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expected her to retreat. She didn’t. Instead she yanked the door wide and stepped through.

Chapter 3
    I SHOUTED TO HER, “STOP!”
    Catching someone overstepping was one thing. This woman’s outright disregard for boundaries and of authority—mine—was altogether different. I started after her, dragging my walkie-talkie up as I ducked around the nearest cordon’s brass post. I called for security. “Music Room,” I said into the device. “We’ve got a jumper.”
    Anyone who stepped off the prescribed path of the tour was termed a “line-jumper,” or “jumper” for short. Although we mostly dealt with curious children, adults occasionally needed to be herded, too, and they were always worse. Kids lost awareness of boundaries when they stepped out of line. Adult jumpers, on the other hand, believed the rules didn’t apply to them.
    The dispatcher acknowledged my request and I shoved the device back into my pocket.
    What if?
My pulse quickened at the thought.
What if this is one of our thieves?
    “Hey, you, stop,” I shouted again.
    The woman disappeared from sight. Windowless, the tiny area was dark, and I heard her stumble. I hit the light switch and caught her scrambling to stand up. She turned to face me, eyes panicked and wide, darting back and forth as though looking for escape. But the only way out was through me. About five feet wide by ten feet deep, with a low ceiling that made me duck, it was more accurately termed a closet than a room. Warren Marshfield, Sr., had it installed as a convenient hiding place for his family’s Christmas gifts when the house was built. With the tree and celebrations taking place in the adjacent banquet hall, it was the perfect alcove for his happy stash. As his children grew, however, the room wasn’t needed, and these days it remained empty and quiet.
    “You can’t get away,” I said. “I’ve called security.”
    “Why did you do that?”
    Her question was neither arrogant nor confrontational. From the look on her face and the plaintive tone of her voice, I got the impression she truly couldn’t fathom why I’d felt the need to call for help.
    “You’re trespassing,” I said. “Or hadn’t you noticed?”
    She perched a fist on her hip. I couldn’t tell if her reddening cheeks indicated embarrassment or anger, but she struggled visibly to compose her features. A few years younger than me, she was youthful enough to affect that “Yeah, so?” attitude teenagers often strike when confronted with an uncomfortable situation. For being in her mid- to late twenties, she wore a stylistically odd combination: elasticized hot-pink sweatpants over scuffed white gym shoes. On top, she wore a lace vanilla blouse with plunging neckline and gold hoop earrings the size and shape of pears.
    Streetwalker top, mall-walker bottom,
I thought.
    “Please don’t get me into trouble. I didn’t mean any harm. I was just curious. And I have . . . a problem.”
    “I’ve noticed.”
    “Not like that. When I get something into my head I have to do it.”
    “That’s not much of an excuse.”
    “No, you don’t understand. If an idea pops into my head, like ‘Touch the railing with your right hand,’ I have to do it. Or like ‘Start up the stairs with your left foot.’ Stuff like that.”
    “And if you don’t do the thing that pops into your head? Then what happens?”
    She wrinkled her nose. “Something bad, probably.”
    “But it never has?”
    “I don’t know. I never
don’t
do it.”
    “Sounds like OCD.” When she didn’t agree, I added, “Obsessive-compulsive disorder.”
    She shrugged. “I guess.”
    I heard the comforting sounds of people running. Several people.
    “Come on,” I said, wiggling my fingers. “Let’s go.”
    She gave a last look around, then touched two walls with two fingers each, making sure they hit at the same moment. “Okay. I really didn’t mean any harm. I had to see what was in here. And, like now, I had to touch