Ilse frowned. “What type of farm?”

“There was a rusty, bent weather vane of a rooster on the shack… But the type of farm? I—I don’t know… Is that bad?”

“No. You’re doing wonderfully. All right, so you saw an old shack. A farm. Do you remember what color the barn was?”

“Red—I think… Or, well, maybe… No, I think I’m making that up. I don’t remember the color. It was old, though. Very worn out. I do remember that. Because I remember thinking about my Uncle Sal’s place in California. How he’d been forced to renovate the whole thing. Cost him nearly as much as a new house.”

“An old, worn down barn, then?”

“Yes!” More excitement and a louder crunching sound, suggesting Samantha had picked up the pace of her nighttime stroll.

Ilse felt a shiver. The voice on the radio announcing the second murder had confirmed Ilse’s suspicions that a serial killer was on the loose. Samantha suspected her own captor was coming after her again.

“You’re outside?” Ilse said.

“Yes, Dr. Beck. Don’t worry, it’s just the bike path behind my house. Look—I was thinking about the farm. I… I think maybe I’d recognize it if I saw it again.”

Ilse felt her pulse quicken as more mist rolled in over the old, gray lake and through the dark, looming trees. She could hear Samantha’s labored breathing. Could hear the sound of her brisk walking.

For a moment, Ilse wondered at her own boogeyman. Who had sent that postcard? Her father? Very possibly. If so, how had he found her?

No, not her father. Dr. Mitchell. Yes. Must have been. He was a clever man, very clever. She wouldn’t have put it past him, from their conversations, to have put it together. Ilse didn’t have an accent anymore. She hadn’t gone by Hilda Mueller in more than twenty years. But she was sure there were hints. Psychological tells and tips that Mitchell could have put together over the last fifteen years of knowing her. He’d trained her.

Yes. It must have been Mitchell. A tasteless way for him to reveal his discovery. Then again, he wouldn’t have known about the surfacing memories. About the pigeon in the cage. The scissors in her father’s hand. Those horrible mismatched eyes.

Ilse shivered, her fingers pressing hard to the phone, holding it to her cheek. Her eyes fixed on the lake through the patio windows.

“Where are you?” Ilse said, suddenly. “You know to stay away from Dubuque Road, right?”

“I… Wait, what? Why?”

Ilse felt a flicker of fear. “You’re not near there, are you?”

Samantha swallowed on the other end. The sound of footsteps faltered for a moment. There was only quiet, and then, “I live near there. My house is at the foot of the mountain, right next to Dubuque Road. Why, Dr. Beck?”

Ilse felt a flicker of worry. “How far did you read those articles, Sam?”

“Just the first paragraph. Like you said!”

“Sam, listen to me. You shouldn’t be out and about now. Not there. That’s where the killer has been—”