I rushed out of the house, gripping the box of files, intent on confronting Director of Security Ben LaForde. But as I drove toward campus, I began to wonder what I was confronting him about. A series of improperly investigated sexual attacks on campus that led half a dozen women to leave school—that’s what I was thinking. I felt sure that Ben LaForde was hiding something. But what proof did I have?

Six young women had withdrawn from Ridgedale University in about a decade. What was an average rate at any university? Perhaps many male students had withdrawn as well. There was no note in the box of files, nothing to explain what their assemblage meant. My theory was based largely on the fact that Stella suspected Rose Gowan had been raped on campus and then withdrawn. It was something of a leap to assume that the box implied that the same bad thing had happened to all the other girls.

By the time I’d reached campus, it had occurred to me that I would at least need some evidence the assaults happened before I started making accusations. Instead of parking and heading for LaForde’s office, I circled back toward home, taking the long way past the Essex Bridge.

I was struck with unexpected sadness when I saw only a single police car parked along the road near where the baby had been found. As though everyone else had already given up. Forgotten. Moved on. I slowed as I rolled past, but the officer in the car didn’t look up, his eyes locked on a cell phone. When I was a few yards past him, I noticed the driveway across the street, tucked between a couple shaggy trees. It curved right, to a run-down ranch house with a clear view of the road and the near side of the creek.

I jerked my car left and into the driveway. Surely the police had interviewed whoever lived there. But that didn’t mean I couldn’t also.

The house was more decrepit up close, the edges of the foundation disintegrating into the lawn, a rusted gutter unhinged, a garage window cracked, a lopsided shutter. The lawn was all crabgrass and tall weeds, mostly brown from winter, with a crumbling flagstone path leading up to the front door. There was a threadbare flag beside the front door. Even the house numbers had shifted, revealing rusty shadows in their wake.

I knocked hard, rattling the screen. I waited a minute with no response, then counted to twenty before knocking once more. There was a truck in the driveway, but that didn’t mean anyone was home. I took a couple steps to the side, thinking about heading back to my car, when suddenly the front door opened.

“Hello?” an angry-sounding man shouted through the screen door. “Who’s out there?”

He was big, tall and heavy if not quite overweight, with a head of straggly gray hair and a very large face. He was wearing pajama pants and a snug black T-shirt with a big Nike swoosh on the front. It hugged his big belly like a fabric sack.

“Oh, hi,” I said, stepping forward so he could see me, even though I wasn’t sure I wanted him to. “I’m Molly Sanderson, a reporter with the Ridgedale Reader, and—”

“A reporter, huh?” He sounded intrigued. “What do you want?”

Nothing, I thought of saying. So I’ll just be going now.

“I’m working on a story about the baby they found across the street,” I began. What if he’d had something to do with it? It wouldn’t be the smartest thing in the world to dump a dead body across the street from your house. Then again, he didn’t seem like the most thoughtful fellow. “I was hoping I might talk to you for a minute.”

He narrowed his eyes, then pushed open the door with one meaty hand. “You coming in or not?” he asked when I didn’t move forward.

“Oh, yes, thank you,” I said, stepping inside.

Since when was it safe for me to go into the house of a huge man I did not know, an angry, possibly unstable man who, despite his age, could have easily overpowered me? Was this really the best use of my rediscovered moxie? For all I knew, that baby belonged to some poor woman this guy kept locked in his basement.

Fueling my fears was the overwhelming smell of rot, which smacked into me the second I stepped inside the house. Cat feces mixed with garbage, maybe? Hopefully, in fact. That was much better than the many other options that had jumped to mind, like death. I tried to breathe through my mouth so I wouldn’t gag. But the filth in the air was palpable. I could feel it gathering in a sour blanket over my tongue.

It was dark, too. The curtains were pulled shut, the only light from a single standing lamp in the corner. Not dark enough, unfortunately, to hide the mess. There were boxes overflowing with clothes and papers and dusty Christmas decorations, and stacks and stacks of old magazines. In the open kitchen beyond, I could see dirty dishes and open food packages covering every available surface. An orange tabby cat was sitting in the center of the cluttered stove next to half a dozen industrial-size bottles of moisturizer. There were three more cats in a circle on the floor. I would have missed them if one hadn’t switched its tail. They were staring up at two parrots in a cage hanging from the ceiling, waiting for their chance at a tasty treat. When one of the parrots ruffled its feathers, all the cats sprang to life, circling below like sharks. I waited for the man to shoo them away, but he didn’t seem to notice.

“Hannity starts in ten minutes,” he said, stepping around me to his recliner. “So you’ll need to make it quick.” He dropped himself down and jerked out the footrest in one practiced motion. He pointed at a couch that was either heavily patterned or very dirty or both. “Have a seat if you want.”

“Oh, okay, great,” I said, feeling my way carefully, praying I wouldn’t trip and end up facedown on the revolting carpet.

“Sorry it’s so dark,” he said, motioning to the curtains. “Got to keep them closed. Otherwise, when the drones come, they’ll be able to take pictures of everything. A couple shots of me looking long in the tooth, and”—he snapped his fingers—“like that, they’ll convene a death panel.”

Naturally: death panels and drones.

“I understand,” I said. That you’re delusional. “With the curtains closed, I guess you couldn’t have seen anything related to what happened to the baby?”

“Who said that?” He sounded defensive again. “Damn police. Because I won’t talk to those numb-nuts doesn’t mean I don’t know things. I just don’t think it’s my job to do their job by spying on people. I believe in personal liberty: every person’s right to do as they wish.”

“Including leaving a baby out in the woods?”

“Who the hell am I to judge?” He shrugged.

His beliefs seemed mostly random and nonsensical, but there was a thread of extreme conservatism. I hoped if I pulled at it, something interesting might unfurl.

“But if we don’t hold people accountable for their actions, what kind of world will we have?” I asked. “A welfare state.”

“You got that right.” He narrowed his eyes at me. Then he nodded as though he’d come to some conclusion. “Come on, let me show you something.”

He waved me down an even darker, more cluttered hall, where he could be planning to house me. I hesitated before following. I’d been out of shape for a long time, but I’d have to hope that I’d retained some kind of muscle memory if he charged at me.

“Did you see what happened to the baby, Mr. . . .”

I pulled out my phone as I walked behind him, quickly texting Justin the man’s address with no explanation. If I didn’t come home, it would at least give him a place to start. He was going to love hearing why I’d sent it, when I was forced to explain later.

“I didn’t see what happened to the baby,” the man said, turning in to the laundry room to the left of the door out to the garage. “But I seen something.”

Inside, there was a telescope pointed out the window. He walked right over and placed a satisfied hand on it, as though it were the answer to all my questions. I stared at it, unsure what to say. The telescope made me feel better and worse—better about the possibility of this man having seen something useful; worse about the kind of person he was.