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Ole, well… that was another story.
    He saw every text Darryl Williams sent, heard every phone call he made. He could even access the code to the front door.
    He combed his fingers through his recently cut hair. It looked better short. It looked better brown. A crucial metamorphosis, especially after the photograph of Morgan he kindly faxed to the Journal last night. Morgan had long blond hair. It would never do to look alike now.
    “How do I look?” he said, turning back to Patti’s tearstained face.
    “So very handsome.”
    He cocked his head and smiled. She always looked good in a white shirt. So simple. So classy. “How long have we known each other, Patti? A few months? And in those months have you ever known me to steal?”
    She shook her head.
    “But you took something from me. You took the girl, remember? And the cops took Morgan all because of that nosy caretaker. Did you tell him too?”
    Her eyes were hazy with fresh tears and she didn’t answer. Couldn’t because she was guilty. She had told the police about the cabin, about the barn, about the girls. That’s how they knew where to find them.
    The mere sound of her voice set him on edge, the sniveling, the whining. And then, “It was so wrong, Ole. All those things you did.”
    “You have no idea what I did.”
    “I saw it. All of it.”
    “So you called old Mr. Levinson and then you called the cops. Lucky I didn’t bring Loki. He would have taken your leg off.”
    “I couldn’t bear it.” She began crying again.
    All day he meditated on the death of the nine-year-old, how his life had been turned upside down since Morgan’s arrest. Morgan was a fool. He’d taken the wrong one.
    Ole had found another girl a week ago, a girl to replace Patti. A girl on a bright red bike, a girl he couldn’t get out of his mind. He wanted to listen to the wind, to daydream, but matters were closing in on him, especially the matter of the cell phone. It was foolish to leave it behind.
    “You’ve been using the phone again, haven’t you? You called that detective. How did you do that, Patti, all tied up? Show me how you did that?”
    Patti furrowed her brow and swallowed. She was too thirsty to talk, too frightened. He knew, of course. The pin in those shackles was tight enough. But with a day or two of twisting and straining, she could have freed one hand at least.
    “Couldn’t exactly tell him anything. You don’t know where you are, do you? This phone,” he said, holding it up as if she couldn’t see it, “is registered under a stolen name. They’ll never find you.”
    “They will, Ole,” she said in a scratchy voice. “They’ll put a trace on it. And they’ll find all those girls in the woods.”
    His eyes fell on the digital clock on the nightstand. It was ten minutes to six. He snapped on a pair of latex gloves and plucked the earring from his t-shirt pocket. It was a silver disk engraved with the number 8.
    “Well then, we better get a move on.”

SIX
     
     
    Darryl Williams slipped the gun from his waistband and checked the ambidextrous safety. It felt good in his hand. Too good. Sometimes he would do this two or three times a day, pointing it at the tree in his backyard, pretending it was him .
    He had only just cleaned it, always marveling at the small springs for such a big gun although it was a bear to put back together. When he finally fired a round at the tree yesterday, he could almost see those gases porting through a small hole in the barrel.
    He stared at the picture on the wall, a patchwork of blues and greens so intense, it made his eyes water. Bluebells in a wood, a painting Kizzy had done at school. It still hung in her bedroom, proof that she had once been there.
    He had accepted many things in his life but never forgiveness and he had hated a whole life-time’s worth in those first few months until he was completely burnt out.
    The phone call came thirty-four days ago. He remembered it vividly. It was the same day he was