Note: So WHEW. I'm so impressed with myself that I finished this chapter tonight. I discovered this little thing called tumblr a few days ago (let's be real, it was the MFMM side of tumblr that was my downfall) and it kind of swallowed me whole. BUT I got this chapter written and that's what matters! This is kind of the last chapter before the sh*t starts going down so bear with all my dialogue. Thank you thank you thank you again to all you lovely readers who have stuck it out this far! Y'all are AMAZE!

Inspector Yardman met Jack and Phryne at Madam de Ligne's door. "I'm so sorry, Jack, we haven't been able to locate the boy. We've been questioning the staff, no one has a clue where he could be."

The news seemed to hit Jack like a fist to the gut. He planted his hands on his hips, bowing his head and closing his eyes for a moment. Phryne's heart clenched, and in that moment she felt his disappointment even more acutely than her own. She longed to reach for him, to reassure him, but decided he probably would rather not have to explain the intimate gesture to his colleagues. So she kept her hands at her sides and maintained a professional distance. But it was not easy.

"What about the cook?" Jack pressed, his face hard. "Walter said she got him the job, she would probably know best where he could be."

Yardman sighed. "Hasn't got an inkling. Just said that Walter won't be found unless he wants to be."

"Unless he's being held against his will," argued Phryne. "Is there anything to indicate foul play?"

Yardman shook his head. "Not that we've found yet. It seems that no one has seen him since shortly after you questioned him yesterday."

Jack opened his mouth to respond, but the sound of tires on gravel made everyone turn. The butler rushed past them to help his mistress out of the car. Phryne was surprised but impressed that Lady Océane opted to drive herself; she had struck Phryne as the type to keep a chauffeur.

The Lady took the butler's hand and rose fluidly from the car, smoothing her skirt and cocking her head slightly as she observed the people gathered on her porch. "Inspector, Miss Fisher," she said, acknowledging them both with a tick of her head. "I did not expect to see you again so soon. And you managed to beat me home too! Is everything all right?"

Jack ground his jaw, causing the hollows of his cheeks to deepen slightly. "Madame, we are trying to find your houseboy. Have you any idea where he could be?"

The marchioness blinked once before concerned creased her brow. That blink was such a tiny gesture, but Phryne caught it and could not help but interpret it as a tell.

"Now Walter is missing too? I don't believe this!" answered Océane, removing her gloves and clenching them in one hand. "Have you spoken to Mrs. Martin? She knows the boy best."

Phryne recorded a footnote in her memory that the Lady had called Walter by his first name. A little strange. Perhaps she was just one of those women who made a point to be on first name terms with her staff, but still...it was unexpected, particularly considering he was her lowest employee and she'd only hired him on two weeks prior. Phryne wasn't sure why, but it made her stomach squirm unpleasantly.

"Mrs. Martin does not know where he is," replied Jack in clipped tones. "Inspector Yardman, please call the station if the boy turns up. I will check in later."

And with that, he gripped Phryne abruptly but gently by the elbow and steered her back to the car. Phryne did not try to stop him, trusting that he had his reasons and that he would explain them to her momentarily.

He waited until they were rumbling back down the mansion's gravel drive to speak. His voice was low and gruffer than usual, and his face was turned away from her, eyes gazing out the window. "Rosemary Trant, one of Jane's schoolmates, went missing from Warleigh Grammar two days ago. The day after Lily was taken. The day before his encounter with Jane. I'm sorry I didn't tell you. But we're looking for two girls. And now Walter, too," He wipes his knuckles over the hard line of his mouth then finally turned to look at her. "Where is he keeping them, Phryne?"

Phryne let the information seep into her. Three. Three young people, missing and possibly murdered. One of them from the very place she trusted Jane's safety to, daily. She pulled off the road into a patch of grass, turning the car off so she could process his words. The sound of his voice, strung taut as a bow ribbon, prevented her from scolding him for keeping the news of Rosemary's disappearance from her. Besides, how many times had she withheld necessary information from him? She knew why he had done it, and she would reprimand him later for trying to spare her feelings. But right now, chastising was the last thing he needed. He needed her mind, he needed the formidable machine that was their minds together.

And the best way to jump start that machine was to start asking questions. She swiveled towards him on the seat, wanting to reach out for his hand but fearing the contact would be too distracting for both of them. "And why is he after children and adolescents? Don't these pedophiles generally stick to a type?"

Jack shook his head. "I don't think he's a pedophile, Phryne. Remember, Marjorie was not assaulted."

"She was not raped," Phryne corrected. "Jack, do we dare even hope that they are still alive? The way Marjorie ended up…" She could not think how to complete her sentence.

Jack's hands clenched into fists in his lap. "If they are alive, he's keeping them somewhere. Somewhere he feels secure. But where?"

"An abandoned building?" she suggested, struggling to picture where a man like Verlinden might feel safe holding two young prisoners, perhaps three, if he had Walter as well.

Jack tucked his chin, considering. "He's a careful man," he replied, at length. "A planner. He takes in all the details and controls them. He does not just snatch girls off the streets...he scales an unscaleable wall and spirits a child out of her bed. He fools the principal of a prestigious school into thinking he's a doctor and makes off with one of the students. Then has the audacity to return the next day and continue hunting. I don't think he would leave his captives on the premises of a property he does not control completely."

But Phryne's mind was still whirring on the question of how the victims were connected. It was unsettlingly similar to the baffling victim selection of Murdoch Foyle, and she wanted nothing more than to discover what was driving Verlinden's choices. Different ages, but all three girls were from upper class families and would have earned him a hefty ransom, had that been his goal. But with one child dead without a ransom letter ever being sent, it seemed safe to conclude that money was not Verlinden's motivation.

Something Jack had said suddenly clicked into place, and she was jolted back to the curly strands of blond hair she had found in the grass by the almond tree. "Hunting. Yes, Jack! He's hunting. And he is hunting a type. Do we have a physical description of Rosemary?"

Jack glanced at her with expectation in his eyes. "Light hair, blue eyes. Sixteen years old. Pretty. Rich."

"Rich is part of her physical description?" Despite the gravity of the topic, Phryne could not resist teasing him. "But Jack—Marjorie and Lily...both were blue-eyed blonds too, weren't they?"

Jack's eyes narrowed and he braced one hand on the dash, readjusting his position with a squeal of the leather upholstery. "You think that's the type he's after? Seems an odd distinction to make, especially if he is indeed a pedophile."

One of Phryne's shoulders bobbed. "He's not in his right mind, on that we can both agree, yes?"

Jack gave her a firm nod.

"And I have to wonder...Dot talked about how intently he watched his mistress at the garden party. She's a blue-eyed blond, too."

Jack frowned. "That's rather a stretch. You think he's abducting and murdering children that look like his mistress? What possible reason could have for that?"

Stalling for time to mull this over, Phryne fished a tube of lipstick from her handbag and angled the rearview mirror towards her as she dabbed it on.

Jack eyed her impatiently. "Oh, put that away, will you? You are pristine and you know it."

Phryne's freshly-painted pout widened into a grin. "Ooh, pristine. That is high praise, Jack. Don't fret," she enticed, twitching up an eyebrow at him. "I'll take it off for you later."

His Adam's apple bobbed.

Satisfied with that reaction, she capped the lipstick with a satisfying click and slid it back into her bag. She shuffled her shoulders a bit, arranging herself comfortably once more, and traced her fingers over the glossy steering wheel. She could feel Jack's eyes on her. "Did Océane mention how long Verlinden has worked for her?"

"Only a few years, I think."

"And before?"

"We're waiting for the Belgians to track down his records."

Phryne groaned with frustration. "That could take ages!"

Jack turned up his palms a gesture of helplessness. "Alas, Miss Fisher, unless you have connections with the Police Fédérale—which I daresay would not surprise me—there isn't much help for it. Now start up the car, I have to get back to the station at once. I'd like to map out all of the abduction sites and look at them in relation to the de Ligne residence. See if we can find rhyme or reason."

"No," said Phryne, a sudden thought occurring. "We should go to my house. Jack, what if Walter wasn't kidnapped—what if he ran? I gave him my card before we left and told him to see me if he needed anything. I don't think he has many friends, Jack. He may come to me."

Jack considered, then nodded at her logic. "Don't suppose you have a map of the city at your house?"

Phryne did indeed, and a bit later they had it stretched across the dining room table. Jack was making meticulous dots with a red marking pen at all of the abduction sites. They pored over the map for hours, trying to reason with it, trying to draw some kind of connection between the seemingly random spots where little red circles bled into the paper.

They did not allow themselves a rest until their eyes were stinging from squinting at the minute details of the map, at which point they finally allowed themselves to retire to the parlor. The two found their way into familiar chairs, upholstered in golden velvet. Mr. Butler presented each of them with a sidecar in a crystal glass, but for a long while, neither cocktail was touched.

Phryne swiped edgily at her fringe, ensuring that it lay smooth, and finally took a sip of her drink. "Oh, Jack. Do you think he did something to Walter?"

Phryne counted ten ticks of the clock before Jack replied. "Anything might've happened. Perhaps Walter grew tired of Verlinden's abuse and decided to escape. Or if he was indeed the one who placed Marjorie's body beneath the almond tree, it could be that our questioning frightened him too much and he found somewhere else to hide. There's still no reason to believe he's been harmed. Or that he may not still turn up here."

Phryne sat up a little straighter, her thumb rubbing back and forth over the sharp facets of her crystal tumbler. "He was our breakthrough, Jack. He knows where the girls are being kept—he has to. How else would he find himself in possession of Marjorie's body?"

Jack leaned forward and placed a reassuring hand on her knee. "We're going to find him. Him and Verlinden. The entire city knows that monster's face, it's only a matter of time."

"And if we do find him? And he refuses to give up the children's location?"

Jack knew she was thinking of Murdoch Foyle, who had kept the secret of Janey's resting place for decades. And the possibility that Verlinden would try the same was all too real.

"He'll tell us, in exchange for his life. If we offer take hanging off the table I'm certain he'll get chatty indeed."

Phryne finished the rest of her drink in a single gulp. "If he hasn't found his way onto a boat already."

"Speaking of," said Jack, draining his glass and rising to his feet. "I really do have to get back to the station. No, don't try to argue, I have to be there. I'm leading the investigation, Miss Fisher, and I've been with you more than my own officers," he regarded her intensely for a moment, then added "Not that I haven't enjoyed every second."

"But Jack," Phryne protested. "It's getting late. If you sleep here you can get an early start in the morning. And I promised to take things off for you, remember?"

Heat flared in his eyes and he accepted her touch as she rose and slid her hands inside his jacket, bringing them to rest at his hips. He felt her wedge her fingertips beneath the waistband of his trousers, as if to anchor her grip. "There's a cot at the station that has my name on it. I probably won't get much sleep on it, but I daresay it'll be more than in your bedroom, especially if you're 'taking things off.'"

"I could take things off at the station, too," she cooed, raising on her tiptoes to press what he guessed would turn out to be a perfect print of her lips, just beneath his right ear. He shivered at the contact but gripped her elbows lightly, urging her away.

"That, my wicked Miss Fisher, is most absolutely out of the question. Tomorrow night, I promise you, I will return eagerly to your arms. But I cannot have constables putting in double shifts if I myself have not passed a single night at my desk. And you need to stay here and keep an eye out for Walter. You must telephone me at once if he turns up."

Phryne sighed in surrender but did not pull back, instead brushing a feathery kiss across his mouth. His body keened and tightened with the instinct to pull her in closer, to prolong their contact, to use his tongue and remind himself of the many textures inside her mouth, but to do so would devastate his resolve to leave her.

Sensing his struggle, Phryne released him and stepped back. "Good night, Jack. I'll telephone in the morning."

He reached out, running the backs of his fingers over her cheek, allowing himself that one final touch. "I'll think of you all night."

There was a grinding of metal as a lock turned somewhere across the room. It was the moment Lula had been dreading—she was about to face her captor head-on.

Light burst into the room like a scream and Lula squeezed her eyes shut at the harshness of it after hours and hours of darkness. It seemed to take ages before her eyes were strong enough to tolerate the glare. Too terrified to look upon their malefactor just yet, she examined her surroundings first, searching for the source of the voice that had kept her sane throughout the night—or was it day?

They appeared to be in some sort of basement, for there were no windows. To Lula's right were two built-in mesh lockers, perhaps just large enough to accommodate two grown men standing. Locked inside were Rosemary, who looked to be Lula's own age, and a lovely little girl with golden curls whose dirty face was streaked with tears.

"I've brought all of you some dinner."

Lula's head swung towards the voice in shock—for it was not the thin, accented voice of the man who had lured her away. No indeed—at the door stood a boy, just a little younger than she, carrying a tray with three bowls.

Sensing a possible ally, Lula began to pelt him with panicked questions, but the boy answered none of them. Somewhere in the midst of the commotion she was making, Lily had started to cry.

Seemingly unmoved, the boy shoved bowls of what looked like porridge into the holes that had been cut in the cages before advancing upon Lula.

She had never felt any violent tendencies, not even towards her younger siblings, who could be downright pests even at the best of times. But she wanted to kick out at the boy as he came near her. To lunge for him, to barrel into him headfirst and knock him down. But something in his eyes made her stop.

He extended the bowl to her. "Eat this very carefully," he whispered. "Don't try to get them out. Run. Run for help."

Then he tucked a crumpled bit of paper into her pocket and fled from the room, snapping the light off behind him. But Lula did not hear him latch the door.

She was furious at first. How did he expect her to do anything with her hands tied behind her back? And really, if he wanted to help her, why didn't he just release her himself?

It's no use complaining, Lula told herself, pushing away her frustration. She could choose either to act or stay locked in irons, awaiting whatever awful fate was in store for her.

She sucked in air to calm herself, contemplating the position of her body and how she might fish out what she suspected was a key from the bowl of porridge. She could get on her belly and search the bowl with her mouth...but then how to get the key to the lock at her wrists once she had it?

Her arms were clasped tight and high at her back, but if she pulled hard she might be able to push her backside through and twist her arms to the front.

It was painful, and more than once Lula feared her shoulders might pop out of joint. Her wrists became slippery as the metal began to cut into her skin, but at last she managed to stretch her arms just enough to get her hands under her bottom. From there it was a simple matter of twisting her arms into their natural position and shuffling her legs out from the loop created by her joined wrists.

Just like that, her hands were in front of her.

"What on earth are you doing over there?" hissed Rosemary, sounding frightened at all the noise her fellow prisoner was making.

"Escaping," Lula whispered back. She felt around for the bowl of mush and plunged her hand inside, wiggling her fingers until they met cold iron. She had been correct—it was a key.

Hands slippery with blood and porridge, she groped awkwardly for the padlock between her wrists. It was not easy, and the key kept slipping from her hands.

"Did he give you something?" whispered the shrewd Rosemary. "He gave you a key, didn't he?"

Lula grunted in response, for she had given up trying to use her slippery fingers and had clamped the key between her teeth instead. Yes, this was better. After a few misses the key slid into the hole with a pleasantly solid click. Using her molars for a better grip, Lula wrenched the key to the left. There was a grinding snap and the irons broke open, falling to the floor with a resounding clank.

"I did it," panted Lula as she let the key fall from her lips, hardly believing her own words. "I'm free."

There was a rattling in one of the lockers. "Well don't just stand there like a numpty, get us out too!"

Lula hesitated only for a second. The boy had told her to leave them, but Lula found she couldn't. She had to at least try.

"I'm coming," she whispered back, struggling to her feet despite the protests of her sore muscles. The pit in her stomach told her the key would not possibly work on the cages too. But she would try anyway.

She felt her way in the dark, banging her shin on a bench and biting her lip to keep from shouting out in pain. At last her fingers slipped along the cold mesh of the first cage. She felt for the hinges and the handle and found the padlock that kept Rosemary trapped inside.

"Quickly, quickly! If he didn't come running at that infernal racket you made he must not be here, we have to leave now!"

Lula's thumb brushed over the metal until she found the keyhole. She pushed the key in, twisting it with all her might. The lock held firm.

"It's not the right key," she half-sobbed, hands shaking as she jimmied the key around in the lock. "It won't open!"

She heard Rosemary sigh audibly. She could practically taste the other girl's terror and crushing disappointment. "Go, then, go quickly before he comes back. Get help. Get the police and bring them here. Now, Lula, go!"

Lula nodded in the dark, pocketing the key and wiping her tears on her sleeve. The thought of having to escape by herself was terrifying.