He shook his head.

She threw up her arms. "That first time in the kitchen, he said to your dead mother, 'Our child is lost. I need another miracle.' You're the lost child, Oren."

"No, that was Josh. The judge blamed me for-"

"He never did."

"He sent me away. He couldn't stand the sight of me."

She silenced him with one finger pressed to his lips. "After a time, the judge came to terms with the idea that Josh was dead. But not you. You just would not give him up-always tearing around those woods-days at a time. There was a danger that you might die out there, half starved, no water. Maybe there'd come a day when we couldn't find you and bring you safe home. Your father sent you away to finish school in a place with no trees-so you couldn't get lost again. It was your idea to stay away-to join the Army. That mystified him, and it hurt him, too. That old man loves you beyond reason, and he missed you every single day that you were gone. The reason he kept the house like a damn museum-that wasn't on account of Josh. He wanted everything to be the same on the day when you found your way home."

Isabelle had spent half the morning in bed, using a pillow to muffle the sounds of workmen inside the house and out in the yard. She had spent most of the night reading the more recent birder logs written years after the disappearance of Joshua Hobbs-her mother's obsession. The town had become smaller and more claustrophobic on each succeeding page. Some birds had eyes that glowed in the darkness as they traveled single file up the mountainside, and these were the witchboard people.

Showered and dressed, she unlocked her bedroom door. Last night was the first time she had ever thought to lock it. But she had gone to bed with no fears for her mother. She had believed Addison when he professed to love his wife-madly.

Isabelle's fear had come later, page after page of it.

When she smoothed out the bedding, she found a journal in the folds of the sheet. This was the one that had given her nightmares. She held the small book in one hand, weighing the consequences of its destruction. This one might be more dangerous than the journals she had left in the care of the judge. One day soon, she and Oren Hobbs must talk, but not of this. She planned to fling it into the sea.

This journal began with a séance in the woods. Wings spread, a young lark hovered over a table ringed with monsters, and it sang for them, "Oren, help me. Find me. Take me home."

On the night of Sarah Winston's annual birthday ball, the lodge is more dazzling than the Sun King's Palace. Strings of bright lights outline every beam, every window and wall; they run along the rooftop and upward to describe circles around the high castle tower.

So wrote Ferris Monty many years ago when these were all the details he could glean firsthand as an outsider looking in. And tonight-oh, tonight-he piloted his yellow Rolls-Royce up the winding driveway, fairly bouncing on the front seat, giddy as any ten-year-old with Cinderella dreams.

The car keys were handed off to a valet, and Ferris approached the lodge, resplendent in a new suit of red velvet, his nose held high. He was drunk with anticipation as he stood before the doorman, a large thug in a tuxedo, and handed over his personal invitation from Isabelle Winston- a true princess. The thug stood to one side, and Ferris was allowed to enter. Crossing the crowded foyer, he was accosted by a waiter bearing a tray of champagne flutes. Glass in hand, Ferris sauntered into the massive front room and the babble of conversations riding below the music of an orchestra. The bandstand was next to a gigantic window with the view of a second ballroom under the stars. Beyond that outdoor dance floor was a parking lot of luxury cars and ancient wrecks. Ferris wondered how many trees Ad Winston had killed to accommodate the vehicles of more than a thousand guests.

A tourist in fantasyland, he saw the most amazing sights looming over him, a flock of birds, gigantic and fanciful, carved in ice and presiding over platters piled high with lobster tails and giant shrimp. The cold air rising from these sculptures warred with the heat of a chandelier lit with hundreds of electric candles. It was like staring into the sun.

The walls were lined with real candles in sconces, with tables for two, and others had chairs for six. The orchestra changed its tempo to a livelier beat and the floor quickly filled with people. All around him, designer finery danced with secondhand clothes. Outlaw movie folk and grafting politicians commingled with store clerks and construction workers. A pedophile rock star danced past him. Oh, and there, bald as a cue ball, was a famous model-a killer drunk driver-in the arms of the postmaster.

When the newspaper syndicate tired of the story about a lost boy's bones, here, swirling round him, was enough material to provide months of columns and television interviews. And somewhere in this gathering was an ending for his book.

His pen vibrated in his pocket.

Oren pulled out a chair to seat Hannah at the table reserved for the judge's party.

"Odd," she said, looking up at the ice statues. "They're less scary when they're monster size."

"I don't think our hostess agrees with you." The judge nodded toward the solitary figure only a few yards distant, a woman with pale upswept hair, glittering combs to hold it, and a long gown of that same champagne shade.

Sarah Winston stood frozen at attention before one of the giant birds, like one piece of art regarding another. The ice sculptures were all recognizable from her private journals, and now she stared at each of them in turn, astonished and clearly viewing them for the first time.

"This is Addison 's work," said Hannah.

Apparently the lawyer had also read the lady's journals and selected these images from the darker pages. All of the giant birds had fangs. Shaken, Mrs. Winston reached for a drink from the tray of a passing maid, who defied her employer, lifting the wineglasses high and carrying them out of reach.

Oren realized that, more than anything on earth, Mrs. Winston wanted that drink, but all the gold bangles on her wrists would not buy it. And this was also Addison 's work.

Alice Friday stopped by the judge's table and leaned down to Oren. "Look over there!" She pointed to the far side of the room, calling his attention to Mrs. Winston's daughter. "That's the woman who tried to kill you."

Oren turned to catch Isabelle staring at him, and she quickly looked the other way.

"No need to dive under the table." Evelyn Straub, an imperious figure in a long blue gown, sailed stately past him on her way to the caterer's bar. "The girl doesn't have a pocket to hide a gun-not in that slinky dress."

Ferris Monty had surmised that the woman in the maid's uniform was not one of the caterer's people. She was Sarah Winston's warden, a snatcher of drinks, a spoiler of fun. The maid's head turned in all directions, and there was panic in her eyes. Her employer's wife had vanished.

He smiled with the secret knowledge of Mrs. Winston's hiding place, for he had witnessed the lady's disappearing act. Ferris rounded a screen of potted foliage and saw two women standing on a small, secluded terrace, their heads close together in conversation.

Friends? Well, this was the mismatch of the century.

Mavis Hardy was so altered, he hardly knew her. She was a bare-armed amazon in sequins. And she was barefoot-the only outward sign of a mind gone awry. The madwoman had forgotten her shoes. Ferris was oddly touched by this, and he regarded her dirty bare feet as wounds.