LITMIR.BIZ

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go back downstairs,” she murmured. “Maybe we’ll look at your food packs and you can point at one and we’ll choose your late-night snack that way!”

      Noah clapped his hands. He was, however, looking past Vickie—toward the door. There was something about the way that he was looking that caused her to spin around and stare.

      But no one stood in the doorway.

      “You know, Noah, Bick-bick is going to have to stop this. There are a lot of horror stories about babysitters. The phone rings, and there’s no one there. Just breathing, or something like that. We, however, have a great alarm on this house!”

      Except the door had been ajar. Before the alarm had been set.

      She was really doing it: scaring herself. If she went off the deep end, the Ballantines would never ask her back.

      “Television! We will turn the television on. It will talk and be...well, it will be fine,” she said.

      Once downstairs, she couldn’t find the remote control for the mammoth television screen that was just the right distance from the play area to make certain Noah wasn’t too close.

      She looked all over the room—in Noah’s toy box, everywhere.

      Shaking her head, she took the baby with her and headed for the kitchen.

      The door remained locked. She couldn’t help but check.

      The phone rang and she nearly jumped a mile high. It was the house phone.

      This was it—where the babysitter answered the home phone and someone just breathed into her ear.

      She let it ring. And ring.

      She heard the message machine kick in out in the parlor. And then her mother’s voice.

      “Victoria? Victoria, are you there, sweetheart?”

      She picked the phone up. “Mom?”

      “Yes, it’s your mom—remember me?” Her mother asked dryly.

      Her muscles were so tense she had to pray the baby didn’t feel her fear.

      She forced herself to breathe. “Mom, why didn’t you call my cell?”

      “I did. You didn’t answer,” her mother said.

      Vickie felt in her pockets. Nope, her phone wasn’t on her. Where the heck had she left it? Oh, yeah, she’d set it down upstairs after talking to Roxanne.

      “Sorry. It’s here somewhere. Anyway, what’s up?”

      “You were supposed to call and tell me that you got there okay.”

      “Mom, I thought you were planning on calling me. Also, I graduate in June. And I’m going to college. You just won’t be able to check on me every minute.”

      “I know, I know. But that’s June. I’ll get a grip by then. It’s just...well, when you go to the Ballantine house, I can’t help but think about their son...their older son.”

      “Well, I’m here, I’m fine, baby is as well. I haven’t bounced him off the roof yet or anything.”

      Her mother laughed softly. “You’re a great babysitter, Vickie. And dog-walker and student and daughter. You’ve worked very hard. You’re going to love going to NYU. Mrs. Ballantine will be almost as heartbroken as me when you head off.”

      “Mom, I’ll be in New York. It’s only a four or five hour drive. Look, I promise I’ll bring home lots of laundry and come home for food and the whole bit, okay?”

      Noah let out a squeal of delight. He was looking over Vickie’s shoulder again.

      “I hear the little darling. Okay, sweetie. Go and take care of him!” her mother said.

      “Love you, Mom.”

      “Okay, take care of the little one!”

      Noah let out a delighted laugh once again.

      Vickie barely managed to hang up the phone. She spun around. There was nothing there.

      Nothing.

      No one.

      She almost picked up the phone to call her mom and ask her to come over. Or maybe she could call Roxanne back. Nope. She had assured Mr. and Mrs. Ballantine she did nothing but babysit. She didn’t have friends over.

      Including male friends?

      Not to worry—she especially didn’t have male friends over!

      She took a deep breath and headed back into the parlor.

      There, on the footstool in front of one of the antique rockers, sat the remote control.

      And her cell phone.

      She hadn’t put them there!

      This time, fear shot through her with electric sparks. She set Noah down quickly in his play area, afraid she would startle, scare or hurt him.

      She made herself breathe—and breathe again.

      “Okay, I just didn’t see it before,” she murmured to herself. “Right there—right on the footstool, but somehow, I’ve gone blind. What do you think, Noah? I didn’t set the phone down upstairs, I did that down here. And I just didn’t really look for the remote control. I’m too into you!”

      He was such a delightful baby. He looked at her and clapped his hands together. She forced a smile and looked at her watch.

      Six o’clock. Full dark on a wintry Boston night. Mr. and Mrs. Ballantine wouldn’t come home for hours.

      And now, because she’d seen too many horror movies, she was allowing herself to let her imagination run wild.

      George and Chrissy Ballantine had been there when she arrived. There was no one else in the house.

      “Breathe, kid, breathe,” she told herself. “Ah! Well, it’s here.” She grabbed the remote control as if it were a lifeline. “Why didn’t your parents get one of those remotes that just lets you talk to the TV and turn it on, huh? You know, like, ‘TV! Go on. Bring me to a really cute little kids’ show!’”

      Noah clapped and made a few oohing noises.

      Vickie turned on the television. From the corner of her eye, she felt as if someone passed by her. She spun around, looking everywhere; there was no one there.

      “Crazy. Your Bick-bick is going crazy, Noah!” she said.

      She didn’t know why, but she found herself looking at the family portraits that flanked the massive granite mantle.

      Mr. and Mrs. Ballantine to the right.

      Dylan and Noah to the left.

      She swallowed hard and turned her attention to the flat-screen television.

      It was tuned to a news channel. A reporter stood before a huge building in Suffolk County, warning listeners that two prisoners had escaped that morning from the South Bay House of Correction.

      They had feigned illness in a planned escape; they had taken the guns used in their escape from guards they had left critically wounded.

      One, Reginald Mason, had already been captured after a shootout with police at a convenience store. Two civilians had been wounded in the gunfire.

      Residents of the Greater Boston area were warned to be extremely careful. Mug shots of the men were shown, with the footage then zooming in on the face of one Bertram Aldridge. Six years ago, he’d terrorized the area, becoming known as the Southside Slasher for the horrible way he’d murdered his seven known victims. He’d liked to tease law enforcement with letters to the newspapers, telling them FBI stood for Fat-Butt Intelligence and BPD stood for Billie-Prick-Dicks.

      Police were out in force, and they expected to find the second man quickly, since he was local

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