The last two days had quite possibly been the worst of Lynn's young life. Detective Parrish had only called three times, and only to ask if Lynn had any news for him. Bill and Maggie called regularly to make sure she was coping all right. Mrs. Bates had called and informed Lynn that Blanche's disappearance had made the papers—again. But to Lynn's ultimate horror she hadn't received any calls from strangers with black Packards or Fords.

By the end of the second day, when Lynn's mother had called and asked her to come home for dinner with the family, Lynn had taken to wandering around the house aimlessly, without a destination or, indeed, comprehension. She had often found herself staring at the old painting above the fireplace and trying to imagine the beautiful woman in the room with her as she prepared herself a meal and laid out two plates.

She fought determinedly against the frightful images in her head when she thought of the actress. She felt an insufferable urge to cry every time her thoughts wandered back to the older woman. And quite truthfully, she was all Lynn could think of.

She'd been sitting, lonely and miserable, on Blanche's bed, her knees pulled up to her chin and hot tears streaming down her cheeks, when her mother had called. A plentiful dinner and warm company sure had beaten that. She had tried to avoid her siblings' questions concerning Blanche. Her mother had had the decency to also frown at Tom and Suzy for asking her about such a delicate subject, and they'd given up their cause.

Sitting with her mother in the living room now, Lynn allowed the optimistic mask she'd worn at dinner to drop. Sharon White moved to sit closer to her daughter and turned to face her. "How are you, honey?" she asked concernedly, looking into the pair of bright blue eyes identical to her own.

Lynn let out a weary sigh. "It's so hard, mommy," she said. "I can't stop thinking about what could be happening to her, what they are doing to her. Why would anybody do such a thing to her, mommy? Margaret said Jane had not left the sanatorium. I just don't understand. Who would want to take her?"

Half-way through this presentation of open despair, Sharon had wrapped her arms around her daughter and pulled her close, into her comforting embrace. For now Lynn was her little girl again, and Sharon her mother, who had to shield her from the horrors of this cruel world. She'd missed that.

"I want her back," Lynn sobbed into her mother's blouse.

It had astonished Sharon at first how fondly Lynn had spoken of her employer. Sharon had never had overly warm feelings for her bosses herself. At first she'd thought her daughter was idealizing her movie star of an employer. Blanche Hudson was one of Sharon's favourite actresses from when she was quite young. However she had never had any illusions that Hollywood stars would be much fun off the screen. She'd been pleasantly surprised at finding Miss Hudson so friendly when she and her children had visited her.

It was a crying shame this lovely woman attracted so much trouble. Had she not just this year been abducted by her own maniac of a sister? Sharon felt deeply sorry for the poor mistreated woman.

As she held her daughter ever so fondly, her eyes travelled to the doorway, where her youngest son had just appeared. "Come on in, Danny," Sharon said quietly, motioning for the young man to enter.

Lynn raised her head from its comfortable position on her mother's shoulder. She exchanged a short, and in Danny's case curious look with her brother before the young man's face took on a blank expression, and he turned and left the room.

Sharon turned to face her unimpressed daughter. "I think he's doing much better lately," she confided in the young woman. "Do you know he's taken out all his dolls? I haven't seen them in his room for at least three days now. That must be a good sign, right?"

Lynn looked over to the doorway, where Danny had been standing, and shrugged. "If you say so."

On the third afternoon, finally, Lynn received a more helpful call from detective Parrish. The understanding man reported everything to her as it had happened.

A decent-looking middle class woman in her late thirties, he told her, had stepped into his office an hour before.

"How can I help you, ma'am?" he'd asked after offering the woman a seat.

She had been hesitant to start. "I-I read in the papers that Blanche Hudson was in trouble… again," she'd said.

"Yes," detective Parrish had replied, intrigued.

"Well," the woman had said, wringing her hands nervously, "the thing is, I think I might have seen her."

"You what?" Detective Parrish had nearly exclaimed. "Where? When?"

"Well, I think it was a couple of days ago… I can't be sure," she had answered, slightly taken aback by the detective's zeal. "I was standing outside a shop downtown, and my daughter kept tugging at my arm and pointing at this car. At first I thought nothing of it, but when I finally did look—the traffic lights had just turned green… There was a woman… In the back seat. I think she had a strip of tape plastered over her mouth. She looked terrified. It was only for a split second that I saw her, but I can't get her face out of my head," the woman had finished shakily.

Lynn was torn between joy of finding a new clue to the mystery of Miss Blanche's disappearance and horror of this new knowledge and what it implied. She'd thought not knowing was the worst. But it wasn't.