put on her pajamas, stopping every three seconds so she could wiggle her tooth.

“Do you think it’ll come out tonight?”

“Maybe. Maybe a few more days.”

“Because the Tooth Fairy doesn’t know where we are.”

“I told you. Don’t worry. The Tooth Fairy knows. Finding kids is part of the job.”

“It’s you, isn’t it?”

“How can you even think that?” I dodged, avoiding the truth. Avoiding a lie.

“Mommy, come on. Tell me—”

I kissed her vanilla head. “Let’s go see Nick.”

“Mommy—” She stuck to my side, asking.

In the kitchen, Nick was finishing a phone call. Hanging up, he forced a smile. “Hungry?” he asked.

“Thtarved,” Molly answered while wiggling her tooth.

“Good. Spaghetti’s my specialty.”

I heard sizzling, smelled garlic frying. Nick’s shirt rippled over his back as he sprinkled diced peppers, anchovies, and tomatoes over broccoli, peppers, capers, olives, mushrooms, and eggplant chunks in the skillet. Occasional odd pieces toppled off the butcher block onto the floor. I took note of the deftness of Nick’s fingers, the decisiveness of his hands, the inability of onions to defend themselves. The force of his slices.

Molly chattered and Nick cooked. Eventually, fighting a headache, I left them at the stove to discuss herbs and spices. I sat by the fire, watching flames curl and lick their helpless prey.

FORTY-NINE

“COME AND EAT, MOMMY. DINNER’S READY.“

Nick and Molly did all the work. They didn’t let me fold a napkin or set a fork. Nick seated me at the table and set before me a plate of steaming linguini in a thick, chunky vegetable sauce. Molly brought a basket of fresh bread; Nick poured