He called Detective Jackson again, this time leaving a detailed message with the address of the mapped star. The Philly cops would have to coordinate with the Camden police. Conor didn’t have time for any of that bullshit. If Louisa was here, he’d find her.

Then he got out of his car, opened the trunk for the tire iron, and headed toward the boarded-up brick row home halfway down the block. He paused, hiding behind a rusted Cadillac on blocks, and sized up the house. Bricks crumbled. Graffiti covered most of the surfaces.

Tire iron in hand, Conor crept toward the side of the house. Like all the others, the side window was boarded up.

Sweat trickled down his back, and his heart thudded, loud as a bass line. But now was his chance to check inside. Moving toward the rear of the building, he climbed the cracked cement stoop and checked the door. Unlocked. He pulled it open. The inside was beyond dark. No moonlight penetrated the boarded-up windows. He stepped to the side and listened, easing the door closed behind him. The inside of the house was dead silent. He didn’t even hear any rats or insects rustling around.

He gave his eyes and ears a few minutes to adjust, but he still couldn’t see six inches in front of his face. There was zero light for his desperate pupils to absorb. Conor pulled his phone out of his pocket, held it an arm’s length away, and turned on the screen. Nothing attacked him. He let out his breath. He brightened the display and swept it around the space. More graffiti tags decorated the walls. Trash, a rotted mattress, and bottles littered the floor. The odors of feces and urine burned his nostrils. He shined his phone at the floor. Something had been dragged through the dirt. Stepping around a scattering of used needles, Conor followed the path to a doorway. Stairs descended into the black cellar.

He turned up his phone’s brightness to maximum and started down the steps.

Pain lanced behind Louisa’s eyeballs and swelled in her temples, radiating downward through most of her body. She cracked an eyelid to total darkness. Judging from the hard coldness seeping through her clothes, she was lying on cement. A basement? Curled on her side, she wriggled, but she could barely move. Her hands and feet were bound and fastened to something solid behind her back. She tried to open her mouth but couldn’t. She moved her lips. Something sticky tore at her skin. Tape.

Where was she? What had happened?

As she lay still, a memory pushed past the agony in her head. The museum. She’d gotten into the town car and . . .

The memory—and all its associated betrayal—clarified in her mind.