DeSanctis stopped.

Gallo looked skyward. Four stories up, Maggie Caruso’s white sheet flapped in the night air. Across the alley, the window directly opposite Maggie’s was black. Without a word, DeSanctis stopped the tape and raised the thermal imager. And as the dark green picture came into focus, there was something new inside the window – a faint, milky gray silhouette of an older woman staring out at the clothesline. Watching. And patiently waiting.

“Son of a bitch!” Gallo shouted, punching the roof of the car. The dome light blinked on and off at the impact. “How the hell did we miss that?”

“Should I-?”

“Find the neighbor!” he continued to yell. “I want to know who she is, how long she’s known them, and most important, I want a list of every call that’s gone in and out of that house in the last forty-eight hours!”

“If she was hiding it in her hand… if her palms were sweaty… it could be anything – plastic… a piece of clothing… even some folded-up paper would-”

There was a long pause as DeSanctis’s voice faded. Joey glanced up the block, where both agents were staring up at-

“Son of a bitch!” Gallo thundered as a high-pitched feedback screech squealed through Joey’s receiver. Wincing from the sound, she turned the volume down. As she turned it back up, the only thing left was static.

“Oh, c’mon,” she moaned, slapping the side of the receiver. Nothing but static. She hit the Power button and restarted the system. Static and more static. “No, no, no…” she begged, madly twisting knobs to retune the frequency. “Please… not now…” Reaching the end of the dial, she looked back up the block. Gallo pounded the steering wheel with his fist, screaming something at DeSanctis. Red brake lights lit up and Gallo abruptly started the car.

“You gotta be kidding me,” Joey mumbled.

Tires groaned as they spun angrily against a patch of filthy snow. Finding traction, the car swerved wildly into the street, almost smacking into a brown Plymouth halfway up the block. And as Joey watched the red brake lights turn the corner and disappear, she knew right there and then that it was just the start of an even longer night.

“Welcome to Suckville – Population: Two,” Charlie says dryly, knee-deep in the sea of cardboard file boxes.

“Can you please stop complaining and just check that one over there?”

“I already checked it.”

“Are you s-?”

“Yes, Oliver, I’m sure,” he says, carefully pronouncing every syllable. “For the ninety-fifth time, I’m absolutely sure.”

It’s been three hours since Charlie joined me in the Warehouse of Useless Garbage doubling as Duckworth’s garage. In hour one, we were hopeful. By hour two, we got impatient. Now we’re just annoyed.

“What about those over there?”

Charlie glances at a stack of brown boxes stuffed between a heap of rusty lawn chairs and a broken, rotted-out barbecue. “I. Checked. Them,” he growls.

“And what was inside?” I challenge.

His ears burn fiery red. “Let me think… Oh yeah, now I remember – it was yet another carton of thumbed-through sci-fi novels and outdated-as-the-dinosaurs computer texts…” Ripping the lid off the top box, he pulls out two books: a water-damaged paperback copy of Fahrenheit 451, and a faded handbook titled The Commodore 64 – Welcome to the Future.

I stare him down and point to the other boxes in the stack. “What about the ones underneath?”

“That’s it… I’m gone,” Charlie announces, flying toward the door. He trips and stumbles over one of Gillian’s oversized canvases, but for once he doesn’t land right back on his feet. Smacking into a separate stack of boxes, he regains his balance, but only after knocking the entire pile to the ground. Dozens of books scatter across the floor.

“Charlie, wait up!”

Chasing him into the living room, I quickly spot Gillian, who’s hunched over on the armrest of her dad’s wicker chair. Her head’s down and her elbows are resting on her knees. As she looks up, her eyes are all red – like she’s been crying.

Charlie blows right by her and disappears into the kitchen. I can’t help but stop.

“What’s wrong?” I ask. “Are you okay?”

She nods silently, but that’s all she’ll give. In her hands, she’s holding a blue wooden picture frame with a tiny Mickey Mouse painted in the bottom right corner. The picture inside is an old photograph of an overweight man standing in a swimming pool – and proudly showing off his tiny one-year-old girl. He’s got a crooked-but-beaming smile; she’s got a floppy beach hat and bright pink bathing suit. Even the moleman had his day in the sun. With the little girl frozen in mid-clap, he holds her close to his chest, arms wrapped snugly around her. Like he’ll never let go.

I don’t know Gillian Duckworth all that well – but I do know what it’s like to lose a parent.

Kneeling down next to her, I do my best to get her attention. “I’m sorry we’re rummaging through his life like this…”

“It’s not your fault.”

“Actually, it is. If we didn’t get you all riled up, we wouldn’t be-”

“Listen, if I didn’t go through his stuff now, I would’ve done it in six months. Besides,” she adds, looking down at the photo, “you never promised me anything.” She goes to say something else, but it never comes out. She just stares at the photo, shaking her head slightly. “I know it sounds pathetic, but it just makes me realize how little I knew him.” Her head stays low and her curly black hair cascades down the side of her neck.

“Gillian, if it makes you feel any better, we’ve got the exact same photo in our house – I haven’t seen my dad in eight years.”

She looks up and our eyes finally connect. She wipes the tears away with the back of her hand. There’s a tiny gap between her lips. I reach out and palm her shoulder, but she’s already turned away. She buries her face in her hands, and as the tears start flowing, she cries to herself. Even with me kneeling next to her, Gillian’s doing her best to keep it private. But eventually… as I’m learning… we all need to open up. Sagging sideways, she leans her head against my shoulder, wraps her arms around my neck, and lets the rest out. With each breathless weep, she barely makes a noise, but I feel her tears soak my shirt. “It’s okay,” I tell her as her breathing slows. “It’s okay to miss him.”

Over her shoulder, I spy Charlie watching us from the kitchen. He’s searching for the glint in her eye… the flicker in her voice… anything to prove it’s an act. But it never shows. And as he watches her crumble, even he can’t look away.

Realizing I see him, my brother spins around and pretends to recheck the kitchen cabinets. As Gillian’s sobs subside, he circles back toward us in the room.

“Who’s up for some TV?” Charlie interrupts. “We can-” He stops and suddenly acts surprised. “I’m sorry – I didn’t mean to-”

“No, it’s okay,” Gillian says, sitting up straight and pulling herself together.

What’re you doing? I ask with a glance. I’m not sure if he’s jealous or just trying to calm her down, but even I have to admit, she can use the distraction.

“C’mon,” Charlie adds, putting on his nice-guy voice and waving us over to the TV. “No more heartache – time to relax with some mindless entertainment.”

She glances my way to check my reaction.

“Actually, it’s probably not a bad idea,” I agree. “Just to clean the mental palate…”

“Now you’re talkin’,” Charlie says as he cruises past us. Springboarding off the carpet, he lands on the couch with his feet already crossed on the coffee table. Gillian follows me to the living room, her fingers holding on to my hand.

“That’s it – there’s room for everyone – one big happy family,” Charlie teases as he grabs the remote. He clicks it at the TV, but nothing happens. Again, he clicks. Again, nothing.