but it wasn’t. The footsteps came nearer, became more distinct. Any second, Woods would pop around the corner. Show up down the hall.

We ducked into the office. Close the door, a voice whispered. Lock it and call the police.

But before I did, in the alcove, someone moved. Woods? I quickly closed the door, just glimpsing Nick as he slid sideways, keeled over, and crumpled onto the floor.

SIXTY-ONE

I LOCKED THE DOOR AND HUGGED MOLLY, AND SHE HELD ON to my sleeve as I made my way across the office to find the phone. An outdoor security light cast dim beams through the window; even so, I stumbled on loose papers, tripped on the back of a chair. An overturned chair. Righting it, I told Molly to sit down, but she wouldn’t let go of me, hung on for her life. Together, we inched our way past the leather sofa and made it to the desk. My hand found Beverly’s big desk chair and swung it around. I reached for the phone and sat down—and jumped right back up. Molly leaped onto me, clutching me so that I couldn’t see or move. Finally, holding her, I turned around slowly, dreading what I’d see. Sure enough. I hadn’t sat on a leather chair. I’d sat on Beverly Gardener.

SIXTY-TWO

I SET MOLLY DOWN AND TRIED TO COMFORT HER. “MOLLY.“ I hugged her, whispered in her ear. “I’m going to call for help.” She nodded, speechless, and stood beside me, clinging, her head buried in my side, her entire body shaking. I trembled, too, cemented to the floor.

“Beverly?” I managed. She didn’t answer. I stuck out a finger and touched her arm. Her skin was cold. Well, it was December. She wore only a bra and panties; of course she’d be cold. That didn’t mean she was dead. I poked her again, harder. Her head lolled off to the side, and with a sense of dread I noticed a stocking hanging around her neck. Pulse, I thought. Check her pulse. My hands were unsteady; I couldn’t feel anything but Molly’s trembling. Was Beverly breathing? I put my finger under her nose, thought I felt the slightest tickle of warm air.

I followed my instincts and gently lowered her off the chair onto the floor. It wasn’t easy, with Molly hanging around my waist, but I managed. Beverly didn’t make a sound. I listened at her chest, felt her breasts against my head. Was that my heartbeat or hers? I covered her with my jacket, got up. I had to use the phone. Quickly.

Beverly’s desk was a mess. Drawers hung open, and files lay all over the floor. Move, I told myself. Just call the police. I guided Molly, stepping around Beverly, and picked up the phone.

9-1-1. Nothing happened. No ringing. Then I remembered: the outside line. To get an outside line, I’d need to dial 9; all I’d actually dialed was 1-1. I started over, pushed the button: 9. Good. A dial tone.

Now another 9. Now a 1.

Footsteps. Very close, approaching the door. Then they stopped. A silhouette with shoulder-length hair darkened the frosted glass window near the top of the door. I pulled Molly down and we crouched, huddling under the desk. Where was the damned 1 button? In the dark under the desk, my arms around Molly, I felt the phone buttons, pushed what I thought was the right one.

He was trying keys. How did he have Beverly’s keys? I heard a jangle, then the thrust of metal. He was turning the knob, jiggling, twisting it. Trying another key. Then another. In a second, he’d be in. Another key. Another. Then a violent metallic slam. Under the desk, I curled over Molly, felt her terror, and tried to fade into mahogany.

Silence. Had Woods given up? Thrown the key ring against the door?

Why hadn’t any of the keys worked? If they weren’t Beverly’s, whose keys did Woods have? Who would have keys? In the darkness, I remembered the key ring dangling from Rupert’s belt. Of course. Woods had taken Rupert’s keys.

Suddenly there was an ear-shattering bang. Molly flew against me. The door shook. Woods was ramming, shoving, slamming his body against the door. Someone was talking, repeating himself, offering help. Not Charlie, not the guard. A real voice. Where? Who was it? I looked around, then remembered. The phone. The voice was on the phone. I snapped to attention, breathless. My voice scraped raw, trembled, tasted like acid. But I heard it gasp what needed to