the shaft. The bell dinged, doors rolled opened and shut. Who’d gotten in? Nick? Beverly? I didn’t know. But it wasn’t my business. I was getting overheated in my jacket; sweat rolled down my midriff. Time to go.

“Come on, Molly.” I took her hand and crossed the hall, eyeing Rupert. A ding announced the arriving elevator car. I glanced back. The door slid open, revealing Beverly Gardener. She’d removed her fur jacket. Taking her time, she smoothed her hair, adjusted her glasses.

“Mommy, there’s the lady!” Molly announced.

“That’s okay—”

Too late. Beverly looked up, pausing and squinting at us through tortoiseshell frames. Our eyes met, locked, and froze. And suddenly I remembered: Beverly Gardener didn’t wear glasses.

Phillip Woods did, though. And he fit snugly into Beverly Gardener’s clothes. His mouth opened. He froze, surprised. I grabbed Molly’s hand and called to Rupert, but Rupert didn’t wake up, didn’t even stir. I hurried over to him, noticing only now the blood smeared on the wall behind him, the dark stain on the shoulder of his uniform. Molly was saying something, but I didn’t hear what. I was pulling her across the hall, dragging her into the staircase. As the stairway door swung shut behind us, I looked back and saw Phillip Woods sneering at us while the elevator snapped shut on his high-heeled leather boot.

FIFTY-NINE

WOODS? PHILLIP WOODS? DRESSED AS BEVERLY GARDENER. Suddenly I understood. Beverly Gardener hadn’t been visiting Woods; Woods himself had left his house, dressed as Beverly Gardener. And Rupert, the security guard, was dead. Murdered. Rupert must have noticed something odd about Dr. Gardener. Maybe he’d confronted her. Was that why Woods killed him? I thought of Charlie, his warning that the killer wore disguises. I could almost hear his hoarse whisper, “Trust nobody,” as I tugged on Molly’s hand.

“Mommy,” Molly huffed. “Why are we running? Where are we going?”

Where were we going? Good question. What was I doing? I stopped dragging her. We stood panting on the landing below the third floor.

“Why are we running away from that lady? You said we were trying to find her.”

I could hear the elevator rising in the shaft. Was Woods in there, riding up ahead of us? We shouldn’t go up, had to go down.

“Molly, I can’t explain everything now, okay? I’m sorry. I goofed up. Just come with me. We’re going back downstairs.”

Pivoting, reversing our steps, we went down, down, around. A few times I stopped, leaned over the railing, and looked up, half expecting to see spectacles and a lipsticked smirk looking down at us. But no one was there. We made it to the first floor and headed for the door. But I stopped, my hand on the knob. Was Woods out there? Maybe he hadn’t gone up in the elevator but had waited in the hall, outside the door. I turned away. Molly and I kept going down.

The door to the basement opened to shadows, doorways, corridors branching off in all directions. The Institute maze, silent and empty. No Woods. Nobody at all.

The door squeaked; the sound ricocheted off the walls. I pressed on, clutching Molly’s hand.

“Where are we going, Mommy?”

“Shh,” I whispered. “We have to be quiet.”

“Why? I don’t want to be quiet. I want to go home.” She stamped her foot.

“Molly.” I stopped walking and knelt, meeting her eyes. “It’s important that we keep our voices down. Try not to talk. I’ll explain later, okay?”

“Now—tell me now. I don’t like it here. Let’s go.” Her whisper was louder than her voice had been.

“Soon, I promise. But first, I need you to help by being quiet. Like a mouse.”

She nodded, but she was running out of patience. I kissed her forehead and stood, wondering how long it would be before Woods figured out where we were. Then it hit me: If the person I’d been following was Woods, where was Beverly? On the phone, she’d said she’d be here, at the Institute. She might be here still. We’d go to her office, find her, and call for help. Great. Good plan. But I had to remember where her office was. What was the number? 35? No—37. I remembered finding her note there. And Phillip Woods, pacing in the waiting area, frantic to find her. Claiming to be her friend. Damn. Was he going to her office now? Or already there? I could feel him hunting, waiting in ambush. Oh, where was number 37? The door beside us was 12. Not too far from 37. But we had