So talkative a moment earlier, I now could find no words.

“I got the call just before you came back for your car. It’ll be a while before we get back the DNA tests. Want to save us some trouble, tell us what we’re going to learn?”

It was time to get help.

Driving home from Lake George, I reached Natalie Bondurant, the lawyer my father had been in touch with, on my cell phone. Once we got the preliminaries out of the way, and she was officially going to act on my behalf, I said, “There’s been a development since you spoke to my father. Actually, a few.”

“Tell me,” she said.

“Leanne Kowalski, the woman who worked in the same office as my wife, her body was found not far from where I had driven on Friday with Jan.”

“So the cops already like you for this thing,” she said, “and now they’ve got this.”

“Yeah.”

“Are they going to find a second body, Mr. Harwood? Are they going to find your wife, too?”

“I hope to God not,” I said.

“Because if they do they’ll be able to nail you for it? Or because you’re still hoping to see your wife come home alive?”

She had a directness that was disarming.

“The latter,” I said. “And Detective Duckworth said they’ve found blood and hair in the trunk of my car, plus a receipt for duct tape in the glove compartment.”

“He may be trying to rattle you. Can you explain those things?”

“No,” I said. “I mean, the hair? Sure, we’re in and out of the trunk, I suppose some stray hairs could fall in, but the other things? No. I don’t know why there’d be blood there, and I haven’t bought a roll of duct tape in a long time.”

“Kind of convenient that they’ve found those things, then,” Natalie Bondurant said.

“What do you mean?”

“There’s a lot of circumstantial evidence building up around you.”

She had me take her through things from the beginning. I tried to tell everything as simply as possible, as though I were spelling it all out in a news story. Give her the overall picture first, then start zeroing in on the details. I told her about my trip to Rochester, the revelation that Jan might not be who she’d been claiming to be.

“How do you explain that?” she asked.

“I can’t. I asked Detective Duckworth whether she might be one of those relocated witnesses, but I don’t think he took me seriously, after I’d already told him Jan had been acting depressed the last few weeks, and he couldn’t find anyone else to back up that story.”

Natalie was quiet a moment, then said, “You’re in a load of trouble.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“What the police don’t have is a body,” she said. “They’ve got this Leanne Kowalski’s, but they don’t have your wife’s. That’s good news. Not just because we want your wife to come back alive, but it means the police don’t have a solid case yet. That doesn’t mean they might not be able to build one without a body. Plenty of people have gone to jail for murder where a body was never found.”

“You’re not cheering me up.”

“That’s not my job. My job is to keep your ass out of jail, or if you end up going there, to make it for as short a time as possible.”

If I hadn’t been driving, I would have closed my eyes. We had been talking so long, I was nearly home. It was just after eight.

A thought occurred to me.

“There was something weird about the grave,” I said. “About where they found Leanne’s body.”

“What?”

“That hole that was dug, to put Leanne into. It was right by the side of the road. It wasn’t much of a grave, either. Just enough to put somebody into it and cover it with a bit of dirt. All somebody had to do was go a few more feet into the woods and they could have buried her where she wouldn’t have been seen. Why someone would try to bury her that close to the road, even a road that’s not very well traveled, seems stupid.”

“You’re saying she was meant to be found,” Natalie said.

“It hadn’t occurred to me until now, but yeah. I wonder.”

“Come to my office tomorrow morning at eleven,” she said. “Bring your checkbook.”

“Okay,” I said. I was driving back into my parents’ neighborhood.

“And don’t have any more conversations with the police without me present,” she said.

“Got it,” I said. I made the turn onto my parents’ street. The house was just up ahead.

There was a mini media circus on the street out front.

Two TV news vans. Three cars. People milling about.

Shit.

“And,” Natalie Bondurant said, “no talking to the press.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” I said, and ended the call.

I was guessing that if there were this many reporters at my parents’ house, my own house was probably staked out as well. One of the news vans was half blocking the driveway, so I had to park at the curb on the opposite side of the street.

I didn’t see any way around this. I wanted to see my parents, and I desperately needed to see my son.

I got out of my father’s car and started striding across the street. A reporter and cameraman jumped out of each of the news vans and called out my name. Young people with notepads and digital recorders got out of the three cars. Samantha Henry emerged from a faded red Honda Civic that I’d thought looked familiar. She wore a pained, apologetic look on her face as she approached, one that seemed to say, Hey, look, I’m sorry, I’m just doing my job.

The reporters swarmed me, shouting out questions.

“Mr. Harwood, any word on your wife?”

“Mr. Harwood, do you know what’s happened to your wife?”

“Why do the police consider you a suspect?”

“Did you kill your wife, Mr. Harwood?”

I resisted my first inclination, which was to push my way through them and run into the house. Natalie’s advice was fresh in my mind, but I’d worked in newspapers long enough to know how guilty brushing past the press, refusing to say anything, would make me look. So I stopped, held up my palms in a bid to show I was willing to take their questions if they’d just hold up.

“I’ll say a few words,” I said as the two cameramen maneuvered for good shots. I needed a moment to compose myself, collect my thoughts. Then I said, “My wife, Jan Harwood, went missing yesterday morning while we were at Five Mountains with our son. I’ve been doing everything I can to find her, and I’m hoping and praying that she’s all right. If you’re watching this, honey, please get in touch and let me know you’re okay. Ethan and I love you, we miss you, and we just want you to get home safely. Whatever’s happened, whatever it might be, we can work it out. We can work through it together. And to anyone else who’s watching, if anyone has seen Jan or knows anything about where she might be or what might have happened to her, I beg you, please get in touch with me or with the police. All I want is for my wife to come home.”

One of the more beautifully coiffed TV reporters pushed a microphone into my face and said, “We have information that you felt compelled to tell the police that you did not kill your wife. Why did you feel you had to say that? Are you officially a suspect?”

“I said it because it’s the truth,” I said, trying to keep my voice even. I glanced at the house, saw my mother watching me through the curtains. “I understand that the police have to consider every possibility in a case like this, including looking at the spouse of a missing person. I get that. That’s just standard procedure.”

“But are you a suspect?” she persisted. “Do the police believe your wife has been murdered?”

“There’s no evidence anything’s happened to my wife,” I said.

“Is that because you’ve done a good job getting rid of the body?” she asked.

I tried very hard to stay calm. “I won’t dignify that with a response.”

The second most beautifully coiffed reporter, from the other TV station, asked, “How do you explain the fact that there’s no evidence your wife was even with you at Five Mountains?”