She wished he hadn’t told her that. “Do you know why?”

“I think they’re visiting one of their kids. And I imagine it’s got to be an awful sad thing to have someone you love in a place like that, don’t you think?”

She nodded, sorrow tightening her chest. Poor Rosemary.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have said that. Are you visiting someone?”

She swallowed hard. “My sister.”

“Damn. I’m sorry. Did she just arrive?”

“No, she’s been here for six years.”

“Oh,” he said, then furrowed his brow. “I know it’s none of my business, but how come I’ve never seen you on my bus before? Do you normally come with your parents?”

She would have laughed if she didn’t feel like crying. “No, I just found out she’s here.”

“Oh, man,” he said. “I’m sorry. That had to be hard.”

“It was,” she said. “It is.” For a brief second, she thought about asking him to go with her, to take her inside so she wouldn’t be alone. But that was ridiculous.

“Well, good luck, kid,” he said. He shoved his hat back on his head and turned toward the steering wheel. “If your purse shows up, someone’ll give you a call, but like I said, don’t hold your breath. The ‘lost’ list is a lot longer than the ‘found’ list on this route.”

“Okay, thanks,” she said, and started to exit the bus. Halfway down the steps, she looked out at the massive building again and was struck by a jolt of panic. What she wouldn’t give to be getting back on the bus for the return trip home. She stopped and turned to face the driver again. “I guess I’ll see you later then, when you come back to pick us up.”

To her surprise, he frowned. “Sorry, kid. Normally it would be me, but I’m clocking out early to take my wife out to dinner for her birthday.” Then he smiled again and gave her a friendly wink. “You know what they say, happy wife, happy life.”

She forced a weak smile. Going out to dinner to celebrate a birthday sounded like the most wonderful thing in the world right now. Hell, going to the dentist sounded better than what she was about to do. “Oh. Well, thanks again for your help.”

“No problem.” He put his hand on the door lever and waited for her to get out. “Take care now.”

At the bottom of the bus steps, snow filled the backs of her clogs, instantly turning her feet to ice. She turned to wave to the driver, but he was already shutting the door. Swearing under her breath, she made her way along the snow-filled sidewalk toward the brick building. At the top of the frozen steps, she hesitated, wondering if she should knock on the imposing double doors or just walk in. She tried the handle. It turned, one side of the door clicked open, and she went inside.

After stomping her snow-covered clogs on the industrial-size doormat inside a short vestibule, she read the plaque on the wall:ADMISSIONS: ACUTE AND CHRONIC PSYCHIATRIC, GERIATRIC, CHEMICAL DEPENDENCY, MENTAL RETARDATION, AND CHILD-ADOLESCENT WARDS. She frowned. Was she in the wrong place? Wasn’t Willowbrook supposed to be a school? Nothing on the sign said anything about classes or teachers or grades.

The only thing she could do was go in and ask. She went through another set of double doors and entered what looked like a waiting area. Straight ahead, a receptionist wearing cat-eye glasses sat at a desk looking through a stack of papers. Except for an odd, roped-off staircase at one back corner, the waiting room had the false, relaxed feel of a doctor’s office, with a tiled floor, cushioned chairs, and paintings of mountains and lakes on the walls. A corner table offered an assortment of magazines—National Geographic, Psychology Today, andBetter Homes & Gardens—and a small room off to one side held toys and books and child-size chairs. Then she noticed the sinister-looking gargoyles on the banister of the roped-off staircase and was instantly reminded of the rumors about Satanic rituals being held under the old tuberculosis sanitarium. What the hell were those creepy-looking decorations doing in a school? She shivered, then shook off her uneasiness. This was no time to let urban legends make her afraid.

The room was empty except for the Asian couple from the bus. The wife, sitting still as a stone, stared at the floor with a haunted look in her eyes, while the husband rested a comforting hand on her arm. When he glanced up, he gave Sage a tired smile. Not wanting to appear unfriendly, she smiled back, then made her way toward the receptionist.

“Yes?” the receptionist said, putting down a sheet of paper. “What can I do for you?”

“I’m looking for my sister, Rosemary Winters,” Sage said. “She’s a student here, but my stepfather got a call yesterday that she was missing.”

The receptionist’s forehead creased with confusion—or maybe it was distress, it was hard to tell. “Hold on for just a moment, please,” she said. She picked up a clipboard, lifted the first sheet of paper, and ran her finger along the next page. After putting the clipboard down, she gave Sage an efficient smile, then picked up the phone and pointed toward the waiting area. “Please take a seat. Someone will be with you in just a moment.”

“Thank you,” Sage said. She chose a seat near the desk, straining to listen in on the phone conversation. When the receptionist turned her back and whispered into the receiver, dread settled like a rock inside Sage’s chest. Maybe there was bad news about Rosemary and the receptionist didn’t want to be the one to tell her. Then the receptionist hung up, wrote something down, and avoiding Sage’s gaze, busied herself looking through her desk. Sage clasped her hands together and tried to calm down. No. She wasn’t going to think like that. She was imagining things. The receptionist never looked up at the Asian couple either—and why would she? Judging by the size of Willowbrook, she probably saw hundreds of people a day. And she had work to do. There was no time to get emotionally involved with every person who walked in the door.

While she waited, Sage couldn’t help but picture her sister in the same room, her mother and Alan talking to the receptionist, then someone taking Rosemary away. Had her mother asked to see where her daughter would be staying? Had she asked if she’d have her own bed, a private room, or roommates? Had she even cared? Sage’s eyes flooded. Rosemary must have been beyond terrified and confused.

She thought about asking the Aisan couple what they knew about Willowbrook. The sign on the road said it was a school, but it felt more like a hospital. Or worse, an insane asylum. She picked at her fingernails, anxiety quivering in her stomach. It was ridiculous, of course—as absurd as the stories about Cropsey—but she couldn’t stop thinking about the other rumors she’d heard growing up. There was the story about doctors experimenting on kids there, and the one that said Willowbrook was built on Staten Island because poison from the Fresh Kills landfill seeped out of the ground, providing more retards for scientific research.

Before she got the nerve to ask the Asian couple any questions, a door opened at the back of the room and a man in a white uniform entered with a boy of about ten years old in an oversize flannel shirt, scuffed boots, and trousers held up by shoelaces. Maybe it was the man’s brush cut or the hard angle of his jaw, but he looked aggravated as he led the boy across the room by the arm. The boy walked with his head down, his hands fidgeting beneath his chin, his fingers oddly crooked. A terrible foreboding quickened inside her. The man in the white uniform was no teacher. He was an orderly or an attendant of some kind, the kind you’d see in a hospital or insane asylum. The Asian couple got to their feet and rushed over to the boy.

“Oh, Jimmy,” the wife said, taking his fumbling hands in hers. “We’ve missed you so much.”

“Yes,” the husband said. “How are you, son?”

Jimmy stared at them blankly, his mouth twisted to one side.