Then she followed the sounds up to the next floor. Steps veered to the right, bringing her out opposite a room at the back of the house that overlooked the garden. She was possibly only feet away from where Eadie might be sleeping, and the thought drew her on, across the landing and through the glossy white door.

An animal mobile swung above the empty crib, and there were pastel walls and a rocking chair stuffed with pink-and-white gingham cushions. It could have been her own nursery—the lullaby, the decorations, her baby sleeping soundly—only she knew it wasn’t, because she would never place the crib beside an open window.

And there wasn’t any piano music, she realized; it was in her imagination, her subconscious weaving the lullaby into the present.

As she headed back onto the landing and toward the second door, she believed she could feel Eadie close by. Her heart hammered in her chest; she promised her mother’s God that she would forgive her if Eadie was here, safe and well.

A boy of about five lay asleep on top of a single bed, the curtains drawn and the room in semi-darkness. She tiptoed out and along the hallway until she was outside the only other bedroom.

Her fingers pushed lightly, and the door creaked inward.

Two small hands poked through the bars of the cot, and a toddler with a pacifier in his mouth pulled himself up to standing and stared at her with flat brown eyes. Then he grasped hold of the guardrail and shook it hard as he tried to cry.

Alice quickly brought a finger up to her lips. “Shush.” Then she whispered Brahms’s “Lullaby.” “Good evening, good night, with roses covered, with cloves adorned—” He stopped his rattling and sat down in the corner of the crib. She waited a few moments for him to settle before she retraced her footsteps downstairs.

The rooms were neat and clean: no filthy clothes, no festering lice or maggots, but no sign of Eadie either.

She leaned against the wall, weak and trembling with disappointment, about to sink to the floor when she noticed three silhouettes through the sheer dining-room curtains. They were standing in the garden: two men and a woman, her back to Alice—her hand resting on a baby carriage handle.

Alice’s heart thudded, and anticipation rippled through her as she crept soundlessly along the hallway, then stopped at the threshold to steady herself; she would only have one chance at this.