It hadn’t occurred to me then that she might actually have called someone right after leaving the house. That she might have called someone who would need thirty minutes or more to get here.

Finally, around 2:45, there was a hard knock at the door.

“Down here!” I shouted.

Another knock.

“Hey!” I shouted. “In the basement!”

I thought I heard the door open, and then a voice, tentatively, called out, “Hello?”

I think, of all the people Trixie could have called, Sarah would definitely have been my last choice.

I went to say something but the words caught in my throat for a moment. I guess, for a fleeting instant, for nothing more than a millisecond, I must have thought I could keep Sarah from finding me handcuffed in Trixie’s basement only a few feet away from a dead guy strapped to a cross with his throat cut open. But it only took the briefest of moments to realize there was no way out for me that didn’t include immense dollops of shame and mortification.

“Sarah!” I shouted.

“Zack?” Sarah sounded scared. “Zack! Where are you?”

“Just listen to me first, okay? Okay? Just stop and listen!”

“Zack, what’s happened? Are you okay? Where are you?”

“Sarah, stop! Are you stopped?”

A pause from upstairs. “Okay, yes. I’m not moving. Zack, Trixie phoned. She told me to come out here, that something had happened and—”

“Sarah! Listen to me!”

“Okay.”

“First of all, I’m okay. I’m going to need your help, but before you come downstairs, I have to prepare you for what you’re going to see.”

“Oh my God. Don’t tell me you’re trapped in some sort of leather thing. You’ve been coming to Trixie, paying her to—”

“No, Sarah. Please just listen and don’t interrupt. I’m not hurt, but I am handcuffed to the stair railing and I need you to get the keys.”

Even from where I stood, I could hear her intake of breath upstairs.

“But Sarah, what I have to tell you is, I’m not exactly alone down here.” I took a breath of my own. “I’m down here in the midst of a…I’m in a crime scene, Sarah.”

“A crime scene.”

“A man has been killed, he’s been murdered, and I’m down here with his body.” I paused. “It’s very, very…bad.”

From Sarah, almost a whisper: “Who is it, Zack?”

“Martin Benson. The reporter from the Suburban. Somebody’s…oh man.”

“Tell me you’re okay.”

“I’m okay. Are you ready?”

Sarah paused a second before she said, “I’m ready.”

And then she appeared at the doorway at the top of the stairs, assessing my situation in a glance. She came down the steps slowly, and as she was able to see more of the room, she saw Benson at the far end of it.

“Dear God,” she said. She stayed on the last step, next to me, as if putting a foot on the floor would be an admission that what she was seeing was really true.