guides, a newsprint picture of Pavlova, her acceptance letter from the Royal Ballet School; a pretty nice pencil drawing of a young dancer, with to katy, 21/03/03. happy birthday! love, daddy scribbled on the corner of the pasteboard mount.

The white pajamas Katy had worn on Monday night were tangled on her bed. We bagged them just in case, along with the sheets and her mobile phone, which was on her bedside table, switched off. She hadn’t kept a diary—“She started one awhile ago, but after a couple of months she got bored and ‘lost’ it,” Rosalind said, putting the word in quotation marks and giving me a small, sad, knowing smile, “and she never bothered to start another”—but we took school copybooks, an old homework diary, anything whose scribbles might give us some hint. Each of the girls had a tiny faux wood desk, and on Katy’s there was a little round tin holding a jumble of hair elastics; I recognized, with a small sudden pang, two silk cornflowers. In the Woods 53

. . .

“Phew,” said Cassie, when we got out of the estate onto the road. She rubbed her hands through her hair, messing up her curls.

“I’ve seen that name somewhere, not too long ago,” I said. “Jonathan Devlin. As soon as we get back, let’s run him through the computer and see if he’s got a record.”

“God, I almost hope it turns out to be that simple,” Cassie said. “There is something deeply, deeply fucked up in that house.”

I was glad—relieved, actually—that she had said it. I’d found a number of things about the Devlins disturbing—Jonathan and Margaret hadn’t touched once, had barely looked at each other; where you would expect a bustle of curious, comforting neighbors, there had been nobody but shadowy Auntie Vera; each member of the household appeared to come from a completely different planet—but I was so edgy that I wasn’t sure I could trust my own judgment, so it was good to know Cassie had felt something off kilter, too. It wasn’t that I was having a breakdown or losing my mind or anything, I knew I would be fine once I got a chance to go home and sit down by myself and take all this in; but that first glimpse of Jessica had practically given me a heart attack, and the realization that she was Katy’s twin hadn’t been as reassuring as you might think. This case was too full of skewed, slippery parallels, and I couldn’t shake the uneasy sense that they were somehow deliberate. Every coincidence felt like a sea-worn bottle slammed down on the sand at my feet, with my name engraved neatly on the glass and inside a message in some mockingly indecipherable code. When I first went to boarding school I told my dormmates I had a twin brother. My father was a good amateur photographer, and one Saturday that summer when he’d seen us trying out a new stunt on Peter’s bike—