Dyson turned down a steep hill. Each house here was lower than the one before it, so the roofs formed a black saw-blade pattern against the darkening sky. Francis Carter—or David Parker—was renting a one-bedroom apartment in the basement of a large shared house. Did that fit? It worked for her in some ways, but not in others. If Parker was their man, he would certainly want his own place for privacy. But at the same time, could he really have kept a child here for two months without anyone seeing or hearing? Or had Neil been kept elsewhere?

The car slowed.

You’re about to find out.

Dyson parked under a streetlight that seemed to bleach the world of color, and they both got out of the car. The house was four stories high and seemed squeezed in by the properties beside it. No lights on at the front. There was a low brick wall with a rusted iron gate, which Amanda opened quietly before stepping onto the path. To her left was a messy garden, too small and wretched to have been tended by anyone, and then steep steps led up to the front door. But just past the garden, a second set of steps led down below ground level into an area barely wide enough for a single person to stand. From the top, Amanda could see a front window. The door to Parker’s apartment was presumably directly underneath the main door above, obscured from view right now.

She led the way down, the garden rising up to her left, replaced by the brick wall containing it, and the air was much colder here. It felt like descending into a grave. The window was a dirty square of black, with cobwebs in the corners. Parker’s front door was barely visible in the shadows.

She knocked hard and called out.

“Mr. Parker? David Parker?”

No reply.

She gave it a few seconds more, then knocked again.

“David?” she said. “Are you in there?”

Again she was met by nothing but silence. Beside her, Dyson had his hands over his eyes, staring in through the window as best he could.

“Can’t see a thing.” He leaned away. “What do we do now?”

Amanda tried the door handle—and was almost surprised when it turned with a creak. The door opened slightly. Immediately the thick, heavy stink of mold wafted out from the apartment.

“Not safe, that, in this neighborhood,” Dyson said.

Because he wasn’t close enough to smell what she could. Not safe at all, she thought, but perhaps not in the way he was meaning. The room within was pitch-black, and the tingling sensation in her stomach was stronger than ever. It was telling her that something dangerous was waiting in there.

“Stay alert,” she told Dyson.

Then she pulled out a flashlight and stepped carefully inside, one coat sleeve held protectively over her nose and mouth, the other playing the beam slowly over the room before her. The air was so dusty that it looked like sand was swirling in the light. She moved the beam around and caught flashes of detritus: tattered gray furniture; tangles of old clothes strewn on the wiry carpet; paperwork scattered on the surface of a rickety wooden table. The walls and ceiling were mottled with damp. There was a kitchen area along the wall to the right, and as she ran the light steadily along the filthy plates and bowls there, she saw things moving, casting oversized shadows as they scuttled away out of sight.

“Francis?” she called.

But it was obvious that nobody lived here anymore. The place had been abandoned. Someone had walked out of here, closed the front door without bothering to lock it behind them, and never returned. She clicked the light switch beside her up and down. Nothing. The rent had been paid a year in advance, but apparently not the utilities.

Dyson stopped beside her.

“Jesus.”

“Wait here,” she said.

Then she stepped gingerly through the debris scattered around the room. There were two doors at the back. She opened one and found the bathroom, moving the flashlight back and forth and resisting the urge to gag. It stank far worse in here than it did in the living room. The sink at the far end was half full of dank water, with sodden towels lying knotted on the floor, their surfaces speckled with rot.

She closed the door and moved over to the second. This one had to lead to the bedroom. Bracing herself for what she might find, she turned the handle, pushed it open, and shone the flashlight inside.

“Anything?”

She ignored the question and stepped carefully over the threshold.

There was dust in the air here too, but it was clear that this room had not been neglected and uncared-for like the rest of the property. The carpet was soft, and looked newer than the rest of the furnishings. While there was no furniture in here, she could see imprints in the carpet where items had rested: a large flattened rectangle formed under what might have been a chest of drawers; a single square that she could only guess at; four small squares spaced out far enough that they might have been a long table against one wall. The latter were deep too—the table must have had something heavy stored on top of it.

No obvious marks from a bed, though.

But then she noticed something, and quickly moved the flashlight back to the far wall. She could tell that it had been painted more recently than the rest of the apartment, but it had also been amended. Around the base, someone had added careful drawings. Blades of grass seemed to grow out of the floor, with simple flowers dotted here and there and bees and butterflies hovering above.

She remembered the photographs she’d seen of the inside of Frank Carter’s extension.

Oh, God.

Slowly, she moved the beam upward.

Close to the ceiling, an angry sun stared back at her with black eyes.

Forty-nine

Your daddy liked these books when he was younger.

Pete almost said that as he knelt down beside Jake’s bed and picked up the book. The light in the bedroom was so soft, and Jake looked so small, lying there beneath the blankets, that he was momentarily transported back to a different time. He remembered reading to Tom when he had been a little boy. The Diana Wynne Jones books had been one of his son’s favorites.

Power of Three. He couldn’t recall the contents, but the cover was immediately familiar, and his fingertips tingled as he touched it. It was a very old edition. The covers were frayed at the edges, and the spine was so worn that the title was lost in the string of creases. Was this the actual copy he himself had read so many years ago? It was, he thought. Tom had kept it and was now reading it to his own son. Not just a story passed down through time, from father to son, but the exact same pages containing it.

Pete felt a sense of wonder at that.

Your daddy liked these books when he was younger.

But he caught himself before saying it. Not only did Jake not know of Pete’s relationship to him, it was not Pete’s place to reveal it, and it never would be. That was fine. If he wanted to claim he had changed over the years and was no longer the terrible father from Tom’s worst memories, he could hardly lay claim to any of the better ones either.

If that man was gone, all of him had to be.

With a new man in his place.

“Well, then.”

The light in the room made his voice quiet and gentle.

“Where are we up to?”

* * *

Afterward, he sat downstairs in silence, the book he had brought untouched for the moment. The warmth he’d felt upstairs had carried down with him, and he wanted to absorb it for a while.