There was an insane conversation going on inside Rose’s head. I knew it, said a part of her. But a dream is only a dream, said another part.

A dream is not necessarily a dream, said a third.

Rose’s toes began to ache. Her toes were her weakness, having been bruised, cracked, lacerated and stunted by toe shoes before Muriel introduced her to modern dance. They hurt in the cold, and they looked ugly. “Monkey toes,” Jerram once called them. “Little stubby things like a fringe on the end of your foot.”

Suddenly Jerram burst out of the kitchen door, signaling frantically.

I told you so, said her doomsday brain.

She forced her cold toes to walk. Jerram held the door open, saying nothing, only his eyes sparking a hint of excitement.

The kitchen smelled of baking and chocolate. Barney was already stirring the requisite cup of tea Mom always offered. But as Rose came in, it seemed as if everything paused. Barney’s spoon stopped stirring. Mom’s hand was poised over the box of Sweet ’n Low. Jerram was at the door, frozen in midturn, his hand on the knob.

Then they all began moving. The spoon clattered against the saucer. Mom shoved the box into the cupboard. Jerram slammed the door.

“There’s been another one,” Barney said eagerly to Rose.

“Another what?”

“Murder, of course.”

“We don’t know that yet,” Mom said testily. “Only that she’s disappeared.”

Barney shook her head gloomily. “What else could it be?”

“There could be a completely different explanation. We might all be jumping to conclusions.”

“A serial killer, that’s what it is,” Barney pronounced.

“What kind? Cornflakes? Cheerios? Granola Crunch?” Jerram quipped.

Barney was annoyed at such levity when she was trying so hard to keep the atmosphere somber. “Mark my words,” she intoned.

“We’ve never had any trouble like this before,” Mom said. “I can’t believe this could happen a second time.”

“Why should Bethboro be exempt from violence?” Jerram asked.

“That kind of talk does no good,” Mom said. “This is a nice town, with nice people in it.”

“Okay, Mom, okay.”

“Who was … is it?” Rose asked.

“One of Nancy’s friends,” Barney said, and Rose felt her heart thud. Nancy would be worried about her friend, would want somebody to help.

“A girl from Beacon Street,” Mom put in. “And to think you and Grace just walked there yesterday, on your way to the mall.”

There was silence for a moment as each of them thought their own thoughts.

“Of course, they think it might be suicide,” Barney offered, as if she realized nobody wanted to go on talking about murder. Everybody looked at her as she took a sip of tea, savoring the moment. “Depression, you know?” she said in a low voice as if it were something immoral. “They think she was depressed over Nancy’s death.

They say kids do copycat things like that.”