The stairs corkscrew around a small, bare landing and abruptly turn from wood to concrete. Another few steps, and I’m deposited in a long, unfinished hallway with cinder-block walls and a paint-splattered concrete floor. The whole basement feels forgotten and disused. In a horror film, this would be where the blond girl goes to die in the opening scene.

I shiver in the sudden chill. It’s cold down here and smells like all basements, like moisture barely contained. Naked bulbs encased in mesh hang from the ceiling, and the music is nothing but a dull thudding, like a monster’s distant heartbeat. Boxes are heaped at the far end of the hallway, and through one half-open door I see what must be the staff changing room: grim gray lockers, several pairs of sneakers lined up under a bench, and a cell phone buzzing forlornly, performing a quarter-turn rotation on the wood when it does. I get the sudden, prickly feeling of being watched, and I spin around, half expecting someone to jump out at me.

No one. Still, my heart rate won’t return to normal.

I’m about to return upstairs, thinking I must have misunderstood Casey’s directions, when voices down the hall crest sharply, suddenly, over the music. Even though I don’t hear a single word, I immediately know: an argument.

I continue down the hall, moving carefully, holding my breath. With every step the itch in my skin gets worse, as if invisible people are leaning forward to breathe on me. I remember, then, the time Parker dared Dara and me to walk across the graveyard off Cressida Circle at night when we were kids.

“But go quietly,” he said, dropping his voice, “or they’ll reach out and—” He seized me suddenly by the waist and I screamed. Afterward he couldn’t stop laughing; still, I never did walk across the graveyard, too afraid that if I did, a hand would reach out and grab me, pulling me down into the rotten earth.

I pass another door, this one gaping open to reveal a dingy bathroom with caulk oozing like thick caterpillars between cracks in the wall. By now the voices are louder. There’s a final door, this one closed, a few feet farther on. This must be Andre’s office.

The voices abruptly go silent and I freeze, holding my breath, wondering if I’ve been detected, debating whether I should knock or turn around and run.

Then a girl says, quietly but very clearly, “The police grilled me for, like, four hours. And I didn’t have anything to tell them. I couldn’t tell them anything.”

A male voice—Andre—replies, “So what the hell are you worried about?”

“She’s my best friend. She was drunk. She doesn’t even remember getting home. And her sister’s missing. Of course I’m fucking worried.”

My heart stops beating for the space of a breath, a name: Madeline Snow. They’re talking about Madeline Snow.

“Lower your voice. And don’t feed me some horseshit. You’re trying to cover your ass. But you knew what you were getting into when you signed up.”

“You said everything would be private. You said no one would know.”

“I told you to lower your voice.”

But it’s too late. Her voice is rising in pitch like steam being forced through a kettle. “So what did happen that night, huh? Because if you know something, you have to talk. You have to tell me.”

There’s a moment of silence. My heart is drumming hard in my throat, like a fist trying to punch its way out.

“Fine.” Her voice is shaking now, skipping registers. “Fine. Then don’t tell me. I guess you can just wait until the police knock down your door.”

The door handle rattles and I jump backward, pressing myself against the wall, as if it will keep me invisible. Then there’s a scraping noise, the sound of a chair jumping backward, and the door handle falls still.

Andre says, “I don’t know what the hell happened to that little girl.” The way he says little girl makes me feel sick, like I’ve accidentally eaten something rotten. “But if I did know—if I do know—you really think it’s a smart idea to come around here playing Nancy Drew? You think I don’t know how to make problems disappear?”

There’s a short pause. “Are you threatening me? Because I’m not afraid of you.” This last part is obviously a lie. Even through the door, I can hear that the girl’s voice is shaking.

“Then you’re dumber than I thought,” Andre says. “Now get the fuck out of my office.”

Before I can retreat or react, the door swings open so hard it cracks against the wall, and a girl comes rushing out. Her head is down, but still I recognize her immediately from the paper: the pale skin, the straight fringe of black bangs, and the red lipstick, like she’s auditioning for a part in a movie about a vampire from the 1920s. It’s Sarah Snow’s best friend, the girl who supposedly accompanied her to get ice cream the night Madeline disappeared. She pushes past me roughly and doesn’t even stop to apologize, and before I can call out to her, she’s gone, darting animal-like up the stairs.

I want to go after her, but Andre has already seen me.

“What do you want?” His eyes are bloodshot. He looks tired, impatient. It’s him: the guy from the photo, leather-jacket guy. He’s nobody, Dara said, months ago. They’re all nobodies. They don’t matter.

But she was wrong about this one.

I try to see him as Dara might have. He’s older, maybe early twenties, and his hair is already thinning, although he gels it stiff to conceal the fact. He’s good-looking in an obvious way, like someone who spends a lot of time flossing. His lips are too thin.