I WASHED MOLLY'S HAIR AND LET HER SOAK IN A WARM, BUBBLY WASHED MOLLY'S HAIR AND LET HER SOAK IN A WARM, BUBBLY tub. When I came out, Nick was putting water up for pasta. I offered to help cook, got turned down. He handed me a gla.s.s of wine and told me to sit. I sat and leaned against the island, relaxed and a little dreamy tub. When I came out, Nick was putting water up for pasta. I offered to help cook, got turned down. He handed me a gla.s.s of wine and told me to sit. I sat and leaned against the island, relaxed and a little dreamy "Can we talk about what happened with Charlie?" Nick gulped some wine.

The question startled me. At the mention of Charlie, my chest tightened, banishing whatever relaxation I'd felt. I didn't want to talk about Charlie, didn't want to remember why we'd come to the cabin or what had happened back home. "You saw my statement to the police. What else is there to say?"

"Details. Like what he talked about just before he died. Was he rational?" Nick sounded like a cop now. His shoulders rolled as he turned a pan, spreading olive oil.

My head began to throb. "He said he was there to protect us."

The shoulders stopped rolling, held stock still. "Protect you. From what?"

Near the pantry, Charlie raised a finger to his lips, hushing me, but I went on. "From evil. I a.s.sumed he meant the nanny killer."

"And Charlie was going to keep you safe." His shoulders relaxed. He reached for a paring knife. "By stalking you."

"By watching us. Guarding us. He said he knew the killer and that I'd let him get too close, but he'd keep Molly and me safe."

Nick lifted an eyebrow. "But he never said who the killer was?" "No."

Nick gathered vegetables from the refrigerator and set them on the counter. Releasing a long sigh, he swallowed more wine and stared intensely at an eggplant. Neither of us spoke. The conversation felt strained and uneven. I felt awkward and self-conscious, not clear on our ground rules. Were we cop and witness? Detective and consultant? Former jilter and jiltee? What? I wanted to change the subject, re-create the lightness we'd shared outside. Nick had other ideas.

"I talked to Beverly about him."

Oh. I'd almost forgotten about Beverly. The captivating Dr. Gardener. As long as we were chatting, I should ask about their "deal." "And?"

"And she had some interesting comments."

He wanted me to ask. But I didn't. I wouldn't.

Nick leaned against the counter, crossing his arms in a casual, professorial pose, knife in hand. About to deliver a lecture? A knife as his pointer? "She said that paranoid delusions like Charlie's can be insidious-so detailed and vivid that even psychiatrists sometimes buy into them."

"So?"

"So you might find yourself believing what Charlie said. Even small parts of it. And if you do, you need to sort it out."

I didn't understand. He didn't make sense. Was he implying that by listening to Charlie I'd become delusional? That Charlie's madness was contagious? That I'd caught it?

"Beverly says Charlie's delusions must have begun way before the nannies began to disappear," he went on, "and that the person he was guarding you from was none other than himself- that is, part of himself."

"What?"

"Charlie divided himself into 'good' and 'bad' parts. His good part didn't like the bad, so he blocked it out and gave his bad self a separate ident.i.ty. In other words, he created an evil alter ego out of his own dark side."

"And that's who was reading his thoughts? His alter ego?"

"Exactly. The evil murderer who wired his dreams and listened in on his thoughts was really himself. His own other half."

"Beverly Gardener said all this?"

"She's very smart."

"And she knew so much about Charlie because-"

"Because of the police investigation. And what you said in your response to her profile report." His words merged, became a steady flow of senseless syllables. Beverly Gardener was apparently Nick's ultimate authority on everything, but I wasn't sure she was as smart as he thought. How could she claim to know so much about a man she'd never met? Her explanation was all theory, a bunch of impressive psychological terms thrown together to sound good, nothing to do with the real Charlie. Nick spoke slowly, as if doubting that I could follow him. My fingers were ice. Coming close, he put his hands over them and squeezed, pressing warmth into my skin.

"The victims were ordinary women. But Beverly's convinced that to Charlie they were subst.i.tutes for another woman who's anything but ordinary. A woman who was very special to him. A woman he watched tirelessly from afar and was fascinated with to the point of obsession. Zoe Hayes."

Me? Charlie was obsessed with me? The idea was unfathomable. Behind Nick, in the shadows, Charlie harrumphed indignantly as Nick's voice sailed past me, full speed ahead, skimming the surface, not sinking in. I sat still, aware of the meaty warmth of his hands.

He kept talking. I heard him repeat Beverly Gardener's name, recite her comments point by point. Did he memorize everything she said? Ask him, I thought. Go ahead. But I didn't ask, didn't want to hear his answer.

"Nick, if it's okay-can we not talk about this anymore?"

"Sure. It's a lot to digest all at once." He released my hands and went back to his vegetables. Chop, chop. Dice, slice. Another swig of wine. He lopped the florets off broccoli. I listened to the blade hit the wood, heard the screaming of mushrooms, the rending of veggie flesh. Veggie flesh? Oh please, I told myself. Not every situation is one of culprit and victim. I needed to let go of my pervasive sense of danger.

"I can understand why you don't want to talk about him," Nick said. "But you're safe now. Charlie won't be bothering you anymore."

Except that he was, even at that moment, bothering me. Making faces at Nick's knife, mocking his chopping motions. Nick's knife twinkled, dripped tomato seeds onto the floor.

Finally, he stopped cutting. "Okay, enough. You're right. We should put all of this aside."

Put it aside? Where? On the counter beside the bread?

"You look pensive. Is there something else, honey?"

Honey? I took a breath. Swallowed. Nick liked me. He wasn't just being a cop; he'd called me "honey." It was odd, alien. Paternalistic? Maybe, but still nice, sort of. What was going through honey's mind? Images, not words. Images of Nick's buns as he prepared dinner. Did I want to talk about them? Uh-uh. Images of Beverly Gardener with her glossed lips and implant-enhanced b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Images of a lopped-off, polished pinkie. And images of Charlie. Charlie on his porch, on my steps, in his Pontiac. I could almost hear his hoa.r.s.e cough.

Okay, I'd tell him. "Charlie was sick," I said, "but Charlie didn't kill anyone. He couldn't have. He was harmless."

Nick hesitated, taking in the comment. "What makes you so sure?"

"I just know."

"Well, there's a lot of physical evidence that disagrees with you. Body parts were found in his d.a.m.n bas.e.m.e.nt, Zoe." "I know."

"So how can you be sure that he's innocent?" "Charlie wasn't a killer."

"Not the side of him he showed the world. That side didn't seem like a murderer. If it had, he'd never have gotten close to the victims. But who'd suspect an old handyman with arthritic knees? No one. That's exactly why the nannies didn't run off while they could."

I wasn't convinced. "Charlie didn't have the physical strength to overpower all those healthy young women."

"No, but he didn't need it. He was the handyman. When a babysitter let him in to do repairs, he'd pull a knife on her, or some other weapon, and she'd go with him without a struggle. Or he'd walk up to a sitter in the park and shove a weapon into her back. No one even noticed him. He was nonthreatening. Inconspicuous. An old man. What a perfect disguise."

What had Charlie said? "Looking normal would be the best disguise of all." Something like that. Had he been warning me against himself? The thought gave me goose b.u.mps.

"Beverly agrees. She says that, as a paranoid schizophrenic, Charlie could fit the profile despite his age." Nick seemed sure.

"So. You're not looking for anyone else?"

"The case is closed, Zoe. Relax. It's done." He resumed cooking. Bits of garlic cloves, cherry peppers, and anchovies lined his butcher block. The windows had darkened; ice crusted their corners. We'd emptied our bottle of wine, opened another. Aromas of spices and warm bread swelled around us. We were almost getting comfortable being together, settling in, but I couldn't let go. I simply could not believe that the killer was Charlie. Did Nick really believe it? Or was he lying again, hiding the truth, withholding privileged information? Stop it, I told myself. Nick hadn't necessarily lied. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe Charlie had been a serial killer. But doubts still nagged at me. "Charlie said the killer used his tools."

Nick pushed chopped veggies into bowls. "Zoe. Forget what Charlie told you. He'd divided himself into two, remember? He talked about the killer as if it was someone else."

"But why nannies? If, as Beverly said, the women represented me, why did he kill younger women? And why nannies? Why not mothers?"

I thought of answers as soon as I asked the questions. To Charlie, I was a young woman. And I wasn't a typical mother; I'd adopted Molly. Didn't that make me sort of a permanent nanny? One of the victims had been an adoptive mother like me. If I'd been the person he modeled victims after-no, that idea was absurd. Wasn't it?

Still, I expected Nick to give me a glib answer. Some easy explanation that would banish my doubts. But Nick didn't say a word. Instead, he lapsed into silence. He stood rapt, back rigid, legs apart, arms folded across his chest. Why? What was he thinking about? Charlie? Whether to reveal another secret? How long to simmer his sauce?

"What's going on?" I asked.

He shook his head. "Sorry. Just thinking."

About what? He didn't say. He stood silently, staring out the window at darkness.

"Smell my hair, Mommy." Molly joined us, wrapped in an oversized towel.

I did. It smelled clean and sweet, like vanilla. We went to the guest room to put on her pajamas, stopping every three seconds so she could wiggle her tooth.

"Do you think it'll come out tonight?"

"Maybe. Maybe a few more days."

"Because the Tooth Fairy doesn't know where we are."

"I told you. Don't worry. The Tooth Fairy knows. Finding kids is part of the job."

"It's you, isn't it?"

"How can you even think that?" I dodged, avoiding the truth. Avoiding a lie.

"Mommy, come on. Tell me-"

I kissed her vanilla head. "Let's go see Nick."

"Mommy-" She stuck to my side, asking.

In the kitchen, Nick was finishing a phone call. Hanging up, he forced a smile. "Hungry?" he asked.

"Thtarved," Molly answered while wiggling her tooth.

"Good. Spaghetti's my specialty."

I heard sizzling, smelled garlic frying. Nick's shirt rippled over his back as he sprinkled diced peppers, anchovies, and tomatoes over broccoli, peppers, capers, olives, mushrooms, and eggplant chunks in the skillet. Occasional odd pieces toppled off the butcher block onto the floor. I took note of the deftness of Nick's fingers, the decisiveness of his hands, the inability of onions to defend themselves. The force of his slices.

Molly chattered and Nick cooked. Eventually, fighting a headache, I left them at the stove to discuss herbs and spices. I sat by the fire, watching flames curl and lick their helpless prey.

FORTY-NINE.

"COME AND EAT, MOMMY. DINNER'S READY DINNER'S READY."

Nick and Molly did all the work. They didn't let me fold a napkin or set a fork. Nick seated me at the table and set before me a plate of steaming linguini in a thick, chunky vegetable sauce. Molly brought a basket of fresh bread; Nick poured wine and milk. Then he lit the candles, spreading fire from match to wick, evenly, easily, until his skin and his eyes glowed with yellow flame.

And after dinner, ashamed and appreciative, lulled by wine and a full belly, I let myself fall again for Nick. I put aside old differences; they didn't matter anymore. For the last twenty-four hours, Nick had been entirely devoted to me and my daughter. He'd done his best to antic.i.p.ate our reactions and address our needs. If his intentions were unclear, they were also irrelevant; for the moment, it was enough just to be there with him. To be away from the city. To dwell in Nick's s.p.a.ce. Here, the air was crisp and fresh, the moon a bright half melon. No sirens blaring, no psychopaths looming. I was in a rustic farmhouse beside a strong man who not only cooked but even read bedtime stories to my daughter and helped me tuck her into bed.

But then, once Molly was in bed, Nick and I were alone. Without Molly around, I felt awkward, uncertain how to behave. Nick stoked the fire, added a log and turned to me with his crooked half smile.

"Thanks for today," I said.

"Are you tired?" he asked at the same moment.

We both stopped, waited a beat, and began again. Again, we both talked at once, both stopped, both apologized at the same moment. Finally, we both laughed.

"Seriously, Nick," I managed. "This day has been medicine."

"It's been good to have you here," he said.

We stood facing each other, grinning stupidly, as seconds ticked by. Say good night, I thought. Say good night, step into the guest room beside Molly's, and shut the door. But I didn't. I stood outside Molly's door, gawky and silent, wishing Nick would reach out for me. Wanting him to. Wondering if he wanted to. If he would.

Do something, I told myself. But I did nothing. I stood silent, idiotic.

Finally, Nick took a step, closing the s.p.a.ce between us. He put an arm around me, and I reached out and touched his face. My fingers traced the scar his wife had left. He stiffened momentarily; a painful glint shot through his eyes.

"Sorry." I took my hand away. I hadn't wanted to hurt him, hadn't planned the touch.

"No, no need. I'm just numb in spots, can't feel anything. The bullet ripped through nerves that never healed."

He led me to the main room, to sit by the fire. Slowly, he took my hand and brought it back to his face. He held it there for a moment.

"I don't talk about that much." He forced a half smile.

"It's okay. You don't have to." I already knew what had happened. And that he didn't talk about it.

He let go of my hand. His eyes reflected the fire. "I told her a hundred times that I was leaving. A thousand. I guess I'd told her so often, she didn't believe I'd ever really go. So when she saw me packing my stuff, Annie-my wife-she . . . she made a bad decision. Didn't think it through." He paused, thinking. "When she shot herself, she must have thought I was dead. I d.a.m.ned near was."

"I'm sorry." It was all I could think of to say.

Nick nodded. "I don't remember the last time I talked about it. Fact is, I'm not sure why I'm talking about it now. I mean, it was a long time ago. Not something to dwell on anymore. At least, not now. Not tonight. Not while I'm with you."

Nick leaned my way, and his shoulders towered above me. His arms enclosed me and held on. And there, by the crackling fire, I looked into Nick's blue eyes and watched the tides rise, the moon fall, the blue skies open and swallow us whole. I felt myself spin, spiraling dizzily past nannies and body parts, past Charlie's Pontiac and his exploding head until, limbs interlocking, flesh melting, I landed in strong arms that reached out, caught me, and carried me up the stairs.