Susan leaned back on her heels and looked through the entryway into the living room, where the parents still sat, motionless on the sofa, another detective perched across from them on an ottoman, notebook in hand.

“What school did she go to?” Claire asked.

Archie jerked his head toward Susan. “Her alma mater.”

“ Cleveland?” Susan said, stomach dropping. She knew then, in a horrible rush of certainly, that Archie had confronted Paul. Of course he had. “You don’t think-”

“It wasn’t Reston,” Archie told her. “He was under surveillance from six on. Didn’t leave the house.”

Susan’s jaw ached again. Archie had put Paul under surveillance, made him a suspect, based on her dramatic performance at the prison. She mentally kicked herself for opening her big mouth. She shouldn’t have let Gretchen get to her. She should never have even taken the story. Now there was no stopping what she had set in motion. “You’re watching Paul? Based on what I told you yesterday?”

“He fits the profile better than anyone right now. Except for his unerring ability to have an alibi at the time of the crimes.” Archie turned to Claire. “Check in with our tail on Evan Kent. Then call Cleveland. Find out if anyone showed up today covered in blood and wearing a ski mask.” He smiled wanly. “Or, you know, anything out of the ordinary.”

Claire nodded, pulled her cell phone off her belt, and walked outside to make the calls.

Susan stole another look at Archie. “You went to see him,” she said.

Archie snapped his pen shut and dropped it in his coat pocket. “Of course,” he said. “What did you think I’d do?”

“What did he say?”

“He denied it.”

Susan felt her face flush. “Good,” she said, her voice faltering just a little. “He’s protecting himself. That’s good.” And then: “I told you he’d deny it.”

“That’s what you told me,” said Archie.

Claire reappeared. “ Kent ’s at home. But Dan McCallum didn’t show today at Cleveland.” She glanced from face to face. “What?”

Archie looked at his watch. “How late is he?” he asked.

“Mr. McCallum?” Susan said. “There’s no way.”

Claire ignored her. “His first class started ten minutes ago. He didn’t call in sick, just didn’t show up. The school called his house and no one’s answering.”

“I think that might be suspicious,” Archie said.

Archie knocked on the door of McCallum’s 1950s bungalow hard enough that he thought his knuckles might split. It was a diminutive one-story tan-brick house set in the middle of an expansive and obsessively tended yard. A row of rosebushes, just returning after being cut back for winter, lined the paved walkway to the wide cement stoop at the front of the house. The door, in a lonely splash of personality, was painted a glossy red. A doorbell that looked like it had not been operational since shortly after the house was built was taped over with a weathered piece of electrician’s tape. Monday’s Oregon Herald, untouched in its plastic sleeve, still lay in front of the door. “Dan?” Archie called. He knocked again. The door had a large glass window, but it was curtained and Archie couldn’t see more than a sliver of the interior of the house. He motioned with two fingers for the Hardy Boys to go around to the back door. Henry stood on the steps. Claire stood beside Archie. Susan, attired in a yellow vest with the words RIDE ALONG emblazoned in black on the back, had wedged herself next to Claire. Archie gestured for Susan to stand back, which she did. Then he drew his gun and knocked again. “Dan, it’s the police. Open up.” Nothing.

He tried the door. It was locked. A gray tabby appeared on the porch and snaked her way between Archie’s legs. “Hello, beautiful,” he said. Then he noticed the faint trail of paw prints she’d left behind. He knelt down and looked at the prints, pale red against the glossy mud green paint of the stoop.

“It’s blood,” he said to Claire. “You want to get it?”

He stood up and stepped back as Claire shielded her face with her elbow and gave the door window a hard whack with the handle of her gun. The window splintered and broke into five pieces, which slid from the framing and fell to the inside floor in an explosion of shattered glass. The moment the glass was broken, the stench of death hit them. They all recognized it. Archie reached inside and unlocked the door. He swung the door open and raised his gun.

He carried a Smith & Wesson.38 Special. He preferred a revolver to an automatic. They were reliable and didn’t require as much upkeep. Archie didn’t like guns. He’d never had to fire his off range. And he didn’t want to spend half his waking hours at the kitchen table cleaning his service weapon. But a.38 wasn’t as powerful as a 9-mm, and Archie found his loyalty suddenly wavering.

“Dan,” he called out. “This is the police. Are you in here? We’re coming in.” Nothing.

The front door opened into a living room, which led into a kitchen. Archie could see paw prints straying diagonally across the linoleum. He turned to Susan. “Stay here,” he said in his most commanding voice. Then he nodded to Claire and Henry. “You ready?” They both nodded back.

He moved inside.

Archie loved this part. Even all his pills couldn’t compete with a natural surge of adrenaline and endorphins. His body felt alive with energy. His heart rate and breathing increased; his muscles tightened. He was never more alert. He moved through the house, taking in every detail. Bookcases filled the far side of the living room. The shelves were stacked with books as well as other objects-old coffee cups and papers and what looked like mail that had been tucked in any available cranny. Four easy chairs in varying shades of green and pedigrees sat around a square coffee table, which was layered with newspapers. Framed line drawings of tall ships hung on one wall, one on top of the next. Archie moved through the hallway, his back against the wall, with Claire following so close behind that he could hear her breathing. Henry followed behind Claire. Archie called out again, “Dan? It’s the police.” Nothing.

He turned the corner, gun raised, and immediately saw the source of the bloody paw prints.

Dan McCallum was dead. He lay cheek-down on the oak kitchen table, his head resting in a pool of thick blood. One arm was stretched across the table; the other was folded at the elbow, the gun still in his hand. His was facing Archie, eyes open, but there was no question that he had been dead much of the night.

“Fuck.” Archie sighed. He reholstered his gun, threaded his fingers behind his neck, and walked in a small circle, willing himself to let go of his frustration. If McCallum was their killer, it was over. But where was the girl? He snapped back to the present. “Call it in,” he said to Claire.

He could hear Claire on the radio behind him as he approached the body. Careful not to step in the blood that had pooled on the floor, he squatted beside the corpse. Archie recognized the gun in McCallum’s hand right away. It was a.38. The heart can continue to pump for up to two minutes with a brain injury like that, which explained the extensive bleeding.

Archie had once found the body of a man who’d punched his fist through a plate-glass window after an argument with his wife. He’d severed the artery in his arm and bled to death because she had stormed out of the house and he was too proud to call an ambulance. The blood had sprayed in a wide arc across the kitchen when the artery was severed and then continued to throb out of his body despite the several dish towels he’d tried to use as tourniquets. His wife had returned the next morning and called 911. When Archie got there, he found the man dead, slumped against a kitchen cabinet. Blood splattered the yellow kitchen curtains and the white walls and spread across the entire kitchen floor. Archie hadn’t known that one body could produce that much blood. It had looked like the scene of a chainsaw homicide.