AFTER HALF AN hour at the Infant Incubators, Pin refused to stay any longer.

“It’s all ladies and babies. C’mon, let’s try the Witching Waves.” Henry ignored her, still gazing at the little girls whose dresses and hair ribbons drooped in the heat.

“Men don’t come here,” she said. “Except for you.”

She stalked off toward the Witching Waves. The way he stared at those kids, much younger than the girl from Hell Gate, only five or six years old…

Her irritation edged into unease. Yesterday, she’d seen Henry after the girl went into the dark ride. She’d dozed off and, when she woke, witnessed the man with the boater leave the ride without the girl. She’d spent about ten minutes searching the Pike for a sign of the girl before returning to Hell Gate. That was when Henry had signaled her. What had he been wearing?

The same clothes as now, she thought. But what had the other man worn? A suit, maybe seersucker, maybe not. But what if she was wrong? What if his clothes were the same as Henry’s? The man had worn a bow tie, she knew that. Henry had worn one, too, she remembered, because it was so dirty.

And they both wore boater hats—that was the only thing she knew for sure. She squeezed her eyes shut in frustration. Why was it so hard to remember something that happened only a day ago? Why hadn’t she paid more attention then? It was like every time she told someone what had happened, or thought about it, the image in her mind changed. All she could be sure of was the boater hat.

And the killer was a man; she knew that. And that meant any man could be a murderer.

She opened her eyes and saw men everywhere, drunk or shouting, laughing as they pulled women around: onto the roller coasters, where the women would scream and cling to them; into the House of a Thousand Troubles, where fans would blow up the women’s skirts so you could see their drawers; onto the Witching Waves, where men and women would be thrown against each other and the men could grab their breasts, pretending it was a mistake. Her breath came too fast, she fought the urge to run—but run where? Nothing was safe, nothing was safe, it was the only thing she knew was true.

The sun was a hot skillet pressed against her face. She wiped her forehead, glanced back to see Henry twenty or so feet behind her. The instant he saw she’d noticed him, he looked away. It couldn’t be him, she thought, why would he have signaled her if he’d been the one who killed the girl? He’d really be a moron to do that.