"Then tell him to his face. It's the Blue Sky motel, room 18, off the – "

I hung up.

From what Tess had said, Janie would be dead drunk by ten, meaning I could safely enter at midnight. Tess had also mentioned that the back door was usually unlocked. If there had ever been anything of value in the place, it was long gone. One could argue that having a beautiful teenage daughter meant you did have something to protect, but Janie would see the price sticker on even a cheap deadbolt and decide the money was better spent on a bottle of rye.

I arrived at eleven-thirty, parked behind the grocery store, and waited. I tried to plan my break-in, but there wasn't much strategy involved with an open door. That meant I had nothing to think about except the one topic I'd been avoiding.

Evelyn was right. I was hurt. What pissed me off was the implication that, in being hurt, I was acting immature. That I had no right to be upset.

Three years ago, Jack had come to me. He'd appeared one night, sent – as I now knew – by Evelyn to assess my suitability as a new student. He'd returned and told her I wouldn't do, then kept coming himself.

At first, I thought he was taking my measure as a security risk, deciding whether to kill me. Maybe he had been. Whatever tests he'd applied, though, I must have passed. Eventually he considered me not only a colleague worthy of continued existence, but one worth his interest.

I won't flatter myself into thinking he was impressed by my skills. I was nowhere near Jack's league and had no intention of applying for membership. Maybe that was part of the attraction. I wasn't competition.

Whatever the reason, that attraction was purely pla-tonic – another aspect that made it easy to let my guard down. Still I'd resisted. Jack was no vigilante or Mafia thug killer. He was a hitman. You paid him, he killed. While I got the feeling it wasn't that simple these days, he was motivated more by economics than by ethics.

He'd said once that if I'd known him years ago, I'd have sooner shot him than talked to him. But talk we did, long nights in the woods behind the lodge. Admittedly I carried most of the conversation – Jack wasn't the chatty type – but he'd seemed to enjoy those visits, passing on tips and tricks to me, listening to me chatter about the lodge. He'd kept coming back, so it couldn't have been too painful.

I hadn't known how important those nights were to me until they stopped. With Jack, I had something I didn't get these days: an honest relationship. He knew who I was – both sides of my life. On the job last fall, I'd realized he'd even seen the parts I'd congratulated myself on keeping hidden. At this point in my life, no one knew me better than Jack.

Now, apparently, he'd decided he didn't care to know me at all.

And it hurt like I'd never imagined it could.

At the stroke of midnight, I was creeping around Janie's home. The back door was indeed open and, as expected, she was asleep on the couch. From the rough rise and fall of her chest, she was snoring loud enough to bring down the rotted rafters, but the sound was drowned out by the booming television. That was a problem.

One might think I'd appreciate loud noise to cover my own sounds, but I've learned to open doors, windows, drawers, even shuffle through papers in silence. If a house is quiet, I can work with confidence, knowing that a key in the front door lock or the creak of bedsprings will resonate like thunder, giving me time to clean up and clear out.

The blaring television meant I wouldn't hear Janie if she woke. I considered turning it off, but even if Janie somehow did wake and catch me, the only thing she could do was call the police, who hated her as much as they hated me. By the time an officer bothered to stop by, I'd be home in bed, having left not so much as a shoe print to support her story.

To be safe, I unplugged the old rotary phone. That'd give me a few extra minutes. Hell, she'd probably spend an hour pounding on the plunger before realizing it was disconnected.

I looked down at Janie. If I wanted information, my best source was lying right here, drunk and helpless. I fingered the gun under my jacket, and thought of how easy it would be to make Janie talk to me. Throw her onto the carpet, pin her down, let her sputter in a puddle of her own vomit for a few minutes, and she'd decide maybe she could spare the time to answer my questions after all.

Don Riley would love to have me up on an assault charge, but not if it meant dealing with Janie. And he'd be setting the word of the town drunk against that of a hardworking member of the business community.

I could put Janie Ernst into a six-foot hole and most people would say exactly the same thing she'd said about Sammi's disappearance: good riddance. In the end, that's why I didn't do it. If I asked Janie about her daughter and granddaughter, and saw that sneer of hers again, heard her say she didn't give a damn what had happened to them, as long as they didn't come back, I'm not sure I could stop with a beating.

I found Sammi's bedroom. Not exactly a feat of brilliant deduction when there were two bedrooms and only one held a crib. Sammi's room was half the size of her mother's with a twin bed pushed against the wall, crates stacked for storage, a crib, and nothing more. The walls were covered with what might once have been rose-dotted wallpaper, but now was a dingy yellow backdrop with pinkish-brown splotches.

The only decorations were pages ripped from parenting magazines – checklists for infant development, tips on breast-feeding, ads for baby gear. I imagined Sammi in here, ripping down all the signs of her teenage years and putting up all these symbols of motherhood, then surveying the results, not with regret but with satisfaction, the knowledge that she was recentering her world in a worthy direction.

I found their clothing in two crates, one for Sammi and one for Destiny. Having seen them wear the same outfits several times a week, I knew they hadn't owned much, and it all seemed to be there.

There was very little else to search. No diary, no journal. There were no novels or textbooks in which she might have hidden a letter. As Tess said, Sammi was barely literate. The only books I found were a baby memory book, a dog-eared copy of What to Expect the First Year, and a few back issues of parenting magazines with the local doctor's name on the mailing label.

Under the bed was an empty cigarette carton stuffed with photographs of Sammi, Tess, and Kira growing up. Under the pictures lay Destiny's hospital bracelet. Sammi's treasures. Her friends and her baby. That was all she had, all she cared about. If she had run away, would she have left these things behind?

I flashed my light around the rest of the room. A baby carrier and folded playpen were stacked in the corner, both things that could be replaced once Sammi resettled. Wait. I shone the light back at the carrier. It doubled as a car seat, and fit on top of the stroller.

Sammi always walked to the lodge with the stroller and the car seat attached, in case the weather turned ugly and she needed a lift home. One gorgeous cloud-free day, she'd decided to leave the seat at home. Then, just before she was to leave work, it started pouring. I'd offered her a lift, saying she could hold Destiny on her lap and I'd drive slow. She'd freaked. Her baby did not travel in a car without a proper infant seat. She'd sat in the lodge for two hours until the weather cleared enough for her to walk.

So now, when Sammi had supposedly run off and stolen a car or met someone, she'd taken Destiny in the stroller without the car-seat attachment? Never. When Sammi left for her walk that evening, she'd been planning to come home.