Vanish: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel

am doubled over the windowsill, my heart slamming against my chest.
    “Don’t be so fucking clumsy!” she hisses.
    I regain my footing and cling with sweating hands to the sill as I make my way along the ledge, back to the rooftop. Olena wriggles out, closes the window behind her, then clambers after me, quick as a cat.
    Inside the house, the lights have come on. We can see the glow spilling through the windows below us. And we can hear running footsteps, and the crash of a door flying open. And a scream—not the Mother this time. A lone, piercing shriek that cuts off to a terrible silence.
    Olena snatches up the blankets. “Climb,” she says. “Hurry, up the roof, where they can’t see us!”
    As I crawl up the asphalt shingles, toward the highest point, Olena swings her blanket, brushing off the footprints we have left on the snowy ledge. She does the same with the area where we had been sitting, obscuring all traces of our presence. Then she clambers up beside me, onto the peak above the attic window. There we perch, like shivering gargoyles.
    Suddenly I remember. “The chair,” I whisper. “We left the chair under the trap door!”
    “It’s too late.”
    “If they see it, they’ll know we’re up here.”
    She grabs my hand and squeezes so hard that I think she will snap the bones. The attic light has just come on.
    We cringe against the roof, not daring to move. One creak, one skitter of falling snow, and the intruder will know where we are. I feel my heart thumping against the shingles, and think that surely he can hear it through the ceiling.
    The window slides open. A moment passes. What does he see, gazing out? A fragment of a footprint on the ledge? A telltale trail that Olena’s frantic swipes with the blanket did not obliterate? Then the window slides shut again. I give a soft sob of relief, but Olena’s fingers again dig into my hand. A warning.
    He may still be there. He may still be listening.
    We hear a sharp thump, followed by a scream that even closed windows cannot muffle. A shriek of such excruciating pain that I break out sweating, shaking. A man is shouting in English.
Where are they? There should be six! Six whores.
    They are looking for the missing girls.
    Now the Mother sobs, pleads. Truly she does not know.
    Another thud.
    The Mother’s scream pierces straight to my marrow. I cover my ears and press my face to the icy shingles. I cannot listen to this, but I have no choice. It does not stop. The blows, the shrieks, go on and on so long that I think they will find us here at sunrise, still clinging with frozen hands to this roof. I close my eyes, fighting nausea.
See no evil, hear no evil.
That’s what I chant to myself a thousand times over, to drown out the sounds of the Mother’s torment.
See no evil, hear no evil.
    When the screams finally fall silent, my hands have gone numb and my teeth are chattering from the cold. I lift my head, and feel icy tears on my face.
    “They’re leaving,” Olena whispers.
    We hear the front door creak open, hear footsteps on the porch. From our perch on the roof, we can see them walk across the driveway. This time they are more than just indistinct silhouettes; they have left the house lights on, and by the glow spilling through the windows, we can see the two men are dressed in dark clothes. One of them pauses, and his short blond hair catches the reflection of the porch lights. He looks back at the house, his gaze lifting to the roof. For a few terrifying heartbeats I think he can see us. But the light is in his eyes, and we remain hidden in shadow.
    They climb into the car and drive away.
    For a long time, we do not move. The moonlight shines down with icy radiance. The night is so still I can hear the rush of my own pulse, the chatter of my teeth. At last, Olena stirs.
    “No,” I whisper. “What if they’re still out there? What if they’re watching?”
    “We can’t stay on the roof all night. We’ll freeze.”
    “Wait just a little longer. Olena, please!”
    But she is already easing her way down the shingles, moving back toward the attic window. I’m terrified of being left behind; I have no choice but to follow her. By the time I crawl back inside, she is already through the trap door and climbing down the ladder.
    I want to scream:
Please wait for me!
but I’m too afraid to make a sound. I scramble down the ladder, too, and follow Olena into the hallway.
    She has come to a standstill at the top of the stairs, gazing