Lynn crossed the gallery and glanced mournfully into Blanche's empty room. It was the fourth morning since the actress's disappearance. Lynn had barely dared to touch anything there, preferring to leave everything the way Miss Blanche had left it. The bed had remained made up for days now, and the curtains were drawn shut. The pleasant scent of Miss Blanche's perfume could still be sensed in the room.

Lynn felt tears pricking at her eyes and turned on her heel. She strode over to the living room and came to a stop in the middle of the room. She didn't have a clue what to do. She'd cleaned every nook and cranny of the house at least twice. Things couldn't have been in better shape around the place, but Lynn was not at all satisfied. It pained her to know that she'd failed to do the most important part of her job, to look after Blanche Hudson. Lynn gazed around the room and at the large bookcase that was standing against the wall next to the hall. She'd used to enjoy reading a lot, and Miss Blanche's novel collection was truly alluring. But Lynn didn't feel like shutting herself away from her problems and escaping into a fictional world. She hovered aimlessly in the living room, her thoughts circling the actress's lovely smile and the ransom call that never came. She sighed at the absolute silence.

It was so terribly quiet in their fairy house. Not that Miss Blanche had ever been a loud person—not at all. But Lynn missed the comfortable silence in which Blanche would sit and knit or read. She would sometimes look up at Lynn bustling about and give her one of her warm smiles and friendly pointers to slow down and not exert herself. Lynn missed the ridiculously proud feeling she would get when Blanche did that.

She glanced at the painting above the fireplace. She had used to admire Miss Blanche's beauty. Now instead of admiration there was a suffocating feeling of dread, for she could not help but think of where this lovely woman was now. Lynn averted her eyes quickly, and spotted the piano in the farthest corner of the room.

She hadn't touched it—save for when she'd been dusting it—since it had arrived in the new house. She'd been tempted to many times, but she had noticed the wariness in Miss Blanche's face when the latter had set her eyes on the instrument, and Lynn didn't want to trigger any memories of the actress's sister if she could help it. But Blanche was not here now.

Lynn sat down on the stool at the piano and opened the fall-board. The piano was old—the originally white keys had been turned yellowish by the passing of time and the black paint had been scraped off in a few places. But with these minor damages came the artistic value which Lynn could almost feel radiating from the regal instrument. Lynn's father had taught her to appreciate such beauty.

Lynn had never learned to play very well, but her father's best friend's wife had been a pianist, and ever since she had been very little Lynn had been fascinated by the magical sound that was born when one pressed a key on that magnificent instrument. This was the first time Lynn felt she understood something about Jane Hudson.

She ran a hand over the top of the piano in a fleeting moment and then gently touched her fingers down on the keys. A familiar melody filled the fairy house.

"Stars shining bright above you,

night breezes seem to whisper, "I love you.""

And in a way, this song helped Lynn feel better for just a little while. Music has that effect on people.

Blanche dropped her hand from where it had been trying to untie her left wrist—the only one her captor had fixed in place before leaving. She stared at the twine with bitter disappointment mixed with growing irritation. She'd hoped she could at least manage to unbind one hand.

She let her head roll back against the bars, and her eyes roamed the poorly lit room with dull indifference. At first she'd had a hard time getting her head around the fact that she'd fallen into the same trap twice. The blonde doll at her feet seemed to be sneering at her.

Blanche didn't bother to turn her head to see in the small mirror, which Danny had placed on the table, the reason for the porcelain Jane's grin. She'd already seen her reflection many times since Danny had finished with her.

The sick man had positioned her back against the headboard. When Blanche had regained consciousness, he had already started combing out her hair. Blanche had been too exhausted to fight him. She'd had trouble swallowing and breathing at first; the hot pain in her throat and chest had been excruciating. She'd watched without protest as he had toyed with her. She'd been too tired and disappointed to even try and resist him.

Now her hair was held in an elegant hair-do that very much resembled the ones of the dolls. Danny had pulled her hair back at first, fastened it there and then left an abundance of loose curls dangling behind her head and over her shoulders. Blanche restrained herself from looking at her reflection that so awfully reminded her of Jane—Blanche herself had never worn these kind of curls. The curling iron had left a long stinging mark on the side of her neck. A pretty wreath of daisies and red roses had been placed on her head.

Danny had brought with him a plentiful supply of different beauty products of which Blanche guessed he'd know how to use only very few. He must have poured the whole of his sister's dresser's contents into his bag.

After careful consideration the young man had finally decided to go easy on her. Blanche was now wearing a layer of ugly blue eyeshadow, an intense patch of rouge on either cheek and an awfully garish shade of red on her lips. Not to mention the vulgar amount of mascara and the beauty spot above the left corner of her mouth that made her look identical to the rest of Danny's collection.

Blanche let her head fall back on the pillow when the sound of the garage door closing behind Danny reached her attentive ears. This third day had been the hardest to bear yet. Not because the young man had been violent or demanding or particularly unhinged but because he was the complete opposite.

Blanche had prepared herself for another peculiar game of his. She'd expected another slap or wound. She had tried relentlessly all morning to reach far enough to pick up the unused hair pin Danny had left on the bedside table the day before. Naturally, she'd been unsuccessful, since Danny, even in his madness, was far too clever to leave her a means of escape.

When he had returned today, wearing a distant or even, in Blanche's opinion, blank expression, Blanche hadn't known what to think. She'd feared that any moment his iron fingers would be around her neck again, swiftly and mercilessly squeezing the life out of her. She hadn't dared to move a muscle when he'd reached out and stroked her head, a look of absent admiration in his eyes. He hadn't said two words to her during his visit.

In a slightly discomforting and yet wonderfully promising way he reminded Blanche of Jane, whose episodes of madness had usually lasted a couple of days at the most, after which she had always returned to her slightly unbalanced but normal self. Even the last time she had eventually resurfaced from her pool of insane hatred for Blanche and attempted to take care of her again. Only Jane had been too far gone to fully understand the error of her ways. Blanche hoped with all her might that Danny would return to his sanity soon. Otherwise Blanche wouldn't have a bright future to look forward to.

She raised a trembling hand to her bruised neck and closed her eyes, trying to ignore the burning pain that shot through her throat every time she swallowed. "God help me!" she thought feverishly.

Detective Parrish let out a long weary sigh. He was fighting to keep his eyes open as he stared at the file of Blanche Hudson's case. It had already gone dark outside, the table lamp sent a cheerily radiant ring of light across the writing desk, as if it were mocking the man sitting at the desk, an emptied coffee cup in one hand and an unfinished file in the other.

He squinted his eyes at the picture of the beautiful woman smiling at him from the file. "How could anyone want to harm such a heavenly creature?" he asked himself drowsily.

Detective Parrish flipped through the few pages. He was sure he was missing something. He had followed every one of the regrettably few leads he'd had and each time he'd reached a dead end. He couldn't possibly look into every black car in Los Angeles. And who was to say the car was even from Los Angeles or even still there?

Detective Parrish had never liked an unsolved case. He hadn't been able to sleep for a week after the last time he'd let an unsolved case be closed. This one didn't give him any peace either. Hadn't the poor woman suffered enough already?

He stood and headed into the office kitchen for another cup of coffee. He had to solve this case. If not for any other reason, then for the sake of that sweet White girl.

In Jane's defence and to explain Blanche's train of thought, I should mention that towards the end of the book, Jane resurfaced from her madness for a while and tried to take care of Blanche, bringing her actual food and water and begging for Blanche to help protect her from the police. Eventually she even called a doctor for Blanche.