I GOT OUT THE MAP. If I’d had the smarts to figure out the GPS system in Trixie’s car, I could have looked up Kelton and County Road 9, but finding it on a piece of paper not only seemed simpler, but a hell of a lot faster.

Using Trixie’s pencil, I followed the route west out of Groverton, up to Kelton, which was barely big enough to warrant a dot, then found County Road 9 heading due north from it. I turned the key, heard the engine’s powerful but understated roar-not the sort of thing I was used to behind the wheel of my hybrid Virtue-and started heading out of town.

It was only slightly after noon, and I could have used some lunch, but I felt that I was so close to finding Trixie, and to learning what was going on, that I didn’t want to stop. But as I drove, I found I wasn’t thinking of food anyway. I was burdened with doubts that finding Trixie would actually accomplish all of the things I hoped it would.

She’d already run away from me once. And she’d shown herself capable of taking desperate measures to make sure I didn’t come after her. But maybe this time, if we could have a conversation in a less unsettling environment-in other words, without a dead man in the room-she’d be more inclined to tell me what was going on.

It took twenty minutes to reach Kelton, and another twelve seconds to drive through it. A general store, a gas station with pumps from the middle of the previous century, maybe a dozen houses. Motorists were supposed to slow to forty miles per hour driving through, but most, like me, held pretty close to sixty and no one seemed to mind.

County Road 9 wound through farm country. Barns, their boards weathered gray, sat back from the highway, beyond two-story homes likely built seventy to a hundred years ago. At the end of every driveway stood a mailbox, and at some, a small building, phone booth-sized, that could have been outhouses if it weren’t for large, window-like openings. These, I realized, were for children to stand in, for shelter, while they waited for school buses on wintry mornings.

I slowed for each mailbox, trying to read the name. Some were painted on crudely, others used those metallic-looking peel-and-stick letters you can buy from the hardware store. For a while, I had a pickup behind me, the driver wondering what I was doing, letting my foot off the gas as I approached each farm’s driveway. Finally, catching a break in the oncoming traffic, he gunned past me, giving me the finger.

“Whatever,” I said under my breath. I had other problems.

I’d seen boxes labeled “Fountain” and “Verczinski” and “Walton” and “Scrunch.” That one gave me pause. Scrunch? I tried to imagine going through life with a name like Scrunch. Maybe that was why they lived out in the country. Fewer people to introduce yourself to.

“Hi, we’re the Scrunches.”

“We’re a bunch of Scrunches.”

“Packing lunches for the Scrunches.”

I was having so much fun entertaining myself that I drove right past the mailbox marked Bennet.

I actually spotted the name, “,” in my rearview mirror. There was no name on the approaching side of the mailbox, so when I glanced into my mirror and saw what appeared to be the right letters, if in the wrong order, I hit the brakes.

Once I had the car pulled over to the shoulder, I scoped out the Bennet house. It sat a good hundred yards back from the road, a two-story brick farmhouse with a porch across the front and down one side. The gravel drive led beyond the house to a barn out back. The land that surrounded the structures didn’t appear to be used for growing anything other than tall grass, although the lawn out front of the house was green and well tended.

I backed up, turned into the drive, noticed one of those mini-shelters for bused children. Made of chipboard, it looked unfinished, but new, as though waiting for its first winter. As I rolled past it, gravel made crunching noises under the wide tires of the GF300. As I got closer to the house, I noticed the ass end of an old minivan parked out back. I pulled in next to it, got out, and when I happened to glance into the van, noticed a child’s booster seat attached to the second row of seats.

I admired the flowers in the garden, which looked as though it had just been weeded, mounted the two steps up to the porch, walked past some white wicker furniture, and knocked on the front screen door. Leaned up against the house, next to the door, were a garden rake and a small shovel, fresh dirt still clinging to it. Inside the house, I heard movement, and then the main door, beyond the screen, opened.

At first I thought Trixie had done something with her hair.

It was blonde now, instead of black, with some streaks of gray in it. She was wearing jeans, with a denim shirt tucked in, the sleeves rolled up. A wisp of hair hung over her forehead and across one eye, and when she used the back of her wrist to move it away, I could see that I had made a mistake.

This was not Trixie. But her face, the shape of her nose, something about the chin, it almost could have been. But this woman was older. Not by much. Three or four years, maybe, but no more. She was lean, and her forearms, where the sleeves had been rolled up, were ropy and muscular.

“Yes?” the woman said.

“Excuse me,” I said. “I-”

And I realized I had no cover story worked out. Maybe if I just told the truth.

“Are you Mrs. Bennet?” I asked, pointing to the mailbox out front.

I guess, what with her name out there by the road and all, she couldn’t see much point in denying it. “Yes,” she said, hesitantly.

“Mrs. Bennet, I’m looking for someone,” I said, my voice full of apology. “I don’t know whether I have the right place, but, uh, I’m looking for a woman by the name of Trixie Snelling.”

Mrs. Bennet’s eyes seemed to widen, then go back to normal, all in a thousandth of a second.

“I’m sorry, there’s no one here by that name,” Mrs. Bennet said.

“Well, that’s possible,” I said. “I might have the name wrong. I don’t even know that that is her name. It might actually be Candace something. You see, I know her as Trixie, we used to be neighbors, she’s a friend of mine, and-”

“Mister,” Mrs. Bennet said, starting to close the door, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m afraid if you have any more questions, you’ll have to talk to my husband.”

I nodded agreeably. “That would be fine. Could I speak to him please?”

“I’m afraid he’s not here right now. You’d have to come back another time.”

From somewhere down the highway, the sound of an approaching truck.

“Mrs. Bennet, please, I’m sorry, I haven’t even told you my name. I’m Zack-”

“I don’t care who you are. You’ll have to leave and come back another time. I can’t help you. There’s no one else here, there’s no woman by that name, and I don’t know who would have told you such a thing.”

The truck noise was growing louder, and I turned away from Mrs. Bennet long enough to see what it was. A school bus. A big, yellow, black-striped school bus. It slowed as it approached the end of the Bennets’ driveway.

But it was only just after lunch. Too early for children to be coming home from school. No, wait, not for a kindergarten student. A child who went to school just in the morning, half a day, would be coming home right about now.

“You have to leave,” Mrs. Bennet said. She had grown increasingly anxious, like she wanted me gone before I had a chance to see who was going to get off the bus.

But the bus was already stopped, its flashing red lights on. The door opened. A small girl, about five years old, dressed in blue jumper and red tights, her head a mess of tiny blonde curls, a pink backpack dragging at her side, hopped down from the bottom step and landed on the gravel. She turned and waved goodbye to the driver, who waited until he was sure the girl was walking toward her home, and not making some impulsive dash across the highway, before he levered the door shut, threw the bus into first, and drove away.