On the shelf above the towels, tucked behind some linens, was a Styrofoam human head, molded with female features and topped with a dark wig, coffee-brown hair cut shoulder-length with bangs. Phoebe touched it carefully and decided it was made from human hair. She knew a little about wigs as she had two friends who had gone through chemo; each had purchased a wig, one with synthetic hair, the other with human. This was the real deal. “Well, I’ll be . . .” Phoebe whispered. Next to the wig was a glasses case and inside a pair of owlish glasses, very much like the glasses she’d seen Sophia’s visitor wearing. The coffee-colored wig was the exact shade and length of that friend’s hair.

She explored a little further, moving the towels a bit, and discovered something else—some kind of padding that could be strapped around one’s body. To add pounds to an otherwise slim figure. Who would do that? Only someone who wanted to conceal her identity.

Phoebe’s heart began to quiver, and she was suddenly perspiring. What in heaven’s name was Sophia involved in? She touched the fine strands of the hair again and eyed the glasses. Clear glass, she discovered. These items were obviously part of a disguise. Was Sophia living a double life? But why? She couldn’t help but wonder if this had something to do with that other girl’s disappearance. Quietly, she replaced the items and decided she had to leave.

For now.

She couldn’t go to the police—so what if her tenant had glasses and a wig? Big deal . . .

But it was. Phoebe knew it in her heart.

She hurried into the living area again and felt as if she were being watched, then panicked as she thought Sophia might have installed cameras in her home. These days there were all kinds of sophisticated home security equipment available. She swept her gaze over the few pieces of artwork on the walls and the tabletops, but saw nothing that looked suspicious. And even if there were cameras, that was just too bad. She had her rights as a landlord, even if she did stretch them once in a while.

Outside, she closed the door firmly behind her before locking it. She hastened to her unit, slipping a little on a patch of ice, and decided to give Dabrowski a piece of her mind. How difficult was it to keep the walkway clear?

Inside her own unit, she took off her coat and slipped off her boots, then looked around. Where was the dog? “Larry?” she called, instant anxiety sizzling through her blood. Had he gotten out? Had someone been in her unit? She pulled her old high-school twirling baton from the umbrella stand, a handy weapon she’d kept for all these years, then, panicking, searched her apartment. “Larry?”

Her heart was beating a frantic tattoo when she couldn’t find him.