Angela had brought the boy back. The next day, her clothes were on the sidewalk. She had beaten on the door, crying, and the mother had wanted to let her back in. But her husband had held her back. When they finally opened the door, Angela was gone. When they phoned around to all her friends-even, finally, to the boy, who hung up on them-they couldn’t find her.

Three years later, they found her. No, that wasn’t quite accurate, either: The police had found her. The point was, she had been found. But she had been dead.

Did the police have any idea who had done it? The detective shook his head. He could have told the mother that it had probably been one of Angela’s tricks, but contrary to popular belief in the precinct house, he actually did have a heart. “We currently have no information, Mrs. Nicholas.” Which wasn’t entirely true, since that man, Sladek, had turned out to have been poisoned, too, and with the same poison, so that was-maybe-a starting point. But it was close enough to true. Anyway, he said it.

“How did it happen? How could this happen?”

“We aren’t certain. Our lab is working on it.”

The father finally stirred to life, raising his head, his eyes burning. “You find the man who did this and I’ll kill him.”

“Haven’t you done enough?” Mrs. Nicholas said.

“Do you have a daughter, sergeant?”

“A son,” the detective said.

“Well, if somebody did to your son what somebody did to my daughter,” Mr. Nicholas said, “what would you do?”

I’d kill the son of a bitch, the detective said. To himself. “I’d let the proper authorities handle it.”