He crested the top of a small rise and found himself almost face-to-face with a couple who appeared to be in their seventies. They were busily tending a grave bearing a simple white marker that was taller than the ones in the older part of the cemetery.

“Afternoon.” The man nodded to Sam.

“Afternoon,” Sam returned the greeting.

“Hello,” the man’s wife said and smiled. Sam smiled back, feeling awkward as hell. He sensed he’d interrupted something very private, and wanted to extract himself as quickly as possible from the situation. He walked around the headstone that was the object of their attention to make a casual retreat.

“Hot as a son of a gun today, isn’t it?” the man noted.

“Sure is.” Sam paused. Against his will, he found himself reading the stone:

HERE LIES AN ANGEL

Evelyn Joy Erickson

Born October 12, 1959

Taken from her loving parents

on May 30, 1976 at Age Seventeen

“Your daughter?” he heard himself ask without thinking.

They nodded in unison.

“I’m sorry,” Sam said.

“Thank you, son.” The man wiped sweat from his brow with the back of one hand.

“She loved roses,” the mother told him. “We planted a small bush here for her, but the groundskeepers didn’t like it.” She smiled wryly. “It got a bit out of hand, started growing where it shouldn’t, even though I tried to keep it trimmed. So every week I bring her some fresh ones.” The woman stood. “Evie would have liked that.”

“You’ve been bringing her flowers every week since…”

“Since the day we laid her to rest.” The man nodded. “Spring of ’76. She left for school one morning and never made it.” His face drooped and Sam started to open his mouth to tell him it was okay, he didn’t have to share the story, but he couldn’t get the words out fast enough. “They found her almost a week later, in a drainage ditch. She’d been-”

“I’m so sorry,” Sam interrupted to spare the man from speaking aloud his private torment. “Did they ever find whoever…”

“No.” The woman’s face hardened. “No, they never did. A night doesn’t pass that I don’t pray that he has a tortured passing from this life, and that the devil is waiting for him on the other side.”

“Francie.” Her husband reached out to her.

“I know it isn’t the Christian thing, John.” She met Sam’s eyes. “But there are some things… some acts…”

“I understand completely,” Sam told her. This is why rang in his ears.

“She was our only child,” the woman told him simply. “We miss her every day.”

“I’m sorry.” Sam tried to think of something else to say, but nothing that came to mind seemed appropriate.

“You’ve lost someone, too,” she told him as he turned to walk away.

Sam nodded. “My wife.”

“I’ll pray for her,” the woman said. “And for you.”

“Thank you.”

The lump in his throat grew bigger, so he nodded once more to the couple and went through the rows of marked graves directly to the car. As he walked away, he tried to drown out that voice inside him that insisted, This is why. Because of people like the Ericksons, who have been tending the grave of their only child for more than thirty years and who have never had closure; people like Lynne Walker, who needs to help her children understand why their father had been brutally murdered, left propped up by a Dumpster like a broken doll, his chest slashed to ribbons and an oversized hamburger stuffed in his mouth.

Sam started the engine and took a deep breath of cool air, and understood why he’d sent in an application to the Foundation, and why he’d take the job if it was offered to him-because good people suffered at the hands of the evil every day, and if he walked away, there would be one less person to stand between the innocent and those who would do them harm.

Sam drove back to the motel, and waited for Mallory’s call.

So what did you think of him?” Trula wiped down a counter where she’d rolled out dough for a peach pie. “Sam? That was his name, right?”

“I think he’d be perfect.” Mallory swiped one of the peaches and took a bite before Trula could stop her. “I’d love to have someone on the staff with his credentials, someone who has a deep understanding of criminal behavior. Someone who has some real insights into what makes these people tick.”

“By ‘these people,’ you mean the bad guys.” Trula searched a cabinet, noisily moving pans from one place to another. She found what she was looking for-a glass pie plate-and closed the cabinet door.

“Yeah. Sam has a lot of experience there. He was in some special FBI unit that handled the most challenging cases. The letter from his superior was glowing.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“I get the feeling he isn’t sure that he wants the job.” Mallory grabbed a paper towel to wipe the peach juice from her chin. “Great peaches, Trula. Where’d you get them?”

“The farmers’ market in Toby Falls.” She went about the business of pie making without missing a beat. “So why would he apply for a job he doesn’t want?”

“I don’t know. Maybe it seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“Did he say he didn’t want it?”

“Noooo, but…”

“Then if you think he’s the right person for the job, if you think he’d be an asset…”

“I definitely think he’d be an asset.”

“… then offer him the job and see what he says.”

“I wanted to talk to everyone about him first,” Mallory told her.

“In that case, I hope you’re not looking to bring him on board any time soon. Robert, Susanna, and Emme are still in West Kingston working with those search parties they organized to look for Ian, and they won’t be back until Friday. Kevin took some of the seniors from Our Lady of Angels to the cathedral in Philadelphia today. He won’t be back till late this afternoon, but he does have his cell with him.” Trula shook her head. “If I get my hands on whoever it was who took that baby, it’s going to take an act of God Almighty himself to keep me from throttling the life from him. Or her.”

“I spoke with Emme this morning. She said there’s been no sign of anything that would give them a clue as to what happened to Ian.”

“But knowing Robert, he’ll keep on looking until…” She paused, overcome by emotion.

Mallory squeezed the woman’s shoulder. “They’ll keep looking until they find him, one way or another. Now that Robert has reason to suspect the baby might still be alive, he isn’t going to give up until he finds him.”

“He isn’t a baby anymore. He’s two and a half already.” Trula wiped away tears. “He’s a toddler. He’s probably walking and talking, maybe even going to preschool somewhere. He’s grown so much, learned so much, since we saw him. It’s killing Robert, you know, to have missed all Ian’s firsts.”

“Hopefully, once they find Ian, having him back will make up for everything he’s missed.”

“Assuming they can find him.” Trula began to peel the peaches, her knife working furiously. “Someone has that boy and knows he isn’t theirs. People see that child every day, and don’t know that he’s not who they think he is.”

“Assuming he’s still alive,” Mallory reminded her.

“He’s still alive,” Trula said. “He’s alive and someone is raising him as if he’s theirs.” She slammed an angry fist on the counter. “What kind of person does something like that?”

“I don’t know, Trula.” Mallory sighed. “All those years I was a cop, I saw things… things that most people can’t even imagine. And every time, I’d wonder that same thing: what kind of person can do this and live with themselves?”

“I don’t suppose there’s ever been an answer.”

Mallory shook her head no. “Sometimes you meet people who are so good, inside and out, that you feel lucky to have had them cross your path.” Like you, Trula, she could have added, but Trula being Trula and prickly at times, Mallory decided against it. “Then there are others who are so filled with hate and anger and evil, that you wonder how they could even be human.” She leaned on the counter. “There aren’t always answers. There isn’t always a reason.”