Dangerous to Know by TASHA ALEXANDER

willows, no one jumped from the shadow of a hedge. Still, the unnerving feeling did not go away. Instead it grew stronger. Stepping closer to the dovecote, I peered with more intensity, but saw nothing. Nothing, that is, until I looked up to a small window on the top floor. A pale face watched me from above, its wide eyes lacking any warmth. It was a child—a girl—who couldn’t have yet been five years old. A blue bow peeked out from her blonde hair, and her white dress hung too big from her narrow shoulders. I stopped and stared back, our eyes locked until I jumped when a bumblebee, too interested in the flowers on my hat, flew into my face. When I looked back, she was gone.
    â€œHello?” I pulled open the building’s door. The interior was dark and musty, full of dust and cobwebs, broken pieces of furniture scattered across the floor. My sole response was the rustling and squeaks that could only have been caused by some sort of unwelcome creature. A tightly curving, steep staircase rose across before me, and I started for it, stepping cautiously through the debris. “Is anyone here?”
    No reply came. The flap of wings announced the arrival upstairs of what might have been the descendents of the dovecote’s original occupants. Moving tentatively, I climbed the stairs, only to find an empty, dirty room. Three pigeons roosted, taking no notice of me, but I heard more scampering from below. Not eager to make the acquaintance of a pack of rodents—if it was packs in which they traveled—I clattered down the steps and pushed through the door, bursting back out into bright sunlight. Above me, the window was still vacant. I saw nothing behind its wavy old panes of glass.
    I set off for the maze, my knees wobbling, my hands shaking, the image of the sad little girl—she must have been sad—seeming to hover over me. And try though I might, I could not stop from seeing her in my mind with every step I took. As I approached my destination, I saw George, dressed in a fine linen suit and studying a heavy gold pocket watch.
    â€œThat’s fourteen minutes,” he called to someone—I assumed Madeline, though I couldn’t see her—his voice booming. He was standing on tiptoe as if he could somehow make himself tall enough to see over the yew and boxwood hedge that formed the outer wall of the maze. “You’d better hurry.” He snapped the watch closed and strode in the direction of an elaborate cast-iron bench, a bright grin on his face. He hadn’t spotted me.
    â€œAm I disturbing you?” I asked, crossing to him, an unaccountable rush of relief flowing through me.
    â€œEmily! What a delightful surprise!” He kissed my hand. “You’ve come at a perfect time. Madeline is in the maze—I’m timing her. I took twenty-three minutes to get through. She’s bent on beating me. Would you like to try?”
    â€œIt’s been a bit of an odd morning,” I said. “I’m not sure that losing myself in a maze is quite what I need at the moment.”
    â€œTell me the Norman Ripper isn’t stalking you!”
    â€œThe Norman Ripper?”
    â€œHave you a better idea of what to call him?” he asked. I felt deep creases digging into my brow. “Oh dear. I’ve caused you further distress. I’ve a terrible habit of turning to humor when I find myself upset. Do forgive me.”
    I wished I could have laughed with him, but found myself wholly unable to divert my emotions. Still frightened, I swayed on my feet. George ushered me to the bench. “It is I who should apologize,” I said. “I’m a wretched visitor.”
    â€œNot at all. Tell me, though, has something new happened or are you suffering from the memory of that poor girl?”
    â€œGirl?” I realized he meant the murder victim, not the apparition I’d just seen. “No, it’s not that. Your thief has called on