She scanned the various rows of stories, saying good-morning to the ghosts of Heather Wilson, Daniel McKellan, Rosie and Thad Simpkins, Billy Lawrence (who’d been only eleven months old when his mother decided the best way to stop him from crying was to hold a hot iron over his mouth until he stopped), Crystal and Emily Ransom, dozens and dozens more.

She made it a point to say good-morning to each of them every day.

Just to let them know that someone remembered, someone still mourned.

Then she saw the gaping, empty space halfway down the second wall.

Where all the clippings about Timothy Beals and his daughter Carol had been.

She walked slowly toward the empty space, staring at the torn and wadded clippings on the floor near the base of the wall.

The warmth of the coffee in her suddenly turned to ice as she remembered climbing up the side of the sculpture, holding Mr. Hands.

A seed of fear began to sprout within her—but not any form of adult fear, mortgage, the bills, rising crime and cost of living, no; what was inside her now was akin to childhood’s fear of the bogeyman lurking out there in the dark or waiting in the closet for when Mommy and Daddy shut the door and turned out the light because you just knew that’s when he was going to come creeping out of the closet and get you.

This feeling, this silly childhood fear, passed after a moment. Half-laughing, half-snarling at herself, she wiped her forehead and whispered, “Get a grip, kiddo.”

A loud knocking at the front door startled her, and she nearly dropped her coffee; as it was she managed to spill a lovely little blotch right at the area that covered her crotch.

“Dammit!” she snapped, then made her way to the door.

Staring through the peephole, she found herself looking at the shrunken, fish-eye-lense image of Detective Bill Emerson.

The childhood fear wafted through her yet again, whispering: You’re in trouble now.

She straightened her wet hair, adjusted her robe to make sure she was fully covered, then disengaged the locks and opened the door.

“Detective Emerson.”

“Miss Thompson,” he replied somewhat curtly. “I’m sorry to bother you at this hour but I need to ask you a few questions.”

Saying nothing, she stepped back and gestured for Emerson to come inside. Declining her offer of coffee (she could tell he smelled the Irish Creme on her breath and must have thought, It’s not even ten in the morning yet, for chrissakes!), the detective took a seat in the middle room and opened his notebook, then glanced up and saw the open door of the study. Trying to be as casual about it as possible, Lucy pulled the study door closed, hiding the Walls of Madness.

By now Emerson’s seemingly wandering attention had spotted the gun case and the impressive variety of firepower contained within.

“Yours?” he asked.

“All of that belonged to my ex-husband’s late father. He was a member of a Search-and-Destroy unit in Vietnam. Two tours. My ex inherited that when his father died, and when we divorced, Eric gave them to me—I guess he thought they didn’t convey the proper image for a new partner in a prominent financial consultancy firm. Stare all you want—none of those are loaded and I’ve all the legal paperwork and permits to own them.”