“Not school, then,” I said, and his smile stretched wider. Bram was enjoying this game. I had to keep it going. “Were we neighbors?”

“We were way more than that.”

A frisson shot up my backbone. In a way, the realization of what he was saying was worse than any I’d had so far. This psycho wasn’t just a random person from my hometown. We had history. Again I scrutinized his face and Bram watched me with amusement as I flipped through decades-old images in my brain. I rarely thought about my high school days, didn’t keep in touch with old friends. After I left for the city, I left Swanton behind.

When I took too long to speak again Bram said, “I’m hurt. You really don’t remember?”

“I’m sorry,” I said, swallowing a hot gob of bile.

His expression darkened as he leaned toward me. “That’s too bad, because you’re going to have to figure this out, Shay. Who I am. Why you’re here. Why I did what I did to those girls. It’s the only way to make me stop.”

I was backed into the corner, nowhere left to go. If Bram killed me, it wouldn’t just be my parents and brother who’d suffer. Bram would hurt others, too. He wanted something from me. Whatever relationship he thought we had, it was the key to everything. There was no guarantee I’d figure it out, but if I did, maybe I could stop him from taking more innocent lives.

Bram picked up the bottle and rolled it toward me. It wobbled as it crossed the floor, the water inside sloshing like waves, and came to rest by my foot.

And when it did, I took it.

TWENTY-SIX

I gave Tim only what he needed, but I didn’t spare the details. He listened silently while I talked. I swear he was holding his breath.

After I was found, I saw a video of my abduction. Footage from the security camera mounted behind the bar caught Bram as he dropped the Rohypnol in my beer with expert stealth, his pinkie peeling back quick as a wink while he diverted my attention to the drunk girls nearby. He couldn’t have wished for a better distraction. The bartender swore she’d never seen him in the pub before, or since. Every newspaper in the city splashed his picture on page one, but it was all too easy for Bram to change his look again and melt into the masses.

I told Tim about Bram’s stories, too. Each time he came to the cellar, Bram brought another memory to share. He didn’t have a white-picket childhood. Didn’t often get new things. As a kid, toys still sealed in plasticized boxes elicited nothing but panic. When he brought home a rare gift from a teacher or a birthday present from a friend, his mother yanked it from his small hands. She’d pry a tire off a Hot Wheels car. Twist an arm off his action figure. As she inflicted these flaws, she told him perfection was dangerous. It was his defects, Bram’s mother said, that would keep him safe.