Sure enough, footsteps grow louder on the stairs. I quickly eject the tape and pop it back in the case. I shove the cassette into one of her desk drawers seconds before Ethan pops his head into the office.

“There you are!”

I force a smile. “Here I am.”

He cocks his head to the side. “You weren’t nosing through her desk drawers, were you, Tricia?”

“No, I wasn’t,” I answer truthfully.

I hurry out of the office before he can try to figure out what I was doing. He is standing right outside, his hair still damp from the shower. I notice immediately that he isn’t wearing the dress shirt and slacks that he had on when we left the apartment. He’s wearing a pair of blue jeans bunched up at the ankles and a Yankees T-shirt.

“Where did those clothes come from?” I ask.

“Oh.” Ethan tugs at the collar of the Yankee shirt. “I found them in one of the drawers in the bedroom. I hung up my shirt and pants, and I’ll put them back on in the morning.”

The T-shirt and jeans didn’t belong to Adrienne Hale. They’re too big for Ethan even, and therefore, far too big for the psychiatrist’s petite frame. But they were in her drawer, so I’m guessing they belonged to her boyfriend. Luke.

“You might want to change before you go to bed too,” he suggests. “There are tons of sleep clothes in the other drawers.”

What’s worse—wearing the clothing of a dead woman or wearing the clothing of the man who killed her?

“That’s fine. I’ll just sleep in my bra and underwear.”

“Suit yourself. Do you want to come upstairs now?”

I look down at my watch. It’s getting late, and with the snow still coming down hard, we have little choice but to spend the night here. The idea of it creeps me out more than I thought it would. But we have to do this.

I can do this.

“Fine,” I say. “Let’s go upstairs.”

I cling to the banister as I follow Ethan up to the second floor like he’s leading me to my execution. It’s so dark outside the window that even with the lights on, the stairwell and hallways are still dark. Probably if someone changed all the bulbs, that would be a comfortable level of brightness. But we’re not going to do that now. We’re lucky there’s any light here at all.

I continue following Ethan down the hall, but I stop short when he leads me to the master bedroom. “What are you doing?”

He turns and frowns at me. “What? What’s wrong?”

“I’m not sleeping in that bedroom.”

“Why not?

“Because that dead psychiatrist slept there!”