She stares at me, her eyes fierce in the moonlight. And for a moment-just for a moment-I think she is right. That she could kill me, that she is ready to do anything to stay alive.

We hear the sound of car tires rolling over gravel, and we both snap straight.

Olena immediately stubs out her precious cigarette, only half smoked. “Who the hell is this?”

I scramble to my feet and cautiously crawl up the shallow slope of roof to peer over the edge, toward the driveway. “I don’t see any lights.”

She clambers up beside me and peeks over the edge as well. “There,” she murmurs as a car emerges from the woods. Its headlights are off, and all we see is the yellow glow of its parking lights. It stops at the edge of the driveway, and two men step out. Seconds later, we hear the door buzzer. Even at this early hour, men have their needs. They demand satisfaction.

“Shit,” hisses Olena. “Now they’re going to wake her up. We have to get back to the room before she finds out we’re gone.”

We slide back down the roof and don’t even bother to snatch up our blankets, but immediately scramble onto the ledge. Olena slips through the window, into the dark attic.

The doorbell buzzes again, and we hear the Mother’s voice as she unlocks the front door and greets her latest clients.

I scramble through the window after Olena, and we cross to the trap door. The ladder is still down, the blatant evidence of our location. Olena is just backing down the rungs when she suddenly stops cold.

The Mother is screaming.

Olena looks up at me through the trap door. I can see the frantic glow of her eyes in the shadows below me. We hear a thud, and the sound of splintering wood. Heavy footsteps pound up the stairs.

The Mother’s screams turn to shrieks.

All at once, Olena is climbing back up the ladder, shoving me aside as she scrambles through the trap door. She reaches down through the opening, grabs the ladder, and pulls. It rises, folding, as the trap door closes.

“Back,” she whispers. “Out on the roof!”

“What’s happening?”

“Just go, Mila!”

We run back to the window. I am the first one through, but I’m in such a rush that my foot slides across the ledge. I give a sob as I fall, clawing in panic at the windowsill.

Olena’s hand closes around my wrist. She hangs on to me as I dangle, terrified.

“Grab my other hand!” she whispers.

I reach for it and she pulls me up, until I am doubled over the windowsill, my heart slamming against my chest.

“Don’t be so fucking clumsy!” she hisses.

I regain my footing and cling with sweating hands to the sill as I make my way along the ledge, back to the rooftop. Olena wriggles out, closes the window behind her, then clambers after me, quick as a cat.

Inside the house, the lights have come on. We can see the glow spilling through the windows below us. And we can hear running footsteps, and the crash of a door flying open. And a scream-not the Mother this time. A lone, piercing shriek that cuts off to a terrible silence.

Olena snatches up the blankets. “Climb,” she says. “Hurry, up the roof, where they can’t see us!”

As I crawl up the asphalt shingles, toward the highest point, Olena swings her blanket, brushing off the footprints we have left on the snowy ledge. She does the same with the area where we had been sitting, obscuring all traces of our presence. Then she clambers up beside me, onto the peak above the attic window. There we perch, like shivering gargoyles.

Suddenly I remember. “The chair,” I whisper. “We left the chair under the trap door!”

“It’s too late.”

“If they see it, they’ll know we’re up here.”

She grabs my hand and squeezes so hard that I think she will snap the bones. The attic light has just come on.

We cringe against the roof, not daring to move. One creak, one skitter of falling snow, and the intruder will know where we are. I feel my heart thumping against the shingles, and think that surely he can hear it through the ceiling.

The window slides open. A moment passes. What does he see, gazing out? A fragment of a footprint on the ledge? A telltale trail that Olena’s frantic swipes with the blanket did not obliterate? Then the window slides shut again. I give a soft sob of relief, but Olena’s fingers again dig into my hand. A warning.

He may still be there. He may still be listening.

We hear a sharp thump, followed by a scream that even closed windows cannot muffle. A shriek of such excruciating pain that I break out sweating, shaking. A man is shouting in English. Where are they? There should be six! Six whores.

They are looking for the missing girls.

Now the Mother sobs, pleads. Truly she does not know.

Another thud.

The Mother’s scream pierces straight to my marrow. I cover my ears and press my face to the icy shingles. I cannot listen to this, but I have no choice. It does not stop. The blows, the shrieks, go on and on so long that I think they will find us here at sunrise, still clinging with frozen hands to this roof. I close my eyes, fighting nausea. See no evil, hear no evil. That’s what I chant to myself a thousand times over, to drown out the sounds of the Mother’s torment. See no evil, hear no evil.

When the screams finally fall silent, my hands have gone numb and my teeth are chattering from the cold. I lift my head, and feel icy tears on my face.

“They’re leaving,” Olena whispers.

We hear the front door creak open, hear footsteps on the porch. From our perch on the roof, we can see them walk across the driveway. This time they are more than just indistinct silhouettes; they have left the house lights on, and by the glow spilling through the windows, we can see the two men are dressed in dark clothes. One of them pauses, and his short blond hair catches the reflection of the porch lights. He looks back at the house, his gaze lifting to the roof. For a few terrifying heartbeats I think he can see us. But the light is in his eyes, and we remain hidden in shadow.

They climb into the car and drive away.

For a long time, we do not move. The moonlight shines down with icy radiance. The night is so still I can hear the rush of my own pulse, the chatter of my teeth. At last, Olena stirs.

“No,” I whisper. “What if they’re still out there? What if they’re watching?”

“We can’t stay on the roof all night. We’ll freeze.”

“Wait just a little longer. Olena, please!”

But she is already easing her way down the shingles, moving back toward the attic window. I’m terrified of being left behind; I have no choice but to follow her. By the time I crawl back inside, she is already through the trap door and climbing down the ladder.

I want to scream: Please wait for me! but I’m too afraid to make a sound. I scramble down the ladder, too, and follow Olena into the hallway.

She has come to a standstill at the top of the stairs, gazing downward. Only when I move beside her do I see what has made her freeze in horror.

Katya lies dead on the stairs. Her blood has streamed down the steps like a dark waterfall, and she is a swimmer, diving toward the glistening pool at the bottom.

“Don’t look in the bedroom,” Olena says. “They are all dead.” Her voice is flat. Not human, but a machine’s, cold and matter-of-fact. I do not know this Olena, and she scares me. She moves down the stairs, avoiding the blood, avoiding the body. As I follow her, I cannot stop staring at Katya. I see where the bullet has torn through the back of her T-shirt, the same shirt she wears every night. It has yellow daisies and the words BE HAPPY. Oh Katya, I think; now you will never be happy. At the bottom of the stairs, where a pool of blood has collected, I see the imprints of large shoes that have tracked through it on their way to the front door.