Nobody mentioned Nancy Emerson in class; they talked about the Christmas recital in which Rose had a solo. She loved performing and got a rush onstage, feeling the audience reacting. But the Muriel Westa School of Dance recitals could be as corny as Mrs. Drury’s, with the younger kids doing the “Waltz of the Flowers,” clutching hoops of wax roses, and the tap students hoofing to “Broadway Melody,” sounding like a herd of buffalo.

Rose walked home after class. Their house was on the ridge, not far from town. The evening had the sort of electric crackle that made her feel the world was full of possibilities and she could try them all. She allowed herself a small regret for the conversation with Daniel that afternoon, for being snappy and self-involved, as if Nancy’s disappearance were some personal problem. A missed opportunity to have an intelligent discussion with him. She was good at missing opportunities like that.

I’m backward, she thought. Maybe from growing up so close to Jerram. Her crushes on boys had always been long-distance. She’d never had to participate in liking someone. With Jerram, it was as easy as liking herself, a thing hardly noticed. With Daniel, it was like having to learn the lines of a play. So far, she wasn’t a very good actor. She’d tried to talk to Jerram about it once, thinking he could give her advice from the male side. But he hadn’t been helpful. He seemed annoyed with her questions and annoyed with the idea of Daniel, so she gave up.

Her mother was standing in the driveway, looking down the hill.

“Rosecleer!” She called in her no-nonsense voice, but it sounded shaky. “Didn’t you get my message?”

“What message?”

She turned away in exasperation, marched up to the house and held the door. When Rose was inside, she shut it firmly and turned the double lock. She looked hot and flustered.

“Muriel Westa needs her head examined! I specifically told her to make sure you got a ride with Mary Jo’s mother.”

“But I always walk.”

“I don’t want you walking after dark anymore.”

“Oh, Mom!” Rose was going to say how silly it was, when she realized that five days ago Nancy would have said the same thing. Nancy would have laughed at her mother insisting she get a ride home. “Come on,” she would have said, “what could possibly happen?” And yet, what if Daniel was right and it had been someone Nancy knew? Then a ride home wouldn’t protect you at all.

“Sorry, Mom. But it’s like living under siege. I’m getting sick of it. Nobody talks about anything but Nancy Emerson.”

“I know. It’s awful to think there’s someone out there.” She went to the window and cupped her hand over the glass so she could see into the dark. “People can’t help being afraid of him.”