A sedan was parked on the street in front of Charles’s house, and Bernadette figured it was his. It was an old gold Lincoln Town Car without a spot of rust on it, probably another inheritance from the aunt. She went over to the windows facing the sidewalk, pulled out a small flashlight, and looked inside. Immaculate. She punched off the light and dropped it back in her pocket.

They climbed the long steps leading up to his doorstep but stopped and crouched down before they reached the top. His home was one of the largest in the neighborhood, with an open porch stretched across the front. It was a two-story structure with a tower in front that could contain a third-floor room.

“A Victorian,” she whispered. “Queen Anne style.”

“Listen to the architecture expert.”

“The windows in front are black,” she observed.

“Let’s go in around back, through the woods,” Garcia said. “If we stay low, we should be good.”

They took the steps down and darted into the woods, going from tree to tree until they could see Charles’s backyard. A wooden privacy fence boxed it in, but there was a gate facing the woods. Planted on one side of the gate was a lamppost; Bernadette didn’t like how bright it was. An alley ran behind the fence, and beyond that were the garages of the neighbors. Some of them had floodlights mounted over their doors. It looked like Charles didn’t have a garage.

The pair hiked up the hill leading to the backyard and went to the gate. It was unlocked, and they slipped inside. A screened porch ran across the back, and a bright floodlight was mounted over the porch door. As the pair walked deeper into the yard, she could see that a small square and a large rectangle on the second story were lit.

“He’s home,” she whispered, pointing up.

Garcia nodded. They spotted a garden shed planted in a far corner of the yard and squatted down next to it. “Now what?” he whispered.

“Stay here,” she whispered.

Before he could argue, she ran for the back of the house. She hadn’t picked a lock in some time and hoped she could instead get inside the easy way. She spotted a doormat in front of the porch’s bottom step and lifted it up. Nothing underneath. She retrieved a rock sitting to the right of the steps and checked the bottom but didn’t find what she was looking for. The stone next to it was a dud, too, but the third rock she tried was the charm. She pried off a trap door in the fake rock and probed the compartment with her finger. “Good deal,” she muttered, fishing out a key.

The screen door was locked, but it took only a few jiggles of the handle to unlock it. Holding tight to the door so the wind wouldn’t slap it open, she went through and closed it behind her. She ran her eyes around the long, narrow space. Wicker chairs, couches, and coffee tables were neatly grouped, as if awaiting a party. Dried floral arrangements and candles topped each of the tables. Hanging from the ceiling, swaying slightly in the wind, was a chandelier containing tapered candles. Oriental area rugs covered the floor. The creep’s porch was furnished more stylishly than her condo.

Bernadette went up to one of the windows and pressed her face against the glass. The curtains on the other side blocked her view. Taking a deep breath, she stepped up to the door and inserted the key in the lock. She could feel the deadbolt turn. She put her hand on the knob and pushed the heavy wooden door open. A narrow band of white—the floodlight—followed her inside. She heard a creak behind her and turned to see Garcia stepping inside, carefully closing the porch door behind him.

They moved directly into the kitchen, a renovated galley. A butcher-block table was in the middle of the space, and modern glass-front cabinetry and steel appliances lined the walls. Heavy footsteps overhead made her freeze. She thought she heard music as well.

She closed the door behind her and turned the deadbolt; she didn’t want to make it easy for him to flee. Garcia watched her hands but said nothing.

Moving carefully across the wooden floor, they headed for the door at the far end of the kitchen, with Garcia taking point. The kitchen’s old-fashioned swinging doors opened into the formal dining area, a space with a long table surrounded by antique chairs. Then came a front room. Looking to the right through the parlor, they could make out the spindled railing of stairs leading up to the second floor. A bookcase was built into one side. The lace-covered windows at the front of the house had a dull glow from the streetlamps outside.

As they drew closer to the stairs, they could see a light at the top. Flattening themselves against the bookcase, they listened. Someone was singing, but she couldn’t understand the words. It was an opera. She heard another voice; Charles was singing along.

Garcia slid closer to the foot of the stairs. They heard a thump at their feet and started. Garcia had knocked a fat book off the shelf. Reaching into their pockets, they pulled out their guns and waited for their quarry to come down the stairs, but he continued with his singing.

Garcia moved to the foot of the stairs, crouched down, and aimed up. She did the same. There was a landing, after which the steps took a sharp turn and continued their ascent. It was the vision from her session with the scarf. They were in the right place. Had they come soon enough to save Regina Ordstruman, or was she already dead?

Taking out her flashlight, Bernadette ran the beam around the floor near the front door. Dark splatters dulled the shiny wood, but there were no big puddles. If he’d stabbed her to death, he’d done it elsewhere. Garcia came up next to her, stared at the blood, and reached into his pocket. Bernadette put her hand up. She didn’t want him calling yet; she wanted to find the girl first. With a hard-set mouth, he pulled his hand out of his pocket. She clicked off the light, and they went for the stairs.

She put one foot on the middle of the first step and winced at the creak. She took the second step by setting her foot on the left side of the stair. Silence. Garcia followed behind her, both of them hugging the left.

Squatting behind the potted palm, they looked up from the landing. Through an open doorway, light and music spilled into the hallway. He’d stopped singing. Had he heard them taking the stairs? There was a pause in the music. Perhaps he was switching CDs. She prayed for new tunes that would get him singing again.

Her prayer was answered. Miraculously, she even recognized what he was playing. It was the music from The Phantom of the Opera. He was singing along again and not doing a half-bad job.

Holding their weapons in both hands, they finished their trek up the stairs. They made a squeaky beeline for the hallway table. Squatting next to it, they heard a toilet flush and water running. He was in the master bathroom, a logical venue for his operatic performance. While Charles launched into “The Music of the Night,” she thought about their next move. They needed information from him, but not at the expense of the girl’s life.

The hallway in front of her started to blur and spin. The dizziness was back, and more intense than before. If she folded, she’d give them away before they found the girl. Reaching up, she clutched the edge of the hallway table for support.

“Shit!” he yelled from inside the bathroom. “Fucking razor.”

Feeling something sting her cheek, she stifled a yelp. Something wet dripped onto her gloved fist. Behind her, Garcia lightly touched her arm. She turned her head and saw his eyes widen with shock. Using her teeth, she pulled off her right glove. Reaching up, she gingerly touched her cheek and examined her fingers. Blood. He’d cut himself—and she was bleeding. Their connection was growing closer by the minute, and she had to sever it soon before she lost herself in him.