Copyright

HarperCollinsPublishers

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2016

Copyright © Alex Barclay 2016

Cover design layout © HarperCollinsPublishers 2016

Cover photographs © Stephen Mulcahey/Arcangel Images (boy); Mike Dobel/Arcangel Images (background)

Alex Barclay asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

This is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books

Ebook Edition © SEPTEMBER 2016 ISBN: 9780007494583

Version: 2016-08-10

Praise for Alex Barclay:

‘Gripping, stylish, convincing’ Sunday Times

‘The rising star of the hard-boiled crime fiction world, combining wild characters, surprising plots and massive backdrops with a touch of dry humour’ Mirror

‘Tense, no-punches-pulled thriller that will have you on the edge of your deckchair.’ Woman and Home

‘Explosive’ Company

‘Compelling’ Glamour

‘Excellent summer reading … Barclay has the confidence to move her story along slowly, and deftly explores the relationships between her characters’ Sunday Telegraph

‘The thriller of the summer’ Irish Independent

‘If you haven’t discovered Alex Barclay, it’s time to jump on the bandwagon’ Image Magazine

Dedication

For my editor, the wonderful Sarah Hodgson

Epigraph

To a Dying Girl

How quickly must she go?

She calls dark swans from mirrors everywhere:

From halls and porticos, from pools of air.

How quickly must she know?

They wander through the fathoms of her eye,

Waning southerly until their cry

Is gone where she must go.

How quickly does the cloudfire streak the sky,

Tremble on the peaks, then cool and die?

She moves like evening into night,

Forgetful as the swans forget their flight

Or spring the fragile snow,

So quickly she must go.

Clinton F. Larson

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Praise

Dedication

Epigraph

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

Acknowledgements

If you enjoyed The Drowning Child, try the previous book in the Ren Bryce series

About the Author

Also by Alex Barclay

About the Publisher

PROLOGUE
February 12

Jimmy Lyle was lying, bleeding, by the pond in Montgomery Park. Behind him, at the water’s farthest edge, four ice-white swans moved with mechanical serenity, necks as long as their bodies, black eyes on brighter views.

Jimmy drifted in and out of consciousness, aware of rallying bystanders, footsteps, the tones of cell phone keys, raised voices, concern. He could smell his own blood. He had taken multiple blows to the face before he dropped to the ground, powerful kicks to the ribs and abdomen as he lay there. His left eyeball was swollen like a nut. His right eyelid flickered. Darkness to light, darkness to light.

When Jimmy was a boy, his favorite toy was a slide puzzle. He remembered how quickly his little thumbs pushed the tiles around to put the photo of a gray duckling back together again. Sometimes, he would close his eyes as he clicked the final piece into place, hoping that when he opened them, the duckling would have turned into a swan.

‘His little girl!’ someone was shouting. ‘His little girl! She’s gone! She was right there! Then a guy showed up … he just … he beat the shit out of him! Took his little girl!’

There was a man’s voice, an authoritative one. ‘Do you think you could give me a description of the attacker, ma’am?’

‘Short white guy, stocky, brown hair, khakis and a dark polo shirt, white sneakers too,’ said the witness. ‘Early thirties is my best guess.’

‘Could that have been a uniform of some kind he was wearing?’ said the officer. ‘Like a store uniform?’

‘I … don’t think so – it was just, you know, those boring guys, what they wear. Guys with a boring job and a nice wife back home.’

‘And the little girl?’ said the officer.

‘She was seven years old, eight?’ said the witness. ‘Pink leggings, pink top with a rainbow on it and something writ across it and … white socks, white sneakers? She’d been crouching down, right there, feeding the swans with her daddy.’

‘This man right here,’ said the officer.

‘Yes!’ thought Jimmy Lyle. ‘Yes!’ Blood bubbled from his mouth. More footsteps, two men, crouched beside him.

‘Yes – him!’ said the witness. ‘I’m sorry. I can’t look at him. Is he … gonna make it?’

‘He may be able to hear you, ma’am,’ said the officer. ‘Keep talking me through what you saw.’

‘The rest was a blur,’ said the witness, ‘except that the little girl must have fallen in, her daddy tried to pull her out, but next thing that man was down on him, beating on him, taking his little girl. It was crazy.’

Jimmy Lyle felt a presence beside him.

‘Can you tell me your name, sir?’ He was checking his pulse. He was a paramedic. Jimmy could feel a second man kneeling to his right.

‘No – I can’t tell you my name,’ thought Jimmy Lyle. ‘I can’t.’

They could search his pockets for ID, but he had none. He had no cell phone. He felt a hard pinch on his finger and recoiled from the pain. Then the paramedics’ words, back and forth, interchangeable voices, descriptions, instructions. ‘His GCS is nine, get the collar, put on O₂ and put it on fifteen liters …’

Jimmy could feel hands on his head, holding it secure, as a collar was strapped around his neck, the padding tight against his ears, the sound sucked from the world. The paramedics inserted the IV, delivered the shot of dopamine that would increase his blood pressure, hung the bag that would fill his veins with circulating fluid.

At first, it worked. Then, the numbers changed; his respiratory rate dropped from twelve breaths per minute to four, his GCS fell to six.

They were about to tube him when Jimmy Lyle coughed, and his heart surged like a lagging runner in the home straight.

As he was stretchered past the pond, Jimmy Lyle thanked God for misperception, for absent facts, for the blind faith of good hearts and decent souls. The passersby should have passed on by. That little girl wasn’t ‘his little girl’. The man who beat him to a pulp was the little girl’s father. He had told her to turn away and cover her ears as he dragged Jimmy into the bushes and beat him without letting up, without caring whether it would send him to the ER or his grave. Then he fled, covered in Jimmy’s blood, his thick arms clutching his weeping, soaking-wet daughter to his chest.

Jimmy Lyle was a piece of shit, and, thanks to the kindness of strangers and the dedication of paramedics, remained a living, breathing, piece of shit.

1
March 6

Lake Verny spat and crackled with a relentless, piercing rain. Clyde Brimmer sat at a table in the window of The Crow Bar, looking beyond his reflection, beyond the candlelight that captured a face plowed for years by whiskey and the elements. In his tight right hand, he was holding a round white moonstone.

‘That lake has secrets that the rain wants to tell.’ Clyde spoke loud enough to be heard, but there was only one person there to hear him, and she was doing nothing more than standing behind the bar and staring ahead, her amber hair and freckles glowing in the dim light above her. She had showered today, at least. She had made it. Strike another day off the bleak remainder of the life of Shannon Fuller.

‘It won’t stop ’til it gets to the bottom of something,’ said Clyde. ‘Might be the lake bed, might be …’

Clyde liked to trail off; it was his lonely man’s way of leaving a door open to further engagement, of luring more questions from whoever might be listening. He spoke to customers of his careful choosing, and he spoke to Shannon. He trusted her, without even realizing that in all his years of drinking, she was the only bartender who could set his pace, who could keep him a civilized man until closing time. He had better nights when she was on.

He shifted the moonstone into the grip of his two smallest fingers, then hammered the rutted tabletop to mimic the rain.

‘I have no doubt,’ said Shannon, dealing another card from the bartender’s conversational deck – I have no doubt, it sure is, they sure do, can’t argue with that, who’re you telling, can’t beat it, you bet, sounds about right …

Nothing moved except her mouth.

‘One for the road,’ said Clyde, and Shannon Fuller moved like someone had put a coin in a slot and a mechanism was kicked off. It came to an end when her reflection joined Clyde’s in the window as she set a Scotch down in front of him.

‘One for the road to Tate,’ she said. Tate was the town five miles away; halfway there was the brokedown house Clyde inherited from his grandmother. Some nights, Shannon gave him a ride home. Other nights, it was whoever else was high on pity.

Clyde raised his hands, gripping the air. ‘It’s got the wrong energy,’ he said. He looked up at Shannon. ‘Can you feel it?’

‘I can’t feel much of anything right now,’ thought Shannon, but she kept that line in the buzz-kill deck – the cards no good bartender dealt; I’m lonely, I’m divorcing, I’ve got cancer, I’ve been abandoned, I’m lost, I’m fucking dying inside, I’m alone, I’m alone, I’m alone.

‘I can feel it,’ said Clyde, clearing her pain to vault into his own – in his chest, in his heart, as he watched the lake rising, watched the water slap up over the banks.

Shannon Fuller knew that, in a sober state, Clyde never would have spoken about the energy of the lake that had taken away her eleven-year-old son, Aaron, only six weeks earlier. Aaron’s was the last body Clyde had embalmed before he was fired for drinking on the job. Two weeks earlier, when Shannon crawled back to work to pay the bills, Clyde had stood weeping at the bar, clutching her clasped hands, swearing he was sober when he tended to her boy. And she believed him.

She gave him some work since then, odd jobs at the cabins and in the grounds. And when he wasn’t doing that, he was in The Crow Bar, drinking until eleven at night, he and Shannon overlooking the killing lake, finding unspoken comfort in their somber bond, as the last two people to lay their hands on Aaron.

The door to the bar slammed back against the wall and Seth Fuller walked in, his tall, thin frame swamped in oversized rain gear. He snapped his head back to shed the hood, and pulled the door closed behind him.

‘Lady and gentleman, we’ve got an escaped convict,’ he said, in a dramatic old-style newsreel voice. He smiled, then switched back to his own – a slow, young and dumber one. ‘He broke free from my alma mater yesterday afternoon. Well, during a hospital visit.’ Seth glanced down at Clyde’s full glass, then shook his jacket off, turning back to hang it on a wooden peg. ‘So,’ he said, ‘BOLO for bald brick shithouse, Franklin J. Merrifield – white male, dumb as a box of frogs, forty-eight years old, meth-cooking, drug-dealing, motherfucking, teen-raping, fire-starting—’

‘You knew the guy?’ said Clyde.

‘I knew the guy,’ said Seth. ‘Approach with caution.’ He smiled. ‘And that was tonight’s public service announcement from Tate PD with a few insider extras from reformed maker of trouble, prisoner number G65746.’ He walked up to the bar. ‘Aunt Shannon, I am at your service.’

They shared the same glow, the same amber-colored freckles, but the rest of Seth – the shaven head, the narrow features, the flesh, the bones beneath – came together in a colder, darker way.

Seth tilted his head toward Clyde.

‘Take a seat,’ said Shannon. ‘Let me pour you a drink. He’s like a scared puppy tonight.’

Clyde’s right leg was bouncing now, striking the underside of the table, rippling the whiskey in his glass. It wasn’t long before it tipped over. He chased it across the table with his hand, but the rich flow of liquor through his veins and his shot reflexes meant all that happened was the moonstone slipped from his grip, skidded over the edge, and landed in the fallen whiskey.

Shannon grabbed a cloth and rushed to Clyde.

‘Do not move,’ she said. She knew he had no balance, drunk or sober. She knew Clyde as well as he didn’t know himself.

He stopped, then settled again in his seat. Shannon crouched down beside him, stopped when she saw the moonstone.

‘Is this yours?’ she said, picking it up.

He nodded. She stood up and shook the whiskey off it. A drop struck the candle’s flame. It sizzled and died.

‘It’s a moonstone,’ said Clyde. ‘The traveler’s stone – it protects those who cross water when the moon shines.’

His gaze moved from the wet black candle wick to what lay beyond the window.

‘You can’t trust water and you can’t trust fire,’ said Clyde. ‘And out there? That lake’s ablaze.’

Franklin J. Merrifield drifted awake from a profound, distressing sleep. What followed was the slow realization that he was not in his cell. He could smell rain, grass, trees, earth. The last time he smelled those smells was on that final shackled walk from the courthouse.

The only sound he could hear was rain hitting glass.

Glass?

He waited for his eyes to adjust, for shapes to form, for light to filter in, but the darkness was absolute. His heart started to pound wildly. His head felt strange, like it was overstuffed with packing materials; foam or twisted-up pieces of brown paper. His body felt solid, weighted down. His jaw was clamped shut. When he opened it, he felt the skin on his lips tear. He could taste blood.

He had just one question:

How the fuck did I get here?

2

Special Agent Ren Bryce was sitting in Manny’s Bar on 38th and Walnut in Denver.

It has been six months since my last alcoholic beverage.

She was five beers down.

Until tonight.

It was six months since a shooting at the Rocky Mountain Safe Streets Task Force, when a serial killer called Duke Rawlins had taken the lives of two of her friends and colleagues, and her boyfriend of one year, Ben Rader.

She picked up her cell phone.

Don’t.

She put it down, slumped back in the bar stool, closed her eyes.

What if that had no back on it oh my God I am so fucking hammered imagine falling off a bar stool hitting your head and dying what a way to go appropriate Jesus.

She opened her eyes, and picked up her phone again. She went into Album.

Don’t.

She found a photo of the boyfriend she had yet to call her former, her late … Ben Rader. The Late Ben Rader.

Tears filled her eyes. In the photo, Ben was cooking, smiling at her over his shoulder. He had a beaming smile, and was one of the most beautiful men she had ever known; short, tanned, dark-haired, fit.

You look so young.

A man as handsome as Ben Rader could have relied on his looks, developed nothing more than his body, but Ben developed a soul that radiated kindness.

I loved watching you cook Jesus you’re dead now you’re fucking dead this is so screwed up dead Jesus and you only look about eighteen you are so hot were no I can’t do past tense are are are amazing arms steady grip strength of all kinds love love love gone gone gone stop stop stop.

She still had his texts; they felt like a weight in her phone that she was always aware of, but could never remove.

Can’t imagine ever sending another loving text filthy text miss-you text to any other man I don’t want a stranger in my bed I don’t want another man in my head.

Her cell phone rang. GARY flashed on the screen.

No way.

Her boss, Supervisory Special Agent, Gary Dettling.

Yeah hey Gary I’m in Manny’s yeah the bar where the serial killer who killed our friends picked up one of his victims yeah what is that telling you what is it telling me who fucking cares have you been drinking Ren yes Gary two beers and I’m about to leave …

She let it go to voicemail.

Gary left a message, and followed it with a text.

Call me – CARD

Shit.

Three months earlier, she and Gary had joined the North West Region’s Child Abduction Rapid Deployment team – CARD. There were sixty members in the country, split across five regions, ready to deploy at the invitation of local law enforcement to help in the crucial early stages of a child disappearance or abduction. Though an invitation was welcome, it wasn’t a requirement – when it came to a ‘child of tender years’, twelve years old and under, the FBI was automatically involved, whether there was an interstate element or not.

Ren called him back.

Breathe speak slowly breathe speak slowly enunciate.

‘Hi, Gary – sorry I missed you.’

‘Get a good night’s sleep,’ said Gary. ‘We’re—’ He paused. ‘Where are you?’

Um … ‘On my way home.’

‘From a bar?’

‘From a bar.’

Pause. ‘We’re booked on a six a.m. flight to Portland, Oregon, heading for the town of Tate. Missing twelve-year-old boy: Caleb Veir, last seen by his father at seven forty-five this morning when he left the family home to take the fifteen-minute walk to school.’

‘OK.’ Say as little as possible.

Pause. ‘Ren—’

‘See you at five.’ Ren hung up.

Step away from the phone.

She put it on the bar, picked up her beer and drank the last of it. She ordered another. She checked her watch.

Ugh Denver airport five a.m.

Denver airport – where memories flew at her like razors, where she had welcomed Ben, kissed him, hugged him, seen him off. Denver airport – the last place she was before she drove home to find out that he had been killed.

She looked back at his photograph as she waited for her drink.

That’s it. Life over.

I should have taken more photos.

Her stomach turned.

You were an asshole to him that night anyway just delete it you were always an asshole to him he loved you and you were an asshole.

She started to cry.

Get your shit together you stupid bitch go home just go you’re a mess everyone’s looking at you you mess.

She stood up, pulled on her coat, paid for the drinks. She walked into the cold night, and her stomach spasmed, her throat constricted.

You fucking loser again fucking asking to enrage Gary you self-destructive I can still get five hours’ sleep yeah whatever whatever I’m still here I’m still alive no one died yes they did you asshole yes they did fucking die.

She started to walk toward her Jeep.

Shiiiiiit. My CARD team Mac is at the office. Fuuuck.

Ren pulled up outside the Livestock Exchange Building where Safe Streets had the fourth floor. She put the Jeep into park, paused until her eyes could focus.

I can’t believe I drove here of course you drove you don’t give a shit a bit late to care now you loser you’re going to die.

She grabbed her phone, scrolled through iTunes, picked a song from the filthy rap collection, and put in her earpods. Since the shootings, it was her routine any time she walked into Safe Streets alone: she didn’t want to risk hearing the banging door she heard that evening, which she found out later had been the door to the basement where Ben’s body had been thrown after Duke Rawlins shot him dead.

As she walked toward the building, a car door slammed behind her. She didn’t see it, couldn’t hear the footsteps behind her. She jogged up to the door, stood in front of the keypad.

Jesus could everything just be in focus.

She punched in the wrong code.

Shit.

She tried a second time, punched in the wrong code again.

Fuuuck.

Just as she was trying a third time, she saw the silhouette of a man reflected in the glass.

Oh oh oh fuck.

She pulled out her earpods with her left hand, went for her sidearm with the right.

‘Ren! Don’t fire – it’s Cliff! It’s me!’

Ren turned around, weapon raised, then quickly lowered. ‘Jesus Christ, Cliff. You have never looked more beautiful than you do right now.’

‘Jesus Christ yourself! And you have never looked so deadly.’ Cliff James was her big-bear buddy and colleague. ‘Finally,’ he said, ‘after all these years, you’ve heard my girl voice …’

‘It’s over,’ said Ren. She smiled and opened her arms.

Cliff came up to her, arms wide. He paused. ‘Hey, pretty lady – have you been crying?’

‘Possibly …’

He recoiled a fraction. ‘Oh, oh, no. And drinking.’ He glanced back at Ren’s Jeep.

‘I know. I know,’ said Ren. ‘But keep it coming with the hug.’

Cliff hugged her tight, kissed the top of her head.

Ren looked up at him. ‘I need my CARD laptop. I’m flying to Portland with Gary in the morning.’

‘Aw, Jesus, Ren …’

‘I know, I know.’ I know I know I know.

‘For someone who knows a lot of things …’ Cliff reached around her, punched in the right code, pushed the door open. Ren stepped out from under his arm, let him put his foot inside the door. He dangled his car keys in front of her. ‘Why don’t you tell me where that laptop is, go wait in my car, and let me take the lady home.’

Aw, maaaan. ‘I’m a loser.’

‘You are, Renderland, you are. But nothing’s gonna change my love for you.’

Ren grabbed his arm, squeezed. Then she watched how he took the stairs slower than he used to and she felt a pain in her chest.

You instinctive knight-in-shining-armor with your own burden of grief to deal with.

Cliff’s wife, Brenda, whom he adored, had passed away from cancer just two months after the shootings at Safe Streets.

Everywhere I turn …

Ren looked around the foyer.

Leave.

She stepped inside.

You come here every day why are you doing this now you’ve been drinking this will be a shitshow don’t.

She walked ten paces in, stared at the basement door.

Bang … bang … bang … bang … bang.

And the sensation struck, the sensation that terrified her, like she was being drowned in a rush of cold air or water or something that she wouldn’t rise above, that she couldn’t breathe through, something she would succumb to. She sucked in a huge breath, and another, and another.

And then Cliff was back, and he had taken her in his big arms, and he had held her tight as she shook. She looked up at him, still holding on, her eyes wide. ‘How did it all come to this?’

‘I don’t know, Renheart. I don’t know.’

‘It’s like someone took a slash hook to our lives.’

3

Ren was settled into a dark corner of a dark restaurant in Denver airport by four thirty a.m. She ordered coffee and a pineapple juice. She popped two Advil.

Somebody fucking shoot me. Ugh. Do some work. My brain is fried. Do something easy.

She opened Safari.

Fuck, the light.

She dimmed the screen and googled the town of Tate.

Tate, Oregon, nestled in the Willamette Valley, fifty miles south-east of Portland, fifteen miles east of Salem, home to 3,949 residents.

The first images were of a quaint, well-kept town, built around one intersection, its most prominent building a two-story red-brick family restaurant with Bucky’s written in red cursive at a jaunty angle on the front.

The public announcements of Tate PD were about fallen trees, storm damage, and buckling up to avoid getting a citation.

Caleb Veir’s disappearance had hit the news and there was a photo of him alongside the article. He was a sturdy-looking boy with dark, side-parted hair, pale skin with freckles across his nose and cheeks, and a naturally downturned mouth.

A mournful-looking kid.

Ren jumped as a figure came into her peripheral vision.

Gary. Jesus. Fuck hangover jumpiness.

‘Hey.’ He sat down beside her. He glanced at the watery pineapple juice pooled in the dying ice of her glass. He knew it was her hangover cure of choice.

Please just smell my beautiful wintergreen smokescreen breath.

‘Caleb Veir was last seen by his father, John, at seven forty-five yesterday morning,’ said Ren. ‘When did you get the call from Tate PD?’

‘Right before I called you last night,’ said Gary. He nodded. ‘Yes – it’s strange. The kid didn’t make it to school, but when his teacher called his mom, she couldn’t get hold of her. She left a message, then left one for the father on his cell phone and at work. He’s a corrections officer at Black River Correctional Institution outside Salem. An inmate escaped the previous day, so the teacher figured John Veir would be caught up with that and didn’t want to bother him: she figured Caleb was at home being looked after by his mom anyway – a lot of kids had been off school with a virus.’

‘Jesus Christ,’ said Ren. ‘Wouldn’t the teacher have persevered? And why wasn’t the mom answering her phone?’

‘She wasn’t home the previous night and no one could reach her the following day.’

‘Why not?’ said Ren.

‘I don’t have all the details,’ said Gary.

‘So, Caleb was alone with his father the night before he disappeared?’ said Ren. ‘What’s the father’s deal?’

‘John Veir, fifty-seven years old, ex-military, CO at BRCI for the past five years.’

Military man, corrections officer, son about to hit his teens … hmm.

There was a short silence.

‘Sylvie Ross is flying in too,’ said Gary. Sylvie Ross was an agent and child forensic interviewer. ‘I’m still seeing her.’

Loving the defiant tone. ‘That’s your business,’ said Ren.

‘I just wanted you to know,’ he said.

Why – so I’ll know to exercise the muscles of my blind eye again?

‘Thanks,’ said Ren. Honored to be part of your cheating ways.

He turned to Ren. ‘Paul Louderback’s coming too.’ There was weight to his gaze.

Tou-fucking-ché.

Paul Louderback was Ren’s former PT instructor at Quantico. He was ten years her senior, married throughout their emotional affair, then briefly separated from his wife when he and Ren slept together. He was her kill-your-curiosity fuck, the eliminate-years-of-buildup fuck. After they slept together, Ren had officially gotten together with Ben, and Paul got back with his wife. Contact had dropped since then, until he called her when he heard about the shooting.

What will my heart do when I see you again, Paul Louderback? Because I’ve no control over that.

Your heart will betray Ben and you’ll feel like shit.

The plane landed in Portland in torrential rain. Ren drove to Tate without music, listening, instead, to the sound of the rain pounding the car. It was soothing at first, but as it fell harder, faster, louder, she turned on the radio to drown it out. She focused on Gary’s car, up ahead, copied every move he made.

I am on autopilot.

What the fuck was I doing, driving last night?

Jesus. Christ.

Cliff. God bless him.

I am a shitshow.

She shook her head.

Paul Louderback … his mouth … his hands … his … one night … sexy and just a little dirty … not dirty enough … like he was unleashed but didn’t know what to do with it … an old-school gentleman trying to be filthy … he just didn’t have that thing …

That Ben and I had. That fuck-me-always-any-way-you-want-to thing.

Ben.

Stop.

As Ren drove past the Welcome to Tate sign, she saw black ribbons tied around some of the trees.

Not very hopeful.

As she approached the gates to Tate PD, she felt her stomach clench: it was chaos – news vans, reporters, law enforcement, volunteers, a K-9 Unit.

Gary slowed to a crawl in front of her, and a young Tate PD officer parted the crowd and guided them both through and into two reserved parking spaces. The building was single-story, red-brick, with a parking lot on three sides and a strip of grass planted with trees along the other.

Inside, the lobby was small, clean, and pine-scented, with fresh plants and a wall covered with community photographs that spanned decades of sporting events, picnics, barbecues, charity drives, swim meets – beaming police officers, teachers, schoolchildren, and senior citizens.

Ren and Gary checked in at the desk and took a seat.

Within minutes, a short man with a tight, round stomach came out to meet them. He looked to be in his late fifties, with sad dark brown eyes and a puffy face, pockmarked on the left side. Ren and Gary stood up.

‘Pete Ruddock,’ he said. ‘Thank you for coming.’ As he shook Ren’s hand, he gave her a smile that was all about the warmth that radiated from those sad eyes.

I like you already, Pete Ruddock. Whoa. Is that pity in your eyes? Oh, God – have you read about me? You have to know what happened at Safe Streets. How could you not know?

Because he wouldn’t have been told which CARD team members were coming to Tate. Jesus.

‘Nice to meet you,’ said Ren. ‘I’m Ren Bryce.’

‘Good to meet you, Ren.’

‘Gary Dettling,’ said Gary, shaking Ruddock’s hand.

Ruddock picked up immediately on Gary’s get-to-the-point ways.

‘Something’s a little hinky with the parents,’ he said.

4

Ruddock guided Ren and Gary to his office. It was neat and tidy, with family photos lined across the lower shelf of a walnut cabinet. The biggest one, framed in gold, was a nineties-looking shot of Ruddock, with his arm around a short, smiling woman and two boys and a girl who looked to be in their early teens.

‘What’s your major concern?’ said Gary.

‘There are a few things,’ said Ruddock. ‘The delay in reporting Caleb missing is one.’

Ren nodded. ‘Yes, we thought that – did they explain why? Caleb should have arrived home from school at around four thirty, right?’

‘Yes,’ said Ruddock. ‘But Teddy Veir, Caleb’s mom – didn’t come home until six thirty yesterday evening. She’d been staying with a friend in Salem, Sunday night, and she was at a trade show there yesterday – she works part time in Gemstones, a kind of New-Agey shop here in Tate – sells crystals and incense and angel healing things. Her cell phone battery had died overnight and she had left her charger at home.’

‘Surely someone at the venue could have charged her phone for her,’ said Ren.

‘She said she didn’t think to ask,’ said Ruddock. ‘When she got home, she figured Caleb was at a friend’s house and that he’d be back for supper by seven. She charged her phone, called Caleb’s, left him voicemails. His phone, we now know, was upstairs in his bedroom, powered off. Teddy also tried her husband’s phone, which was diverted. She left voicemails for him, then called BRCI and they said they’d get him to call. When she checked her own messages, she heard one from Caleb’s teacher, Nicole Barton, made at eight thirty a.m., wondering if Caleb was OK, that he hadn’t shown up for school. At this point, about seven thirty p.m., with still no sign of Caleb, Teddy called neighbors and friends, but no one had seen him, and the kids from his class confirmed that he hadn’t been to school that day. Now, Teddy was panicking. At seven forty-five, she called BRCI again and insisted she would wait on the line to speak with John. He came home right away when she told him Caleb was missing.’

‘So, John Veir was working what shift?’ said Ren.

‘Well, here’s the other strange thing,’ said Ruddock. ‘He was rostered in to work at seven a.m., but he didn’t show up until the three p.m. shift.’

‘Nobody called from work to check where he was that morning?’ said Ren.

‘No,’ said Ruddock. ‘They were taken up with the escaped inmate from the day before.’

‘Wouldn’t that have made them even more suspicious if Veir didn’t show?’ said Ren.

‘I guess they trust him,’ said Ruddock.

‘I’m not buying that Veir screwed up his start time,’ said Ren. ‘An ex-military man who works a standard shift arrangement gets it wrong the same morning his son disappears?’

‘The only thing is,’ said Ruddock, ‘Veir was filling in for someone yesterday. It was supposed to be his day off. So it wasn’t part of his usual routine.’

‘Still,’ said Ren. ‘And when the school called, he didn’t pick up?’

‘He said he was home, but he didn’t realize the ringer was turned off.’

‘That sounds like bullshit to me,’ said Ren, ‘because he brought his cell phone to work, and he would have seen the missed call.’

Ruddock nodded. ‘Another thing that’s bothering me is that we’ve gotten reports from some of the neighbors that they heard raised voices coming from the house quite regularly. The father and son. Apparently, mother and son were very close.’

‘Did they say what the arguments were about?’ said Ren.

‘They didn’t always hear everything, but the general sense is that it was about Caleb keeping in line, not talking back, that kind of thing,’ said Ruddock. ‘We also saw something at the house – scuff marks on the bottom of Caleb’s door. On the inside. Like it had been kicked at. And the doorjamb looked damaged, as if someone was trying to open a locked door.’

‘They lock him in?’ said Ren.

Ruddock shook his head. ‘Both parents said the door was never locked, and that they had never even seen a key.’

‘We only have the father’s word that Caleb was alive and well yesterday morning,’ said Ren. ‘No one else can confirm that. What if something went down the night before? The father locks Caleb in, Caleb goes nuts, the father goes too far. And if that happened Sunday night, that would have given him a lot of time to figure out a plan to get rid of the body.’

‘No traces of blood were found anywhere in the house or in the garage,’ said Ruddock. ‘Plus no one saw John Veir leave the house Sunday evening, which of course, doesn’t mean a whole lot, but he hasn’t come up on any of the traffic cams yet.’

‘And what about yesterday?’ said Ren.

‘There aren’t a lot on that route,’ said Ruddock, ‘but we have him at a 7-Eleven on I-5 at 14.05. Bought a bottle of water, some gum.’

‘Any dramatic eyeballing of the security camera?’ said Ren. ‘Any sense that he was trying to time-stamp his activity to prove he couldn’t have been elsewhere?’

‘Well, he looked up when he walked into the store,’ said Ruddock. ‘But he could have done that anyway.’

‘Did he always stop on his way to work?’ said Ren. ‘Like, I hate doing that – I want to get in my car – bam – arrive in work, no stops.’

‘Guess it depends on how long the journey is,’ said Ruddock. ‘His is an hour. But I didn’t ask him. I didn’t think it was significant.’

‘Clearly you still don’t,’ said Ren, smiling.

Ruddock smiled back.

Lovely smile.

‘What have you done in terms of a search?’ said Gary.

‘As much as we could in darkness last night,’ said Ruddock. ‘We have a search organized to start here at midday. We wanted to make that appeal at the press conference too, maximize volunteer numbers.’

‘What about the missing inmate?’ said Gary. ‘Could he be connected to this?’

‘Too early to say,’ said Ruddock. ‘His name is Franklin J. Merrifield – he’s eighteen months into a thirty-five year sentence for robbery, homicide, rape, and arson. He was admitted to Salem Hospital on Sunday because of a seizure, and escaped while he was there – the guard watching him was sleeping, but may have been drugged. Whether the seizure was faked, and this was all planned ahead of time, we don’t know. And seizure activity doesn’t always show up in EEGs. He had an appeal rejected just last month. His buddy cut a deal with the prosecution and had his sentence reduced to seventeen years.’

‘On what grounds was the appeal?’ said Ren.

‘Merrifield has maintained his innocence throughout,’ said Ruddock. ‘He admits to the robbery, but denies all other charges. He says he was going along for the ride, didn’t know his buddy was carrying a firearm. His appeal was on the grounds that the jury was poorly instructed on accomplice liability.’

‘When was Merrifield reported missing?’ said Gary.

‘Five p.m., Sunday,’ said Ruddock.

‘Do they believe he had help from someone in BRCI before he ever got to the hospital?’ said Ren.

Ruddock nodded.

‘Any incidents between him and John Veir?’ said Ren.

‘Nothing we know about,’ said Ruddock.

‘Could we take a look at the Veirs’ questionnaires?’ said Gary.

‘Sure,’ said Ruddock. ‘I’ve got them right here.’

He handed them the forms that every parent of a missing child fills out as soon as they make the initial report. Gary and Ren scanned them.

John Veir, fifty-seven years old; born and raised in Tate, Oregon; joined the military in 1977, US Navy – 00D, married Teddy Veir in 2000; did one tour in Afghanistan; three tours in Iraq; one son – Caleb, born 2004; left the military in 2009, worked in different businesses around Tate, employed as a corrections officer in BRCI since 2010; mother deceased, father living in Madison, Wisconsin; one sister – Alice Veir, lawyer, living in Spokane, Washington.

Teddy Veir, fifty-four years old; born and raised in Tate, Oregon; married John Veir in 2000; one son – Caleb, born 2004; works part-time in Gemstones, Tate, suffers from anxiety, no family living in the US, but has a brother and sister-in-law in Australia.

‘What’s 00D?’ said Ren.

‘Double-oh Delta,’ said Gary. ‘He was a navy diver.’

Part of the questionnaire asked parents to name anyone they might want law enforcement to take a look at; anyone who might have given them a bad feeling or may have an issue with the family.

‘Teddy Veir’s written the names of five men she thinks we should take a look at,’ said Ren. ‘And John Veir has ten.’ She raised her eyebrows.

‘Well, some of his include former inmates at BRCI,’ said Ruddock. ‘We’re going through the list.’ He glanced at his wall clock. ‘The press conference is about to start. Let’s walk.’

‘OK,’ said Ren. ‘I was wondering – I saw a couple of black ribbons on the trees on the drive in …’

‘That’s not about Caleb,’ said Ruddock. ‘Two young boys died here – one in January, one last month.’

‘Oh my God,’ said Ren. ‘What happened to them?’

‘Aaron Fuller – he was only eleven years old – drowned in Lake Verny. And a couple of weeks later, little Luke Monroe choked on a sandwich,’ said Ruddock. ‘Seven years old.’

Jesus. ‘That’s heartbreaking,’ said Ren.

‘And in such a small community,’ said Ruddock. ‘And now this …’

‘Well, let’s hope there’s a favorable outcome to this,’ said Ren.

The conference room was packed with police officers, reporters, photographers, Tate residents. Three tables were lined up at the top of the room. Mounted behind them on a whiteboard at the center was the Missing poster of Caleb Veir, blown up to four feet by three feet. There were twenty rows of chairs, divided by a central aisle. Gary and Ren stood toward the front, close to the wall, neither aware that they were in the exact same pose – arms folded, stiff, frowning.

Ren turned to Gary. ‘What a sad little face that boy has. There’s pain in those eyes.’

Ruddock walked over to them. ‘We’ll be starting soon.’

A man appeared suddenly in front of them, no hellos, no introductions, no eye contact with anyone. He had a buzz cut, a scowl, and flaming red razor burn on his neck.

‘Just so you know,’ he said to Ruddock, ‘both parents have refused to take polygraphs.’

What an extraordinary voice. Like it’s being scrambled.

Ruddock turned to Ren and Gary, irritated. ‘This is Lieutenant Gil Wiley – FBI agents, Ren Bryce and Gary Dettling from CARD.’

Ah, the sharp upward nod, thank you, Mr Wiley.

‘Nice to meet you,’ said Ren, shaking his hand. Gary stayed silent but shook Wiley’s hand. Wiley said nothing to either of them.

Ren looked at Ruddock. Beneath the endearing, doughy face, his jaw was tight.

5

Shannon Fuller gripped the edge of the bar like she was about to do a push-up, her head bent over the newspaper, her broad back hunched. She stared at the photo of Caleb Veir under the headline MISSING FROM TATE. Her chest tightened. She thought of her son, Aaron, and how he had been in the lake in the pitch-black all night. But his body had gotten lodged in a shallow spot, where the water was clear, so he was found. He wasn’t MISSING. She was lucky.

Lucky … her only child, found under an icy, glassy surface, like a sleeping beauty who might wake up. But it was better than being down in the grim depths, rock bottom, decomposing, flesh falling from his bones. A shiver crawled up her spine. She reached out to grab a cloth, a pen, a beer mat, anything to take her mind along a different path – another useless pursuit. So many useless pursuits.

She’d replayed that evening on a loop ever since. Aaron had been at his middle school dance, she had been in The Crow Bar alone, feeling sorry for herself, drinking herself into oblivion, crying into beer after beer after beer. She had chased it all down with a row of shots to remind her of times when a broken heart was something other people got. She had staggered into the house behind the bar, fallen asleep on the sofa, never knew her baby hadn’t made it home.

She sucked in a breath, stood up straight, shoulders back, head high. She figured all bars were a desolate place in the early morning, but when she bought The Crow, she thought that would change. It didn’t. And, now, without Aaron, the desolation had seeped into every cell of her body too; she felt a part of the bar, as worn as the timber, as faded as the drapes, as stained as the surfaces.

She remembered walking into The Crow Bar seven years earlier, with four-year-old Aaron, and sixteen-year-old Seth, who she could feel was already pulling away from her, already worrying her with his behavior, and his friends, and his recklessness. Her sweet, handsome, loving, affectionate little nephew had turned into someone she couldn’t understand. He had effectively been her son since he was eight years old, when her sister, Jessie, was killed in an instant by a brain aneurysm. Seth’s father had OD’d when he was six months old, and the only family he had left was Shannon who had always adored him, and adored him still, even in this troubled teenage incarnation. She wanted to give Seth everything her sister had dreamed of for him.

Shannon hadn’t known that Jessie had been saving for years, and along with her insurance policy, had left Shannon quite a large sum of money. Shannon had added to it, and by the time the battered and abandoned thirty-five-year-old Lake Verny resort was put up for sale, at its knock-down price, she could afford to buy it. It made sense to her: she had spent time there as a child, she worked in a bar, Aaron loved the water, and Seth used to love it. He used to be a champion little swimmer, and Shannon wanted to reintroduce him to what was once his passion. She also wanted to employ people in town, bring business to Tate, she wanted to do good in Jessica’s honor. That day, she said yes to the real estate agent, yes to the Lake Verny Resort with its twenty brokedown cabins, yes to The Crow Bar, and yes to years and years of struggling to make ends meet. But she also said yes to something that brought her joy … until now.

In the six weeks since Aaron had died, along with thoughts of beautiful boy, along with her tears and her paralyzing grief, she was struck with hot stabs of shame when she thought of how she must have looked to Pete Ruddock and Gil Wiley that morning, captured, as she was, like a shabby Polaroid with Bad Mom scrawled on the white strip underneath – hanging out of the doorway of a bar, puffy-eyed, messy-haired, liquor-soaked, unaware of her only child’s whereabouts, neglectful, undeserving, trash.

Tears slid down her face. She thought of her pain, she thought of John Veir’s, she thought of Teddy’s. She pictured Gil Wiley and Pete Ruddock walking up to the Veirs’ front door, as they had walked to hers, with their white faces and their terrible news.

Then, for a guilty moment, Shannon thought of John Veir and how his hands felt on her body, how his lips felt against hers, how she loved him, how she feared she always would.

They had gone their separate ways before, found their way back to each other, until the last time – the time that sent her diving, heartfirst, into an alcohol haze. Now here they were, through tragedy, entwined again.

6

Ruddock appeared at the top of the conference room and silence fell. He paused to guide John and Teddy Veir ahead of him. John Veir pulled out the chair for his wife as he passed. He was a muscular, hard-looking man with a stern face, thick eyebrows and a solid jaw that he was clenching and unclenching. His wife was a delicate skinny-limbed woman. She had clear skin, huge brown eyes, and wavy light-brown hair. She shifted in her seat, pulling her cardigan closed over a floral blue-and-yellow shirt dress, holding her hand there in a white-knuckle grip.

You fragile thing. This environment is all wrong for you. But is this you as you always are or you as the mother of a missing child?

When the Veirs were settled beside the photo of Caleb and their three faces were lined up in a row, Ren could see that though Caleb had his mother’s eyes, the steel in them came from his father. John Veir’s stare was moving around the room like a drunk looking for a fight.

Ruddock tapped the microphone, once, twice, and started to speak.

‘Thank you all for coming,’ he said. ‘We’re here today to appeal for information on the whereabouts of Caleb Veir, who has been missing from his Burton Street home in Tate since seven forty-five yesterday morning. Caleb is five feet tall, weighs one hundred pounds, and is of medium build. This photo beside me was taken two weeks ago. Yesterday, Caleb was wearing the same gray Puffa jacket, blue denim jeans, a navy-blue long-sleeved sweatshirt with a red-and-gray graphic print, and white-and-red Nike sneakers. You will find photographs of all these items of clothing pinned to the noticeboard at the back of the room.’

Teddy Veir was rigid, her elbows pressed tightly to her body, her ankles crossed underneath the table.

‘To my right here are Caleb’s parents,’ said Ruddock. ‘John and Teddy Veir. Teddy would now like to say a few words.’

Teddy shifted the chair forward. ‘Thank you, Chief Ruddock.’ She looked up, her lost and panicked eyes blinking quickly before she focused on a point on the floor three feet ahead. ‘Our son, Caleb, has been missing since yesterday morning. Caleb is only twelve years old. Caleb, we want you home with us, we want you to come home. To your mom and dad. We miss you, and we love you very much. Please … come home.’

She welled up so quickly, and the pain robbed her of her voice so suddenly, that everyone else on the platform was thrown; they weren’t ready to break in, to rescue her.

Someone help!

John Veir kicked in, putting his arm around his wife, sliding the microphone that was in front of her toward himself, knocking over a glass of water as he did. The piercing sound of feedback erupted in the room.

‘Caleb is a good boy,’ said John. ‘Just a … good kid, who is … good to everybody … and everyone … and helped his mom and me out, and …’

No one prepared you. You weren’t planning on speaking.

‘Please bring him home,’ said John. ‘Whoever has him, if someone has our son, please bring him home. We love him so much.’ His voice started to crack. ‘He’s our son.’ He broke down. He briefly raised his head to say: ‘No matter what. We want him back. We love you, Caleb. I want you to know that. We love you very much.’

No matter what? He’s our son, no matter what? Or no matter what, we want him back?

A sudden smell – powerful, stale and liquor-laced – struck Ren.

What the … whoa …

She turned to see a man take a few steps, then stop abruptly. He was dressed in a faded black sweatshirt with unraveling cuffs and crusted white stains. His pale jeans had two stripes of filth down the center, his sneakers were gray, the laces half undone. His eyes did a full sweep of the room before he walked any further.

Now, who might you be?

He took two steps closer.

And what bar’s supplies have you recently depleted?

He walked past Ren. She put her hand to her mouth and swallowed.

Jesus. Christ. Wow.

I probably smell the exact same …

In a flash, Wiley was striding their way. He struck Ren hard with his shoulder as he passed.

Dickhead.

He grabbed the man by the arm, effortlessly dragging him toward the exit. The man’s face was pinched in anger, his expression childish, petulant. There was tutting, eyerolling and nose-wrinkling from locals who seemed to know him.

The man opened his mouth wide, looked ready to speak, but he took in all the stares and his face fell and he didn’t say a word.

You are a hurting man. You know you’re a sideshow to these people.

Just as he was about to go through the door, a burst of courage delivered his voice:

‘Lake Verny!’ he shouted. ‘You need to look in Lake Verny! Tell Ruddock. Tell Ruddock! You tell him Clyde Brimmer says that lake’s a killer!’

Ren looked around at the crowd, gauging their reactions. There was no sense that the man’s words held any meaning, that they were anything other than a terrible thing to shout in a room where two parents were hoping to reach out for a son they wanted to believe was alive and well – not sucked down into the depths of a lake.

7

Gary, Ren and Ruddock stood in the shelter of the back door of Tate PD after the press conference. Ruddock pulled out a pack of cigarettes.

‘Do you smoke?’ he said, extending the pack toward Gary, then Ren. Gary declined.

‘For one night only,’ said Ren. Filthy habit.

Ruddock lit it for her, lit his own.

‘Sounds like Mom thinks Caleb ran away, and Dad thinks he’s been abducted,’ said Gary.

Ren turned to Ruddock. ‘Could he have run away?’ she said. ‘What do you think?’

‘Honestly, I don’t know,’ said Ruddock. ‘All I know is something is not quite right with the Veirs.’

‘It seems like they’re blaming each other,’ said Ren. ‘They weren’t even touching when they walked in. What vibe did you get from them when you first met?’

‘It was tense,’ said Ruddock, ‘but under the circumstances, that’s to be expected. Even if John Veir thinks his son was abducted, I agree – he sure is acting like he blames his wife for something.’

‘Maybe for not being there yesterday morning,’ said Ren. ‘But, surely, that wouldn’t have made a difference. It wasn’t like we know that Caleb was snatched from their home while she was distracted. And John Veir had his phone on silent. Maybe that’s what’s bothering his wife.’ She paused. ‘What was John Veir’s “no matter what” about?’

Ruddock shrugged. ‘Nerves? I don’t know.’

They could hear footsteps coming their way. They looked around. Wiley was striding toward them from where he had dumped the man who interrupted the press conference. He rolled his eyes at Ruddock. Ruddock didn’t respond.

‘Who was that guy?’ said Ren.

‘Clyde Brimmer,’ said Wiley. ‘A drunk.’

Wow … what drunk fucked you over?

‘Why was he talking about Lake Verny?’ said Ren.

Wiley was shaking his head. ‘His usual bullshit.’

Ruddock intervened. ‘It’s got to be about Aaron Fuller.’

‘The boy who drowned?’ said Ren.

‘Yes,’ said Ruddock. ‘Clyde was fired for drinking on the job. He was an embalmer. The last body he worked on was Aaron’s …’

‘Ah,’ said Ren. ‘It’s haunting him …’

Ruddock nodded.

‘And that was the job he was caught drunk on?’ said Ren.

‘Well, it was the last straw,’ said Ruddock. ‘There were some earlier complaints. He swears he wasn’t drinking when he was working on Aaron—’

‘Clyde doesn’t do himself any favors,’ said Wiley. ‘He showed up for work Monday to Friday in reasonably good shape, didn’t go too wild on weeknights. But he drank heavily on the weekends. Once you’re propping up a bar regularly, slowly drinking your way into oblivion, well, you’re telling people how to remember you. It’s all about perception, really, isn’t it?’

Jesus.

‘I’ll leave you to it,’ said Wiley. He walked back toward the gates.

‘What is Clyde Brimmer’s story?’ said Ren.

‘A sorry one,’ said Ruddock. ‘We were in school together. A group of us hung out, usual stuff: playing football, going swimming, duck-diving in the lake. We were pretty innocent kids. But Clyde went off the rails when he was seventeen, when his little sister died. He started drinking, doing drugs. Got off drugs eventually, but kept on drinking. He’d get sober every now and then, then he’d fall off the wagon again. The longest he was sober was when he did his embalmer training. He was lucky he managed it at all. It would break your heart. Bad things just seem to happen a lot around Clyde. It’s like life is always throwing things at him.’

You are so endearing. And I love pockmarked skin.

‘What happened to his sister?’ said Ren.

‘She fell through one of the decks at Lake Verny. The timber was rotten. Clyde was custodian at the time. It was the spring of ’84. He had already said there was a problem with the deck and the jetty of that cabin, but no one listened to him. He was concerned that sub-standard timber was used, and that it was unstable. He told the owners, but they were from out of town and said they’d get it fixed later: they wanted to enjoy their next break without having any construction work going on. This one day, Lizzie – Clyde’s sister, she was only ten years old – was hanging around with him, because their parents were gone to a wedding and he had to watch her. She brought a couple of her little friends along, they’d been playing around the cabins. Then she disappeared. She was found floating in the water … apparently she stepped right through the deck. It tore up her femoral artery, that was it, she bled out just like that. Clyde took it real bad. He always said if he had just fixed that deck when he wanted to, it never would have happened. He felt he didn’t try hard enough to get people to listen. It’s why he gets so agitated still if he feels something is unsafe, and people aren’t listening. It drives him crazy. And you know something? He didn’t even quit his job. He still stayed looking after the cabins for a long time after the accident, for whoever hung on to them. It was a control thing, I guess. He didn’t want to put anyone else through what his family went through.’

‘That is so sad,’ said Ren.

Gary turned to Ruddock. ‘Mind if Ren and I take a look at last night’s interviews with the Veirs?’

‘Sure,’ said Ruddock. ‘Follow me.’

Ruddock found Gary and Ren an empty room and left them to watch the videos of first John Veir, then Teddy, both carried out by Ruddock and Wiley together.

Ruddock was an impressive interviewer, thoughtful, measured, bright and sharp, with the perfect demeanor to make two traumatized parents as comfortable as they could be with a series of uncomfortable questions while their only child was still missing.

Wiley didn’t ask any questions, even though, at times, it looked like he was struggling to stay quiet.

I wonder were you under strict instructions from Ruddock. Or do you just not give a fuck?

There was a knock on the door and Ruddock walked in. ‘Sign-in for the search is kicking off, if you’d like to come out.’

‘OK,’ said Gary.

‘So,’ said Ruddock, nodding toward the screen. ‘What do you think?’

‘They’re both lying,’ said Gary and Ren at exactly the same time.

8

Jimmy Lyle was driving, happily, freely, down the west coast. Home, in whatever altered state he had left it, was far enough behind him to bring comfort. He was taking quiet roads, darker ones, roads less traveled. He didn’t want to be pulled over, he didn’t want the trunk of his car to be searched.

The day he had the shit beaten out of him by the pond was coming up on Valentine’s Day: after the operations, as he looked around the hospital with his unbandaged eye, he caught sight of heart-shaped balloons, bunches of flowers, cards, an air of buoyancy. Jimmy hadn’t a face for Valentine’s Day, hadn’t a heart for love. He had seen it go wrong too soon. His wild and beautiful mother married his sensible teacher father. She walked out on them when Jimmy was eight years old, his father’s heart spiked on her stiletto as she made her glamorous exit. She had loved Jimmy deeply, and suddenly she was gone, and his father looked at him across the table of their first dinner alone like he was a dog who he now needed to find a home for. He kept him, though. Jimmy made sure to be indispensable. He cooked his father breakfast the very next morning and Outside Jimmy and Inside Jimmy were born; one the white, tranquil, opaque shell, the other the dark, crimson, screaming, angry, bleeding, weeping soul it covered.

The day Jimmy had left the hospital, he went via the cancer ward. He stole some things, some ‘personal effects’. He found an empty room and changed. He could barely look at himself in the mirror.

Afterward, as Jimmy stood, eyes on the floor, waiting for the elevator, he had heard a gasp beside him. It was to his right – it was always to his right. He turned to see a little girl standing there, wide-eyed.

She cried out. ‘Mommy, Mommy!’

Jimmy froze. The little girl’s mother scooped her up in her arms.

‘What happened to that lady’s face?’ said the little girl, pointing to Jimmy.

‘I’m so sorry,’ said the woman. ‘I don’t know what to say. I’m trying to teach her … she’s only three years old. She …’

Jimmy smiled. ‘It’s OK,’ he said. ‘She’s just a little kid. They say what they think, don’t they? We could all learn from that.’

The mother’s shoulders relaxed. The little girl slowly turned to Jimmy, her head bowed. She looked up at him through teary eyes.

‘I had an accident when I was a little girl,’ he said.

The mother looked at him nervously, not sure what he was going to say next, not knowing whether or not he would say something that would scar her child.

‘So,’ said Jimmy, ‘you need to listen to your mama when she tells you to stay away from boiling water.’

The little girl was transfixed, horrified. The mother nodded, took a few steps backward. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘You have a good day.’

‘You too,’ said Jimmy.

Jimmy walked through those hospital doors, holding a bunch of red roses close to his face on one side, holding a still-buoyant balloon on the other.

I HEART YOU, it said.

I FUCK YOU UP, thought Jimmy. I ABANDON YOU.

He remembered picking flowers from the back garden for a woman once, and, even while he was handing them to her, thinking exactly those words. And later, doing exactly those things.

There were good people who had scars, people who had to fight every day to bring others past the outside to the beauty underneath. Jimmy Lyle’s face and body, with their layer upon layer of damage, were the perfect complement to his soul.

9

Ren and Gary stood in the parking lot of Tate PD, watching the volunteers arrive. A table had been set up to sign them in, manned by two members of Team Adam. Ren watched as they went through a process they’d gone through countless times before – Team Adam was a program run by the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children. It was made up of retired law enforcement officers, who, like CARD, had specialist expertise, and mobilized as soon as they heard a report of a missing child anywhere in the US.

Ren studied the crowd. ‘Sometimes I feel so guilty thinking some of the shit I think about these kind people,’ she said. ‘They’re here sacrificing whatever it is their day would have held, while some stranger lady is thinking they’re Ted Danson. I mean, Ted Bundy.’ Hello? Charles Manson, maybe?

Gary glanced at her briefly.

‘You know,’ said Ren, ‘it still blows my mind how often the guilty party shows up. Whatever about the ones who are so close to the victims that it would be suspicious if they didn’t show. But I’m thinking of those peripheral nutjobs who put themselves in the frame by hanging around. The ones who might never have been on our radar otherwise – and they can’t see how that’s what they’re doing. I mean, even if you change channels on your television in a micro-second these days, there’s a crime show helping your ass out with these things.’

‘We like the dumb ones,’ said Gary.

Ren scanned the crowd again.

Is there a psycho among you?

Gil Wiley was moving through the line, greeting the people he knew.

‘Wiley looks like he’s on the campaign trail,’ said Ren. ‘His voice … it’s like it’s being garbled for a TV interview to protect his identity. Like we should only ever be seeing him in sil-you-ette.’

Gary held in a laugh, but still managed a low-volume sound of approval.

‘It’s not Denver cold,’ said Ren, ‘but it’s still cold. That Puffa jacket might have been fine for the walk to school, but if Caleb Veir’s been out overnight …’

Gary nodded. ‘I know.’

People continued to arrive, and the crowd began to expand toward them.

Ren’s heart started to pound.

Oh, no, please don’t do this. Not here.

She swallowed. She swallowed again.

No, no, no. Not now. Not here.

And the sensation struck, again.

Drowning, drowning.

Keep it together, bitch.

‘Gary …’ One word, and it came out like it had needed the Heimlich maneuver to make it.

Oh, God. My legs.

She pressed her hand against her thigh.

Like that’s going to help.

‘Gary,’ she said. ‘I’m not feeling a lot like being around big groups of people.’

He turned to her. He was waiting for more.

Breathe. Breathe.

Speak.

Speak!

‘Ren?’ said Gary.

Crowds people I’m going to pass out don’t you won’t stop breathe in out in out breathe I can’t you’re going to pass out.

Gary took her to one side. ‘Are you OK?’

‘I’m … I’m feeling overwhelmed.’

He studied her face.

Oh, no. Not the grave concern. No fucking way.

‘I just need a moment,’ said Ren, ‘I’m fine.’

No you’re not.

‘I just … don’t feel like being in the thick of this right now,’ said Ren, ‘or, like, in the middle of search teams or lunches where I have to do small talk with people. I just—’

‘If that’s how you’re feeling,’ said Gary, ‘I’m glad you told me. So I know to make sure you do exactly those things.’

You have got to be shitting me. I can’t believe I said ‘lunches’. Jesus.

‘Come on, Ren – what did you think I was going to say?’ He was looking straight ahead. ‘Do you think I’m carrying around free passes for people? No. You’re here one hundred per cent or you’re not here at all. That’s how this works. They were the conditions.’ He paused. ‘I know you’re not a big fan of conditions, Ren.’ He looked at her. ‘I’ve got your back. Conditionally.’

‘Great.’ Greaaaat. ‘Thank you.’

‘The good news is,’ said Gary, ‘there’s only one condition – that you do the best job you can. And that means being no more special than the next investigator or the next. Or the one standing beside you minus half his left triceps.’

Ooh, even you know that sounds like it’s a competition.

A touch of awareness flickered in Gary’s eyes.

‘I, however, will give you a free pass for that,’ said Ren.

She had been in the room, inches from him, watching as the bullet ripped through his arm, and the memory still drove a spike of pain through her core.

‘I think you need to see Dr Lone more often,’ said Gary. Dr Leonard Lone was Ren’s psychiatrist. Her job was dependent on regular visits with him. ‘Every two weeks is clearly not enough.’

Sweet Jesus. Gather yourself. Do not let him see you like this again. ‘OK,’ said Ren. Oh. Fucking. Kay.

Ren slapped a studied frown on her face as her heart pounded.

Fake it ’til you make it.

She drew subtle, slow, deep breaths through her nostrils as she scanned the crowd again. She saw a pretty blonde in her mid-forties, dressed in a pink zip-up fleece, lycra pants, and bright pink sneakers wrap her arms around a lanky, shaven-headed young man who looked to be in his early twenties.

Skin and bones and an air of the unwashed.

The woman squeezed him tight. It was a maternal gesture, and he didn’t fight it. There was profound sadness in both their faces.

Ren turned to Gary. ‘Excuse me for two seconds.’

She walked toward the embracing pair, looking at a point past them, pausing as she reached them to take out her phone and pretend to text.

‘This is a grieving town,’ the woman was saying. ‘A grieving town.’

Grieving agent finds spiritual home.

‘I’m praying for him,’ said the woman, squeezing his arm. ‘Praying for him night and day.’

But he’s only just gone missing. There’s only been one night and one day.

‘Thank you,’ said the young man. ‘I appreciate it. And I know Aunt Shannon will too.’

I’m lost …

‘Hopefully,’ said the woman, ‘there’ll be a more positive outcome for Caleb Veir.’

Oh. OK. She’s talking about the other boy … the one who drowned: Aaron Fuller.

‘Yes,’ said the young man. ‘I couldn’t not come to help today.’

‘Good for you,’ said the woman.

She left quickly, and as Ren looked up, there was no one between her and the young man, and they locked eyes. He gave her a small nod, then turned and walked toward the line of volunteers.

When Ren went back over to Gary, Ruddock was standing with him, looking in her direction, but following the path of the young man.

‘Who is that guy?’ said Ren.

‘Interesting you should ask,’ said Ruddock. ‘He’s a former inmate of BRCI, got out last summer: Seth Fuller. He’s a cousin of Aaron, the boy who drowned. He lives with his aunt out at The Crow Bar on Lake Verny. She owns it. In fact, she bought it from John Veir – he bought it when he came back from one of his tours of duty. He was going to set up a dive school there, or do boat tours, but it never really worked out for him, so he had to sell up.’

‘How did he afford that?’ said Ren.

Ruddock shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’

‘What was Seth Fuller in prison for?’ said Ren.

‘Possession. He’s a former heroin addict, cleaned up his act, apparently.’

Not that apparent …

‘He wasn’t mentioned on John Veir’s questionnaire as someone to consider,’ said Ren.

‘No,’ said Ruddock. ‘And Veir would have known him through selling the business to his aunt too.’

‘What’s your take on him?’ said Ren.

Ruddock tilted his head. ‘On Seth Fuller? He was a very bright, creative kid until he got involved in drugs – he was more a danger to himself than anyone else. That would have been my take on him … up until about five minutes ago. We’ve just learned a little something about Seth Fuller: apparently, he used to pay particular attention to Caleb Veir …’

10

The crowd of volunteers was moving back and forth, and at that moment, parted to reveal Seth Fuller again.

Ren watched him shift from one foot to the next, his eyes on the battered paperback in his right hand, one of the classics, folded back on itself.

What am I getting from you? And what are you reading?

‘Who told you about this Fuller guy and Caleb Veir?’ said Gary.

‘The owner of the comic book store in town,’ said Ruddock. ‘He just called, said that on several occasions when Caleb was short a few dollars, Fuller would help him out. He also saw him buying the kid sodas and candy from the store across the street.’

‘Did he say how Caleb reacted to this attention?’ said Ren. ‘Did it seem to make him uncomfortable?’

‘He said Caleb just seemed happy to have someone pay his way,’ said Ruddock.

‘Well, he’s twelve years old and he was getting free stuff,’ said Ren.

Ruddock nodded. ‘You know what it’s like in a situation like this – everyone starts eyeing people suspiciously.’

‘Well, we need to treat it seriously until we know otherwise,’ said Gary.

Ren glanced up at him. That was unnecessary. Ren looked at Ruddock.

Apologizing with my eyes.

‘Have you seen enough, here?’ said Ruddock. ‘I wanted to let you know you’re all set up inside.’

There were twelve desks in the temporary office, five already occupied by agents from the FBI Portland Division, which covered the entire state of Oregon. Another desk was taken up by the CAST agent – Cellular Analysis Survey Team. He had given Wiley printouts of the Veirs’ phone dumps; John, Teddy and Caleb’s cell phones, and the home phone.

Wiley was waiting for them like a student eager to please.

Mixed messages central.

‘Nothing jumping out at me so far,’ said Wiley. ‘The last call made on Caleb’s cell phone on Monday morning was to his aunt, Alice Veir – John Veir’s sister. Veir himself made a call on Sunday morning to one of his colleagues, Rob Lockwood, a psychologist at BRCI.’

Wiley also had the reports from the lab on the Veirs’ laptops. They read through them.

‘Nothing here is setting off alarm bells,’ said Ren. ‘Caleb was looking up PlayStation cheats for Grand Theft Auto 5, emailing friends, posting on Facebook, checking out porn. Sure, he calls his father an asshole in a few of his emails, but that’s what kids do. He hates school – he’s twelve years old, no surprise there.’

Ruddock’s phone beeped. He checked a text. ‘The Veirs are here. I’ll go meet with them.’

Wiley followed him out.

Gary turned to Ren when they had left. ‘You and me are talking to John Veir. I think you might unsettle him. I wouldn’t say he likes strong women. You lead, and if his story starts smelling like bullshit, I’ll go big guns, round two.’

‘OK, but would you mind if Ruddock and I took Teddy Veir? She is so fragile: in the first interview, I’m not sure she responded very well to being faced down by two men. She looked a little freaked. She could be intimidated by male authority figures, especially if she’s a cowed wife.’

‘Or she could be used to male authority figures …’ said Gary.

‘Trust me on this,’ said Ren. ‘You could intimidate a woman like her without even realizing it. I’ll tread lightly, and Ruddock is a familiar face, with a gentle way about him. Between us, I think we can just …’ she shrugged, ‘set the right tone.’

Ruddock came back and brought Gary and Ren to the interview room where John Veir was waiting, pale-faced, twitchy, tense. Ren and Gary introduced themselves.

‘I’m sorry that we’re meeting under these circumstances, Mr Veir,’ said Ren. ‘And I apologize for having to ask you so many questions at such a difficult time, especially ones that you may feel you’ve already answered.’

John’s eyes flicked toward Gary.

You’re surprised the lady spoke first …

‘Thank you,’ said John, his eyes back on Ren, his pupils huge, his gaze fixed.

Jesus. Intense.

‘It’s OK,’ said John. ‘I understand. Go ahead.’

‘Talk me through the twenty-four hours before Caleb went missing,’ said Ren.

John nodded. ‘Sunday morning, me, Teddy and Caleb went to the eleven a.m. service at Tate Baptist Church on 1st Street. We came home, ate lunch together. After lunch, Teddy was in the dining room – she was writing, Caleb was upstairs in his room, on his laptop or his phone, I guess. I was doing some work around the house, in the garage. It was a regular Sunday. Teddy left for Patti Ellis’s house at around six o’clock – Patti’s Teddy’s friend, she’s got cancer, so the friends are taking turns to look after her. Teddy does Sunday nights. And she had a trade show in Salem the following day. After she left, I cooked supper for me and Caleb. We ate together. Caleb went back up to his room. I was in the living room watching television.’

‘What were you watching?’ said Ren.

‘Uh … well, I was watching a box set,’ said John. ‘I think Breaking Bad? Whichever one is in the machine.’ He didn’t take his eyes off her as he spoke.

Hmm.

‘I was dozing off,’ said John.

‘Did you see Caleb again – did you check on him before you went to bed?’ said Ren.

John frowned. ‘Of course I did. He was fine.’

‘How were things between you and Caleb in general?’ said Ren. ‘We’ve had reports of raised voices in the house …’

‘Sunday night? No way,’ said John.

‘Not specifically Sunday night …’ said Ren.

‘Well, not on Sunday, and not on Monday,’ said John. ‘Caleb and I were good.’ He paused. ‘Let me correct that, sorry – I did shout up at Caleb several times on Monday morning, because he was dragging his heels, and his oatmeal was going cold.’

‘Did he respond to you?’ said Ren. ‘Did he hurry up?’

‘He was already leaving his room,’ said John.

‘Did you drive Caleb to school often?’ said Ren.

‘When I was working the late shift, yes,’ said John. ‘Otherwise, it was his mom. Or he walked.’

‘It takes what – fifteen minutes?’ said Gary.

‘Yes,’ said John. ‘A lot of the kids around here walk it. There are usually some parents too. It’s … safe.’

‘But Caleb was running late on Monday,’ said Ren.

‘Yes.’

‘Why didn’t you drive him?’ said Ren. ‘Your shift wasn’t until later that day.’

‘He wanted to walk,’ said John. ‘And to be honest, I wanted him to take responsibility for being late. I’m always trying to teach him that choices have consequences.’

‘Did you argue at all, have a disagreement about anything that morning?’ said Ren.

‘No,’ said John. ‘I told you. Nothing like that. Hands up, I admit I’m strict on the boy, and, yes, I do raise my voice. I know that’s not the done thing these days, but children need discipline. Without discipline …’ He trailed off as his voice cracked. There were tears in his eyes.

Whoa. Did you discipline him too much? Did it go too far?

‘Look, I didn’t do anything to my son,’ said John. ‘I know you look at parents very closely in these situations, but I swear to God, I did not harm my son. It’s the last thing in the world I would do. And my wife … she’s an angel.’

Fuck, that seemed genuine.

11

Ren looked through Caleb Veir’s cell phone records.

‘John,’ she said, ‘there was a call made from Caleb’s cell phone to your sister, Alice, at seven thirty a.m. yesterday. Did you know about that?’

John shook his head. ‘No, I did not.’

Those giant pupils. Sign of deception …

‘Do you know why Caleb would have called your sister?’ said Ren. ‘And so early in the morning?’

‘I have no idea,’ said John.

‘Are they close?’ said Ren.

‘They get along,’ said John. ‘They don’t see each other a lot, but when they do, yeah, absolutely, they’re close.’

‘I have cell phone records here going back three months and this was the first time he had ever called her,’ said Ren.

‘From his cell phone, maybe,’ said John, ‘but he has spoken to her on the home phone when I’ve called her.’

‘What would they talk about?’ said Ren. ‘Was your sister someone Caleb would open up to?’

‘Honestly, I didn’t pay attention to what they talked about,’ said John. ‘I was just glad they were talking.’

‘Monday’s call was ten minutes long,’ said Ren.

‘Honestly, I don’t know what that would have been about.’

‘The call was deleted from the call list on his phone,’ said Ren. ‘Why would Caleb have wanted to hide that?’

‘I don’t know,’ said John. ‘Maybe he was planning a surprise for me or his mom and didn’t want us to know he’d called Alice?’ He paused. ‘Oh, hold on … I forgot about this – Alice is working on a wrongful conviction case that’s getting a lot of attention. Caleb had mentioned her coming in to talk to his class on one of her visits here. Knowing Caleb, he was probably supposed to have someone organized for Monday, and he ended up calling Alice at the last minute.’

‘Did Caleb have a particular interest in the law?’ said Ren. ‘Or was there something about this case?’

‘It might just have been that Alice had been on television,’ said John. ‘You know kids …’

Ren nodded. Hold on a second … ‘Haven’t you talked to her yet? Told her that Caleb’s missing?’

‘No, no,’ said John. ‘I didn’t want to bother her with it. She would worry. And she might drive down here for no reason. If he showed up after all that, it would be pretty embarrassing. She’s very busy.’

Embarrassing? Busy? What the what now? ‘Well, it’s been a while at this stage,’ said Ren, ‘so we’d like to talk to her about this phone call from Caleb, at the very least.’

Eye-dart. ‘Sure, I can call her.’

‘Let me take care of that,’ said Ren. ‘We’ve got her number here.’

John waited for the next question. Ren held eye contact long enough for his jaw to twitch, long enough that he was the first to avert his eyes.

What’s going on here?

‘Have you taken a look around the house, noticed anything missing that belonged to Caleb?’ said Ren.

He shook his head. ‘No. Not that I can think of.’

‘I’d like to talk to you about the escaped inmate, Franklin J. Merrifield,’ said Gary.

‘What?’ said John. ‘Why? I wasn’t even there when that happened.’

‘Did you know Merrifield?’ said Gary.

‘Yes, I knew him, but not well,’ said John. ‘I’ve never had any trouble with him – nothing.’

‘When you heard Merrifield had escaped, were you surprised?’ said Gary.

‘Absolutely,’ said John. ‘It’s the first time anything like that has happened since I’ve been working at BRCI.’

‘Do you think he had help on the inside?’

‘It’s not about what I think,’ said John. ‘I don’t know is the answer.’

‘Tell me what you know about Seth Fuller,’ said Ren.

‘Seth Fuller?’ said John. He shrugged. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘He was also an inmate at BRCI, and we’ve had reports he showed a particular interest in Caleb.’

‘That’s the first I’ve heard of that,’ said John. ‘Who said that?’

‘I can’t say,’ said Ren, ‘but we know that he paid for some comics for Caleb if he was short of cash, bought him sodas at the store, that kind of thing.’

‘Well, I know nothing about that,’ said John, ‘but Seth’s a good kid. I’m not worried about him. I would have written his name down on that list if I was.’

‘Can you be sure of that?’ said Ren.

‘Can anyone ever be sure of anything?’ said John.

Yes, actually, but … ‘So you didn’t know anything about Seth and Caleb …’

‘No,’ said John, irritated. ‘There was no “Seth and Caleb”. So he bought him a couple of things – I’d like to think that was just a nice gesture.’

‘So your dealings with Seth Fuller in BRCI …’

John shrugged. ‘I didn’t have any. I mean – no one-on-one dealings with him.’

Ren stood up. ‘OK,’ she said. ‘That’s all for now. Thank you.’

Ren and Gary walked down the hallway toward the office.

‘Did you hear the amount of times he did the question-as-reply thing?’ said Ren. And “Honestly …”’

Gary nodded.

‘We need to break his ass down,’ said Ren. ‘And what is the deal with his sister? Why the hell wouldn’t he tell her that her nephew had gone missing? Bizarre.’ She paused. ‘And that fucking stare …’

Black and eerie.

Ren went to her desk and typed Alice Veir’s name into Google.

Alice. Alice. Who the fuck is Alice?

The client whose case had put Alice Veir in the spotlight six months earlier was a man called Anthony Boyd Lorden. He had been jailed for life for the murder of Kevin Dunne, a sixteen-year-old hitch-hiker who disappeared in 1991 and whose skeletal remains were found a year later. Alice Veir lay the blame with the detectives working the case, saying that Lorden, who was only seventeen at the time of his arrest, had been coerced into signing a confession.

This will be fun … talking to a woman who rails against the interrogation techniques of law enforcement.

Ren dialed Alice’s number.

‘Ms Veir?’

‘Yes?’

‘I’m Special Agent Ren Bryce – I’m calling about your nephew, Caleb. I’m sorry to have to tell you that Caleb has been missing since yesterday morning.’

‘Yesterday?’ said Alice. ‘Why hasn’t anyone called me until now?’

‘Your brother, John, said he didn’t want to bother you in case Caleb—’

‘Hold on – why isn’t John the one calling me now?’

Ren could hear the defensive tone creep into Alice Veir’s voice.

‘At this moment,’ said Ren, ‘he’s speaking with investigators here in Tate PD. I’d like to ask you about your phone conversation with Caleb yesterday morning at seven thirty a.m.’

‘Of course,’ said Alice. ‘Of course. Yes. He wanted me to come talk to his class.’ She paused. ‘Sorry … I’m … I … can’t wrap my brain around this. Caleb’s missing?’

‘We’re doing everything we can to find him,’ said Ren. ‘Time is of the essence, as you know …’

‘Sorry – yes,’ said Alice. ‘The phone call …’

‘How did Caleb seem to you?’ said Ren.

‘Fine,’ said Alice. ‘Absolutely fine. Rushed, maybe, but he had to get to school, and he knew he should have asked me weeks earlier.’

‘Did he seem upset to you in any way?’ said Ren.

‘Why would he be upset?’ said Alice.

‘I’m trying to get a sense of his state of mind,’ said Ren. ‘I’m sure you understand. You’re the last person to have spoken to him.’

‘That you know of, I presume …’

This woman is going to be a nightmare.

‘Yes,’ said Ren.

‘Please don’t tell me you think my brother had anything to do with this,’ said Alice. ‘I see where this is going. I know from Caleb that he was home alone with John that morning and you’re now asking me what Caleb’s state of mind was. Caleb is a happy kid, John is a wonderful father. He would do anything for his son. He loves that boy more than anything in the world.’ Her voice cracked. ‘He’s such a good man, my brother.’

‘And Teddy?’ said Ren.

‘Great,’ said Alice. ‘Teddy’s wonderful.’

‘And how are things between John and Teddy?’ said Ren.

‘Great, from what I can gather,’ said Alice.

‘Do you get along well with your brother?’ said Ren.

‘Yes, we’re very close,’ said Alice.

‘And Teddy?’ said Ren.

‘Yes, we get along,’ said Alice.

‘What did you say to Caleb?’ said Ren. ‘Did you tell him that you’d come talk to his class?’

‘Oh, yes – I was more than happy to. I told him I’d come down next month.’

‘Were you surprised to hear from Caleb that early in the morning?’ said Ren.

‘Yes,’ said Alice, ‘of course. We’ve never spoken at that hour before.’ She let out a breath. ‘Please find him. Please, please find him. I’ve seen too much, I know what happens. I … can’t bear the idea that Caleb could be …’ She paused. ‘We all know about the first forty-eight hours, that they’re the most important in a situation like this. And I think we both know that window is halfway down.’

12

As Ren ended the call to Alice Veir, she felt a presence beside her and looked up. It was Ruddock.

‘Teddy Veir is waiting for us in Interview 2,’ he said.

Teddy Veir was staring at the wall as if there was something more interesting to look at than flaking gray paint. Ren and Ruddock walked in and sat down.

‘Teddy – this is Ren Bryce,’ said Ruddock. ‘She’s with the FBI CARD team.’

‘Hello,’ said Teddy. ‘Thank you … for being here.’

Ren nodded.

‘What do you think of all this?’ said Teddy.

Strange question. Or strange delivery?

‘You do this all the time,’ said Teddy. ‘Is my son … do you think … what happens in your other cases?’

Oh, you do not want to know that we usually show up, a body is found, and we all go home.

‘Mrs Veir—’

‘Teddy.’

‘Teddy, we’re gathering all the facts here—’

‘It’s been over twenty-four hours …’ she said. ‘I know you’re already losing hope of finding him alive.’

‘That’s not true,’ said Ruddock. ‘And there are hundreds of people working hard on this.’

‘But nothing showed up in the search,’ said Teddy.

‘Yet,’ said Ruddock. ‘We’ll be searching again. Every day, if we have to. And the neighborhood canvass team is working nonstop. Please be reassured by that. And Ren and I are here now to focus on some answers we need.’

Teddy nodded. ‘OK, OK. I’m sorry. I’m just … I’m going out of my mind.’

‘I know,’ said Ren. ‘Let’s start with Sunday evening. Why don’t you talk us through that …’

‘I left the house at six to go to my friend Patti’s,’ said Teddy. ‘Patti Ellis. Caleb was home, John was preparing supper for both of them. I eat with Patti.’

‘And how was Caleb, Sunday night?’ said Ren.

‘He was quiet,’ said Teddy. ‘But—’

Ren and Ruddock waited.

I know what you’re thinking, Teddy. You’re thinking if you finish that sentence, you will be incriminating your husband. But … what? But Caleb was always quiet around his father?

And you’re thinking – what if your husband did do something, and you lied to the police? I am watching the weighing up. And you know I am.

Teddy readjusted herself in her seat. ‘John’s childhood, his time in the military … it made him the man he is today. He’s a good man, a good husband, a good father. But … yes, Caleb was quiet around him sometimes.’ There was a pleading look in her eyes. ‘Caleb can be sullen, and John is stubborn. The two things don’t always sit well together. John is not an aggressive man. He withdraws. He gets distant. That can be really difficult, but it doesn’t make him …’ She shrugged. ‘His biggest crime, maybe, is being … intense.’

Intense? Yes. His biggest crime? Maybe not …

Ruddock spoke gently to Teddy. ‘Men are not great with their feelings,’ he said. ‘My late wife had to work on me for a good ten years to get me to talk. Anything emotional and I’d close up like a clam.’ He paused. ‘Is that how John is?’

Late wife … noo.

Teddy nodded. ‘That’s exactly how he is.’ There was a look of resignation in her eyes, and for a brief moment, a spark of anger at the realization.

‘Did that bother you?’ said Ruddock.

‘I’m used to it,’ said Teddy. ‘I didn’t mind. That’s his way.’

She shrugged, but in a way that indicated she wanted the questions on her marriage to stop. Ren and Ruddock locked eyes.

Yes … let’s not push it.

For now.

‘Teddy,’ said Ren. ‘Did you ever get the sense that Caleb didn’t like to be left alone with his father?’

‘No – never,’ said Teddy. ‘Absolutely not.’

‘Has John ever gotten physical with Caleb?’ said Ren.

‘No.’

‘Have you ever felt that he came close to that point?’ said Ren.

Teddy shrugged. ‘What is “close”? I can say to you that I do not think John would ever lay a finger on Caleb.’

Why am I unconvinced?

Possibly because you are.

‘Was there any particular behavior in Caleb that angered John?’

‘All the standard things that twelve-year-olds get in trouble with their parents for,’ said Teddy. ‘They’re the same things that would have bothered me. Maybe John is more stern about it, but I think fathers of boys need to be.’

‘Has there been any change in Caleb’s behavior over the past few months?’ said Ren.

Teddy gave it careful thought. ‘No, not really.’

‘Not really?’

‘No,’ said Teddy with more conviction. ‘No.’

‘There are scuff marks on the inside of Caleb’s bedroom door,’ said Ren, ‘and the doorjamb looks damaged. Did you ever lock Caleb in?’

‘Oh my God – no,’ said Teddy. ‘Absolutely not. I’ve never even seen a key for that door.’

‘OK,’ said Ren.

After a moment, she spoke again. Deep breath. ‘Teddy, how are things in your marriage?’

She frowned. ‘They’re good – why?’

‘These are the questions we need to ask,’ said Ren. ‘I’m sure you understand.’

She nodded, but it was clear that she didn’t want to sign up for that line of questioning.

‘Are you and John happy?’ said Ren.

Teddy raised her eyebrows.

Oh, happiness is a tricky one, isn’t it? Are people ever truly happy? That’s depressing.

Ben. Everett. Robbie.

My happiness is over; I’ve had my life’s share.

Is this how I feel now?

Jesus.

Christ.

‘Yes,’ said Teddy. ‘I mean, life … is life, really, isn’t it? Am I living a wild adventure every day? No.’

‘I’m not thinking adventure,’ said Ren. ‘I’m just thinking of your relationship with your husband – are you getting along? Have there been any arguments? Are there any issues?’

Teddy gave a small shrug. ‘No.’

‘Have you noticed any changes in your husband’s behavior or mood recently?’ said Ren.

‘No,’ said Teddy.

Ooh: I don’t believe you.

13

Teddy Veir shifted in her seat like a child at the principal’s office.

‘Teddy, did you monitor Caleb’s online activity?’ said Ren.

‘Yes,’ said Teddy.

‘And was he aware of the dangers of being online?’

‘We talked about it, yes,’ said Teddy. ‘Any time we brought it up, he made us feel stupid for thinking he would ever fall for any kind of weirdo who would try to meet up with him. Caleb knows that people aren’t necessarily who they say they are online.’

Oh, how many times I’ve seen that change when the right fake messages or the right fake photographs are sent.

‘Did you find something?’ said Teddy.

‘There were no interactions with anyone that we feel have a bearing on the case,’ said Ren. ‘So, to go through a few more things … he was also looking at pornography.’

Teddy’s face fell. ‘Oh, God. He’s only a baby.’

‘It certainly wasn’t at worrying levels, and it was nothing extreme,’ said Ren. Like that will reassure you. ‘But I have to ask if he had a girlfriend or if there were girls around at the house or if you got any sense that this was more than just …’ I can’t say the word fantasy about a twelve-year-old boy.

‘He didn’t have a girlfriend,’ said Teddy. ‘He was kind of awkward around girls. He just wasn’t advanced in that way. Not at all.’

‘OK,’ said Ren. ‘Have you noticed anything missing of Caleb’s? Any bag or clothing or something he was particularly fond of, something he didn’t usually leave behind?’

‘Apart from his phone?’ said Teddy. ‘The only other thing – which I don’t think is very meaningful, especially because I haven’t seen it in a while, anyway – is a suitcase. Well, it’s kind of a tin box – an old military one that John got for him – it’s green and battered, with a brown leather handle. It’s about twice the size of a shoebox. He used to keep it on the floor under the window, but then he moved it into the wardrobe, put it on the shelf at the top. But I can’t really imagine him bringing it anywhere …’

Unless he was running away.

‘Do you know what he kept in it?’ said Ren.

‘No,’ said Teddy. ‘His comic books, I figured. I don’t know.’

‘Can you remember the last time you looked in the wardrobe?’ said Ren.

‘No – Caleb tidied away his own clothes.’

‘So that suitcase could have been gone for some time,’ said Ren.

‘Yes,’ said Teddy.

Could he have fought with his father, packed this suitcase and left, unwittingly drawing attention to himself: some creep driving by sees a kid on his own, maybe running away, maybe crying, carrying a suitcase? Vulnerable.

‘Does Caleb keep a diary?’ said Ren.

‘No,’ said Teddy. ‘He has no interest in anything like that. He’s like his father – might read a sports story or two, but won’t pick up a book, or write a word he isn’t forced to.’

‘If Caleb was in trouble,’ said Ren, ‘who do you think he might call?’

‘Well – me,’ said Teddy.

‘And what about his Aunt Alice?’ said Ren.

Teddy frowned. ‘You mean, would he call her if he had a problem? Gosh, I wouldn’t think so. I mean, she’s family, and she’s always perfectly lovely to him, remembers his birthday, all those kind of things, but …’ She trailed off. ‘Was he in trouble? Do you know something? Why are you asking about Alice?’

‘Caleb called her on Monday morning at seven thirty a.m.,’ said Ren. ‘She was the last call he made on the morning he disappeared.’

‘We see Alice two or three times a year,’ said Teddy. ‘Caleb’s maybe been on the phone to say hello to her once or twice, but that’s about it.’

What? ‘John seemed to think they spoke quite a bit.’

‘Really?’ said Teddy. ‘Well, not when I was around. And when I checked Caleb’s call list when I got home from work, I didn’t see her name.’

‘It had been deleted,’ said Ren.

‘That’s very strange,’ said Teddy.

‘If Caleb had an argument with his father, do you think he could have called his aunt for help?’ said Ren.

‘Caleb always called me when he had a fight with John.’

Always. How many were there?

‘Did that happen often?’ said Ren.

‘That sounded worse than it was,’ said Teddy at the same time.

Ren and Ruddock talked Gary and Wiley through the discrepancies between Alice, John and Teddy about the phone call.

‘Why,’ said Wiley, ‘would there be a difference in how two parents viewed their child’s relationship with his aunt? It makes no sense.’

‘Nah,’ said Gary. ‘It makes total sense.’

Ouch.

‘Have you got kids?’ said Gary.

Wiley shook his head. ‘No.’

Then, there you go says Gary’s face.

‘Alice Veir was very emotional about how much her brother cared for Caleb,’ said Ren. ‘It sounded genuine.’ She paused. ‘But what other reason would there be for Caleb to call her? Or maybe it was John who called her …’

‘Looking to know his options because he had killed his son,’ said Gary.

‘You’d want a pretty tight relationship with a sibling – or anyone, for that matter – to be able to call them up and say “I killed my child, what do I do next?”’ said Ren.

Ruddock nodded.

‘Especially when she’s a lawyer who’s all about justice,’ said Ren.

‘And let’s not forget,’ said Gary, ‘this was only a ten-minute phone call.’

‘This is a small thing,’ said Ren, ‘but when I told Alice Veir that Caleb was missing, she didn’t say “But I was just speaking with him yesterday morning”, which is the kind of thing someone would say under the circumstances, isn’t it? Reflexively? Not a big deal, but still.’

‘Do you think she might have already known that he was gone?’ said Ruddock.

‘I wasn’t getting that sense either …’ said Ren. ‘It was hard to say.’

Everything’s so fucking hard to say.

Gary’s phone beeped with a text. He read it. ‘OK – the other two CARD agents have just arrived at the hotel. It’s been a long day. Ren and I will get checked in, have something to eat, get some rest.’

Eat. Rest. Noooo!

Gary turned to Ruddock. ‘We can give the others the lowdown over dinner.’

‘I appreciate it,’ said Ruddock. ‘Thank you for everything today.’

14

Astor’s was a grim and grubby hotel on I-5, a ten-minute drive from Tate PD. Ren and Gary checked in, and were given rooms next door to each other.

Hmm.

Sylvie Ross better be miles away.

‘Ren,’ said Gary, as she was about to open her door. ‘Keep your phone close by. Dr Lone will be calling you in ten.’

Ren froze.

‘Take his call,’ said Gary. He went into his room and closed the door.

Nice, Gary. Nice.

Ren opened her door with a nudge of her shoulder and walked in. Her stomach tensed.

Indian Burial Ground.

She put her bag on the floor, undressed, and crawled on to the bed.

Fuck Gary if he thinks I’m going to take that call. Fuck him. That’s the last time I’ll open up to him if I’m struggling. Asshole.

Ren’s cell phone rang, Lone’s name flashing on the screen.

Ugh. She picked up. ‘Hi.’

‘Hi, Ren,’ said Lone. ‘Gary suggested I give you a call. I heard you had a difficult morning.’

‘I did not have a difficult – fucking – morning. People were gathering for a search, and it was just … how the crowd was moving … it was closing in on me and I felt a little overwhelmed. Honestly – it lasted for about two minutes. That was it. I appreciate the call, but I’m fine.’

‘I haven’t seen you in a couple of weeks,’ said Lone. ‘I’m glad we’re able to speak.’

‘Yes,’ said Ren. ‘But I’m in Oregon to concentrate on work right now. It feels selfish to be focusing on me. I have a job to do.’ She sucked in a breath, and it didn’t feel like enough.

‘It might help to talk,’ said Lone. ‘It might be a good way to begin this case … to reduce your anxiety.’

He doesn’t think I should be doing this job.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Ren. ‘I’m hundreds of miles away and having this conversation over the phone and …’

‘Maybe that’s what it’s going to take,’ said Lone.

I don’t think so.

‘Are you still having intrusive thoughts about …’

I want to scream.

‘… events at Safe Streets?’ said Lone.

Yeah – thanks for clarifying.

He waited.

Please just stop. Stop. Stop.

‘And are the thoughts still—’

Are you kidding me?

‘I’m sorry …’ What can I fucking say?

‘You need to be able to talk about this,’ said Lone.

Ren let out a breath. ‘OK,’ she said, ‘let’s talk briefly about this monumental horror that I can do absolutely nothing about, because it is in the past. So I can’t go back, I can’t go forward—’

‘All you can ever do is one day at a time.’

Sweet Jesus, why does that always sound so depressing?

‘Small steps are all you can take at a time like this,’ said Lone.

What is wrong with him? Why is he talking in clichés? Have I become a cliché? Traumatized law enforcement officer …

‘I’m just not a small steps kind of girl,’ said Ren. ‘I feel that taking small steps would give me plenty of time to see that dark pit up ahead that is waiting to swallow me. I feel that taking small steps means prolonged dread, and this achingly slow passage of time.’

I feel. I feel. I feel. FUCK feeling.

‘The future is not a dark pit—’

‘Well, the present is a pretty dark pit and a year ago – when this would have been considered “the future” …’

‘You can’t live your life expecting doom,’ said Lone. ‘We spoke before about catastrophic thinking.’

FUCK catastrophic thinking and magical thinking and all adjectival thinking.

‘Well, if I had spent more time expecting doom,’ said Ren, ‘maybe I could have been prepared. I could have prevented what happened.’

‘Ren, you couldn’t have prevented it.’

‘I’m sorry, but that’s not true.’

‘It is,’ said Dr Lone. He waited. ‘Ren, you need to start thinking about facing the reality of what happened.’

I don’t like you any more. ‘I need to’, ‘I should’. ‘I’m sorry,’ Ren said. ‘I really can’t do this. I can’t. Not today.’ Probably not any day.

‘Please,’ said Lone. ‘Try to tell me what you are feeling.’

Feelings. Jesus. Christ.

I’m so tired.

‘Do you want to know?’ said Ren. ‘Honestly? I believe that everything that happened that day was to punish me.’

Lone waited.

‘Sometimes,’ said Ren, ‘I feel like there’s a darkness inside me – a black part, like a piece of coal. Pitch-black. It’s rough and hard, and … I feel that, because of that, I should be punished.’

‘You think you deserved this,’ said Lone.

‘Yes,’ said Ren. ‘No. I … don’t know.’

‘Talk to me about this darkness …’ said Lone.

No! ‘I know I won’t be able to explain it,’ said Ren. ‘It’s … obviously, I don’t want to harm anyone; it’s not the darkness of evil.’ Yes, it is. ‘It’s not like I want to kill people.’ Really?

‘And you are taking your meds …’ said Lone.

‘I really wish one conversation could go by without you asking me that,’ said Ren. Let me spell it out again: I. Am. Taking. My. Meds. ‘Yes – I am taking them.’

I am taking them, and I will continue to take them for the rest of my life, because I believe that not taking them killed my friends, and killed my boyfriend. There’s the reality: my friends, my boyfriend, my loved ones, are dead because I didn’t open a packet of pills and swallow them down with a glass of water like a good mental patient. Because I was too busy being mental. And wanting to feel good. I was too busy getting drunk, flirting with strangers, and deliberately ensnaring the man who went on to kill my friends, and my boyfriend, and I feel sick.

She dropped the phone, jumped up, ran for the bathroom, leaned over the toilet and threw up.

I am going to choke on this reality he wants me to face …

She walked back into the bedroom. She could hear Dr Lone’s voice through the phone.

‘Ren? Ren?’

She put the phone up to her ear. ‘Sorry. I ate some crappy sandwich earlier. I need to take five minutes before I join the team for dinner. Thanks for the call.’

‘Is everything OK?’ said Lone.

Oh, fuck off. Everyone, just fuck the fuck off.

15

Ren showered, dressed, and stood in front of the mirror.

Ugh.

She grabbed her bag and did a quick no-makeup makeup job. She blasted her hair with the hairdryer, ran her fingers through it, left it down. It was five inches below her shoulders.

I have long hair now.

The last time I got this cut, Ben was alive.

Stop. It hurts. And it changes nothing.

Tears welled in her eyes.

Your mascara. Go.

Her cell phone rang. Gary.

‘Hey,’ said Ren.

‘You ready?’

‘Yes.’

‘Meet you outside. Paul and Sylvie are at the bar.’

Ren went out into the hallway. Gary appeared from his room, freshly showered.

Handsome.

‘Look, I know how you feel about Sylvie,’ said Gary, as they walked to the elevator.

Jesus, why are we talking about her again?

‘How I feel about her is irrelevant,’ said Ren. How I feel about Karen – your wife of almost twenty years – is ultimately too. ‘I do want you to be happy,’ said Ren. ‘Just … I can’t see how this is doing it for you.’

‘I thought I was going to die in that shooting,’ said Gary. ‘When I was laying there and I thought it was all over, I kept thinking about Sylvie. I—’

‘In what way?’ said Ren.

‘What? What do you mean—’

‘I’m serious,’ said Ren. ‘Were you thinking about how much you loved her and didn’t want to die because you’d never see her again? Or were you thinking, If I’m going to die, I want the love of my life by my side, and the face you saw was Sylvie’s? Or were you running through the showreel – thinking of her ass?’

‘Jesus, Ren—’

‘I just feel no one else will ask you the difficult shit. Your buddies aren’t going to—’

‘No one else knows.’

‘What?’ said Ren. ‘Well, that must be exhausting.’ She paused. ‘Does Sylvie think you’re going to leave Karen for her?’

He nodded.

‘And how’s that working out for you?’ said Ren. What is wrong with me? I feel mean.

Gary said nothing.

‘Oh,’ said Ren. ‘I get it. Do you think you’re going to leave Karen for her?’

He gave her a side glance, but didn’t answer.

They arrived at the bar. Sitting on the arm of a sofa, dressed in a navy-blue suit, was Paul Louderback, his arms folded, his long legs crossed. He looked like he was cut-and-pasted from an elegant drawing room. He saw Ren, smiled warmly, stood up.

My heart …

He’s married.

Ben is dead.

Nice.

Standing beside Paul, with her back to them, was Sylvie Ross, her thick sandy hair in a high ponytail. She was dressed in a white shirt, slim-fit gray pants, pointed black heels.

Great ass. Poor shoe choice.

Sylvie turned around, and her face lit up as she saw Gary over Ren’s shoulder.

God, is that what that looks like?

I still don’t know if you and Paul Louderback have slept together. Do I need to sleep with Gary to even this all out?

Everyone greeted each other, everyone was professional.

Oh, what a tangled web we weave.

Gary and Ren filled Sylvie and Paul in on the case over dinner.

‘Paul – you’ll be taking charge of the command center,’ said Gary. ‘I’m guessing the best thing for Sylvie to start with tomorrow is talking to Caleb Veir’s friends.’

Paul nodded.

‘Sure,’ said Sylvie. ‘Not a problem.’

She is freakishly intense with him.

Oh, now – I get it: yes, Gary nearly died, and Sylvie realized – uh-oh – how much she loves him.

It appears to be an alarming amount.

Sylvie started to pour Ren more wine. Ren held up her hand. ‘I’m good, thanks.’

Gary and Paul both stared at her.

‘Thanks, guys,’ said Ren. ‘Thanks.’

An hour later, Sylvie was the first to excuse herself. Gary left thirty minutes later.

When they were gone, Paul made a show of checking his watch. ‘Half an hour … standard time for one lover to ask another to wait before running up to join them?’ There was a sparkle in his eye.

‘Behave,’ said Ren.

‘Come on …’

I’m committing to nada.

‘So, are they?’ said Paul.

‘No, they’re not,’ said Ren.

‘OK,’ said Paul, with no conviction.

‘And no one should use the word “lover”.’

‘I have definitely heard you say “I’m a lover, not a fighter”.’

‘No one other than me, then …’

He smiled. ‘Now that I have cornered you alone,’ he said, ‘how are you doing? Really doing? You were very quiet over dinner.’

‘I was enjoying everyone else,’ said Ren. ‘I’m finding it hard to raise my game.’

‘You were perfectly pleasant, but …’

‘Struggling – I know.’

‘That’s understandable, after what you’ve been through.’

Tears welled in her eyes. She blinked them away. ‘I keep crying randomly.’ You don’t cry. Tears well, you blink, they’re gone. And you think the feelings go with them.

‘It’s not random,’ said Paul. ‘We’re talking about your boyfriend, your friends, your colleagues—’

‘It’s all so weird,’ said Ren. ‘I’m not a widow; Ben and I weren’t “long-term loves”. Just a year. But I did love him.’

You don’t know what love is. You’re not a victim. You don’t know how to love. And he doesn’t want to hear about love.

‘Have you thought about grief counseling?’ said Paul.

‘I’d rather shoot myself in the ass.’

‘Vivid,’ said Paul.

Ren smiled, took a drink. ‘But enough about me – how are you doing? How’s Marianne?’

‘Well,’ he said, drawing out the word, ‘the easy answer would be “great” …’

Oh, no, no, no, no. Do not appear available to me.

‘Shall I go on?’ he said.

‘Please do.’ Not.

‘It’s a dramatic move, getting back with your ex-wife,’ said Paul. ‘It’s exciting at the start, everyone is happy – the kids, our families, our friends – well, most of them – but then, the door is closed at night, everyone’s going about their business, and we’re just there, the two of us, and …’ He shrugged. ‘It’s like what people say about funerals: once it’s over, everyone disappears and you’re left on your own and … Jesus Christ, Ren – I can’t believe I just started talking about funerals. That was the most—’

Ren shook her head. ‘Stop. I get it. I know what you’re saying. Don’t tiptoe around me or I will shoot myself in the ass. Just, be normal. Please don’t look at me like I’m a victim. I can’t deal with that. Relax in the knowledge that I know you’re not an insensitive prick.’

‘OK,’ said Paul. ‘OK. I’m sorry. Thanks.’

‘No need to be,’ said Ren. Tears welled in her eyes again. ‘Ugh. This is getting ridiculous.’

‘Stop …’

‘I just … lost so many people I loved,’ said Ren.

Paul reached out and squeezed her hand. She looked up at him through tears.

At least I have you.

‘Well, I’m still here,’ said Paul. He blushed. ‘Not saying that you love me, or loved me, but, I just mean … what’s wrong with me tonight?’

Ren laughed, and wiped her eyes.

Of course I loved you. In my own special and fearful way. But I have no idea what it is I’m feeling right now.

Safe?

‘You … unsettle me, Ren Bryce.’

‘Jesus.’

‘Maybe I like being unsettled.’

Ren laughed. I beg to differ.

‘Why are you laughing?’ said Paul.

‘It was just your delivery …’

She checked her watch. It was 11 p.m. ‘OK, I’m wide awake. I’m going to take a drive.’

‘What?’ said Paul. ‘Now?’

Ren nodded. ‘Every second counts.’

And every second out there is one less second I spend alone in my bed with nothing but my own mind to fuck me.

‘Do you want company?’ said Paul.

Mos def not. ‘No, thank you.’

Ren drove out of the parking lot and read the sign: left was Tate, right was Lake Verny.

The Crow Bar will still be open. I can ask about John Veir, I can check out Seth Fuller.

I can throw myself into the beautiful, icy, moonlit water.

16

Seth Fuller stood on the bottom step of The Crow Bar, clutching the handrail. Eyes closed, he sucked air through his nose, held it, exhaled slowly through his mouth – 7-11 breathing: he had been taught how to do this by the psychologist at BRCI. He had been embarrassed at first, sitting in front of this nerdy guy, Lockwood, in his brown round-neck sweater and red shirt, closing his eyes and counting in for seven, counting out for eleven.

‘You’ve got this, Seth,’ Lockwood used to say. ‘And if you’ve got this, you’ll see … you’ve got the rest of your life.’

Seth thought it was a pretty sweeping statement, but he liked the idea of having the rest of his life. He just wasn’t sure if he really did, and that, if so, he’d ever be able to breathe properly through it.

He leaned hard on the handrail and vaulted up the steps. He walked into the bar, pulled a fifty-dollar note out of his back pocket and slapped it on to the counter in front of Shannon. He nodded toward Clyde Brimmer.

Shannon frowned. ‘Where did you get that?’

Seth smiled his lazy smile. ‘I choose to take no offense at the tone of your remark.’

‘I’m serious.’

‘Don’t be,’ said Seth. ‘A friend of a friend of a friend.’

Shannon rolled her eyes, but there was anger in them. ‘You better not be—’

‘I’m not be,’ said Seth. ‘Don’t worry.’

‘Goddammit,’ said Shannon. ‘The town is crawling with police.’

‘Well, if it helps,’ said Seth, ‘I won it playing pool with the police. Gil Wiley. You can ask him yourself.’

‘Jesus, Seth – why do you have to create mysteries for no reason?’ said Shannon. ‘What’s the point? “Friend of a friend of a friend.” Why would you want to cause more stress for me than I’m already under?’

‘I’m sorry, Aunt Shannon. I wasn’t thinking …’

‘I worry,’ she said. ‘So easily now. I get these spikes of anxiety in my chest and once they’re dug in there, they’re real hard to get rid of.’ She touched a hand to his cheek, but didn’t let it stay there long. ‘And shouldn’t Wiley be taking care of things at home instead of out playing pool with—’

‘It’s escaping home that Wiley’s interested in,’ said Seth.

‘Not to mention he has an investigation to run.’

‘Wiley is no investigation-runner,’ said Seth. ‘He’ll never be anything more than a sidekick. And he knows it.’

He pushed the fifty closer to Shannon.

‘And why are you paying for Clyde’s drinks, anyway, big shot?’ said Shannon.

‘Out of pity,’ said Seth. ‘But Clyde doesn’t mind pity. He is unconcerned with the emotion behind a gesture. A fresh drink materializes before his swimming eyes? Well, that’s as pure a gesture as anything, far as he’s concerned – a single, welcome moment that doesn’t need to be weighed down by history or motive or rationale. A beer’s a beer.’

‘A beer’s a beer,’ said Shannon. She put a bottle of Bud down in front of him. ‘How did the search go today?’

She poured a whiskey for Clyde.

‘Well, no one found anything,’ said Seth. ‘But you get the sense they put the volunteers in places where they don’t really think they’re going to find anything, so they won’t screw up the evidence.’

‘Probably,’ said Shannon.

‘And I got nothing out of Wiley afterward,’ said Seth. ‘Even when he was wasted. I tried to pump him for information, but nothing.’

‘You shouldn’t be showing so much interest,’ said Shannon. ‘You know that doesn’t look good.’

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