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“Did I see a gun? Do you have a gun?”

“Yes. Pete—”

“Don’t have it when the police come. Remember the Dutton boy.”

“But what—”

“Later, Barbara. And thank you. Thank you so much.”

Barbara goes back to the stairs, again being careful to skirt the gore that has spread around Rodney Harris. She looks back once and sees Holly drinking the rest of the second glass. She’s holding onto the bars with her other hand, as if to keep from collapsing.

What happened here? What the fuck happened?

In the kitchen she can hear sirens, still faint. She sees her .22 on the counter and thinks of Holly telling her don’t have it when the police come, remember the Dutton boy. She picks it up and puts it in the breadbox, on top of a package of English muffins.

Before leaving the kitchen, she can’t resist opening the fridge and peeking inside. She’s prepared for anything but sees nothing that warranted Holly’s warning. There’s skim milk, some eggs and butter, yogurt, veggies, a Tupperware box containing what looks like cranberry jelly, and a few packages of red meat in Saran wrap. Maybe steak. Also six or eight parfait dessert glasses filled with what’s probably vanilla pudding with swirls of strawberry. Looks tasty.

She closes the refrigerator and goes back outside.

26

A city police cruiser pulls up to the curb, siren unwinding to silence. There’s an unmarked sedan behind it, following so close it almost hits the cruiser’s bumper. Mindful of what Holly said and her own Black skin, Barbara stands on the top step of the porch with her hands held out from her sides, palms turned to show they’re empty.

Two uniform cops come up the walk. The one in the lead nevertheless has his hand on the butt of his Glock. “What’s going on here?” he asks. “What’s the big emergency?”

The other one, older, asks, “Are you high, sweetheart?”

Before Barbara has to dignify that with an answer—she will realize later the question wasn’t entirely stupid or racist; she was clearly in shock—the door of the unmarked car slams and Isabelle Jaynes is hurrying across the lawn. She’s wearing jeans and a plain white tee. Her police badge is slung around her neck and she’s got her own Glock on one hip.

“Stand back,” she tells the cops. “I know this young lady. Barbara, right? Jerome’s sister.”

“Yes,” Barbara says. “Holly’s in the basement. Locked in a cage. The old professors who live here are dead, and… and…” She begins to cry.

“Take it easy.” Izzy puts an arm around Barbara’s shaking shoulders. “They’re dead, I get that… and what?”

“And Holly says she killed them.”

27

Holly hears footsteps and voices overhead, then sees feet. She remembers Emily descending those stairs, coming to kill her with Bill’s gun, and shudders. She’ll see those old lady shoes in her dreams. But these aren’t shoes, they’re suede boots. Above them are bluejeans instead of a dress. They stop when the owner of the jeans sees the bodies. Isabelle comes the rest of the way down the stairs slowly, gun drawn. She sees Holly standing behind the crisscrossed bars, her face smeared with blood and a bloody shirt tied around her arm. There’s more drying on her chest above the cups of her bra.

“What the fuck happened here, Holly? How badly are you hurt?”

“Some of the blood is mine, but most of it’s his,” she says, and points a trembling finger at the dead man in the fire engine pajamas. “I can tell you everything once you get me out of here, but how am I going to tell her?” She puts her forehead against the bars.

Izzy comes forward and takes one of Holly’s hands. It’s cold. The two cops are on the stairs now, gawking at the bodies. Barbara, standing above them in the doorway, can hear more sirens approaching.

Izzy: “Tell who, Holly? Tell who what?”

“Penny Dahl,” Holly says, crying harder than ever. “How am I ever going to tell her what happened to her daughter? How am I going to tell any of them?”

28

By six o’clock, Ridge Road is lined with police cars, two crime scene vans, the county coroner’s station wagon, and an ambulance with its doors open and two EMTs waiting. There’s also a red panel truck with Upsala County Fire Department painted in gold on the side. Most of the residents of the street have come out to watch the show. Barbara Robinson has been sent out of the house but has been allowed to stay on the lawn. Ordered to, actually. She has called Jerome and Pete, telling them both that Holly has been hurt, but Barbara thinks—hopes—not too badly. The important thing is she’s safe. Barbara doesn’t tell them Holly is still locked up in the Harrises’ basement; that would lead to questions for which she has no answers. At least not yet. She thought of calling her parents, and didn’t. There will be time to talk to them later. For now, let them have their anniversary dinner.

There’s a horrified murmur from the crowd of residents across the street as two bodies, bagged and on stretchers, are carried out. Another county truck comes slowly down Ridge Road and parks in the middle of the street to receive them.

Barbara’s phone rings. It’s Jerome. She sits down on the grass to take the call. She can cry. With Jerome that’s okay.