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The crowd at the Bear was thinning out, and Dave Evans had gone home for the night. A woman was dancing close by her male partner in the center of the floor, swaying in time to music I did not recognize. The man tried to pull the woman closer, but she slipped from his grasp. She wasn’t dancing for him, only herself.

Sabine Drew had not asked me anything more about Jennifer, my dead daughter. Neither had I spoken to her of the others I had seen—Jennifer’s mother, or some semblance of her, among them. It was enough for Drew that I had revealed myself to her. The rest was inconsequential.

“I wonder why they still come to you” was all she said. “I expect you’ll find out, when the time is right.”

“I may have to die for that.”

“Then the revelation could be some way off, since you strike me as remarkably difficult to kill.”

“You make it sound like a character flaw.”

“I don’t doubt there are some people who might see it that way.”

“More than I’d prefer.”

“Although you have reduced their number somewhat over the years.”

“There you go again,” I said, “speaking your mind.”

“Consider it one of my character flaws.” She moved on. “He cries so much—Henry, I mean. I get annoyed at him sometimes, but it’s not his fault. He’s hardly more than a baby, and doesn’t understand what’s happening to him. He stops only when I sing. That helps to quiet him. I imagine his mother sang to him. You might ask her, should the opportunity arise. I don’t know many songs for children, and it feels inappropriate to lull him with murder ballads. If I knew what he liked to hear, I could add it to my repertoire.”

“And you’re convinced he’s in Gretton?”

“Or somewhere nearby,” she said. “I can’t be more specific. It’s like putting an ear too close to the speaker on a radio: the music turns to noise and becomes unidentifiable. But I haven’t ventured past the town line.”

“Why is that?”

“Because I’m frightened. He isn’t alone in there. There’s someone, or something, with him. I think it’s feeding on Henry, victualing on his pain and confusion. It’s taking its time with him.”

I tried to process what I was hearing.

“Are you talking about an animal?”

“No, not an animal, and not even a human being with an animal’s nature. I can’t tell you precisely what it is, because I’m not sure Henry knows. It’s completely black where he’s being kept. He can’t see, only feel, so he may be underground: buried, perhaps. That’s the reason it’s taken me so long to come forward, and why I chose to approach you and not the police. You see, I think this presence is familiar. I’ve encountered it before.”

“When?” I asked.

“When I failed to find Edie Brook.”