The wiring downstairs had never been completed. The floor had never been poured. The ceiling panels had never been put up. The walls were still rough, unpainted cinder blocks. Although there was one bulb above the stairwell and one at the base of it, Timothy grabbed a flashlight from the drawer just in case he needed the extra light.

He eased the door open and flicked the switch. Yellow, jaundiced light fell across him and washed faintly through the stairwell. His breathing was quick and tense as he took the steps one at a time deeper into The Place He Did Not Want To Go.

He wasn’t sure what to expect or what he might find, but even when he got to the base of the stairs and looked around, he saw nothing out of the ordinary—just piles of boxes, half a dozen crates of discarded books, a broken chair, an old table, and a dust-covered filing cabinet filled with notes of research for his novels.

Everything where it should be.

Nothing that didn’t belong.

Except.

There.

A shape in the far corner of the basement near the old furnace that had never worked since the day he moved in here.

He targeted the form with his flashlight.

A body. A woman. She was lying on her side facing the wall and wore the same clothes Julianne had been wearing last night when she was at the pier.

And so.

But what had happened after that, after their encounter by the docks?

You put her in the trunk, Timothy. You brought her back here.

“Miss Springman?” he said softly.

She didn’t move.

“Julianne.” Timothy edged closer. “Are you alright?”

The woman didn’t stir.

He approached her warily, then knelt beside her and rested a hand on her shoulder. Gently, he rolled her onto her back so he could see her face.

Oh yes. It was her.

And yes, she was dead. Her discolored skin left no doubt about that.

You did this, Timothy. You killed her.

“No, I wouldn’t have. She was going to help me. I would never have hurt her.”

And yet here she is. Now what are you going to do?

He couldn’t leave her down here. He couldn’t keep her here. He had to get rid of her.

“I’ll call the police. I’ll explain everything. I’ll tell them that someone left her here, that someone is trying to set me up.”

No one will believe that. Not with your history of mental illness. You’ve been violent in the past. You can’t tell anyone. If the police find out what you did here, they’ll send you to prison. Or back to the White Shirts Place. Lock you away there forever.

Even though Julianne appeared to most certainly be dead, Timothy felt for a pulse, then leaned close to see if she was breathing, just to be absolutely sure.

No response.