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neatness compelled him to close the book,
Alexander in Egypt
, even though he was terrified. He knew what those pops, those cries, signified.
    It’s what happened before. The same sounds I heard on the boat. I knew it was gunfire
.
    There was no window to crawl out of, no easy escape from this third-floor bedroom.
    So he’d turned off his light. He heard the girls’ cries, heard more pops, and hid in the first place a scared child would retreat to: under the bed.
    Jane turned to look at the perfectly smooth duvet, at sheets tucked in as tightly as a soldier’s bunk. Had Teddy’s obsessive-compulsive neatness resulted in these perfectly made-up linens? If so, it may well have saved his life. As Teddy cowered under the bed, the killer had turned on the lights and walked in.
    Black shoes. That’s all I saw. He had black shoes, and he was standing right by my bed
.
    A bed that, at midnight, had not been slept in. To an intruder, it would appear that the child who lived in this room was away that night.
    The killer with the black shoes walked out. Hours passed, but Teddy stayed under that bed, cowering at every creak. He thought he heard footsteps return, quieter, stealthier, and imagined the killer was still there in the house, waiting.
    He did not know what time it was when he fell asleep. He only knew that when he woke up, the sun was shining. Only then did he finally crawl from his hiding place, stiff and sore from lying half the night on the floor. Through the window, he saw Mrs. Lyman working in her garden. Next door was safety; next door was someone he could run to.
    And so he did.
    Jane knelt down and looked under the bed. There was so little clearance beneath the box spring that she would never be able to fit under it. But a scared boy had squeezed into that space, smaller than a coffin. She glimpsed something deep in those shadows, and had to lie facedown on the floor before she could reach under far enough to grasp the object.
    It was Teddy’s missing glasses.
    She rose back to her feet and took one last look around the room. Although the sun shone brightly through the window, and outside it was a summery seventy-five degrees, within these four walls she felt a chill and shivered. It was odd that she had not felt that cold sensation in the rooms where members of the Ackerman family had died. No, it was only here that the horror of what happened last night still seemed to linger.
    Here, in the room of the boy who had lived.

“TEDDY CLOCK,” SAID detective Thomas Moore, “Must be the unluckiest boy on the planet. When you consider all that’s happened to him, no wonder he’s displaying serious emotional problems.”
    “Not like he was normal to begin with,” Darren Crowe said. “The kid’s just plain strange.”
    “Strange in what way?”
    “He’s fourteen years old and he doesn’t do sports? Doesn’t watch TV? He spends every night and weekend hunched over his computer and a bunch of dusty old books.”
    “Some people wouldn’t consider that strange.”
    Crowe turned to Jane. “You’ve spent the most time with him, Rizzoli. You’ve gotta admit the kid’s not right.”
    “By
your
standards,” said Jane. “Teddy’s a lot smarter than that.”
    A chorus of
whoa
s went around the table as the other four detectives watched for Crowe’s reaction to that not-so-subtle insult.
    “There’s knowledge that’s useless,” Crowe retorted. “And then there’s street smarts.”
    “He’s only fourteen and he’s survived two massacres,” she said. “Don’t tell me this boy doesn’t have street smarts.”
    As the team lead in the Ackerman investigation, Crowe was acting more abrasive than usual. Their morning team meeting had been going for almost an hour now, and they were all on edge. In the thirty-some hours since the slaughter of the Ackerman family, the media frenzy had intensified, and this morning Jane had awakened to the tabloid headline HORROR ON BEACON HILL , accompanied by a photo of