“Innocent?”

“No, no. Client was guilty as hell and said so. This was the death-penalty phase. He got life,” she says triumphantly. Seeing the look of dismay on my face, Maria Savalo chuckles. “How to impress potential clients, huh? Show up looking like hell, talk about guilty clients. I’m very sorry, Mrs. Bickford. Let’s start over, shall we? You pretend I’m presentable because I usually am, and I’ll pretend I had a good night’s sleep because I often do.”

With that she juggles her briefcase and then formally shakes my hand. “This was your first night in jail, correct? My intention is to make sure it’s your only night in jail. There. How am I doing?”

I’m not sure how to respond, and the petite attorney doesn’t seem the least surprised. There are no lawyer-client consultation rooms at the station, so we make do with the holding cell. She plops down on the bunk, kicks off her heels and pats the space beside her.

“Take a load off your feet, Mrs. Bickford,” she says. “We’ll get started. I gotta tell you, when Arnie called me I let out a little shout when I heard your name. You catered my cousin’s wedding in Greenwich! Small world, huh? So even though we didn’t meet personally, your reputation precedes you. The food, I gotta tell you, the food was fabulous. Those little shrimp inside the pastry? Incredible! Unfortunately my cousin decided to dump that chump husband of hers three months after the wedding, but that’s not your fault, is it?”

I really don’t know what to say. My catering business is normally the second most important thing in my life, but right at the moment I could care less. Part of me knows that life goes on, that no matter what happens to me and Tommy, people will continue to get married, celebrate, host luncheons and banquets. They’ll care about food, and want to talk about it, no matter how many tragedies happen to other people—it’s human nature, how we survive. But right now I don’t even want to think about Katherine Bickford Catering, or what will happen to it if I can’t be there to run things.

Ms. Savalo senses my discomfort and reaches out to pat my hand. “Sorry. Down to business. Just had to let you know.”

“This is a nightmare,” I tell her. “I can’t seem to think straight. I keep thinking it can’t be happening, that the police think I killed someone.”

Ms. Savalo produces a tissue from her purse, evidently to offer me if I start weeping. I’m determined not to weep. Can’t fall apart now. Not with my son still missing. Have to save my falling apart for later.

“Maybe it will help if we formulate a chronology,” Ms. Savalo suggests. “Your version of events. Arnie gave me the highlights and I got some stuff out of the locals on the way in, but I really need to hear it from you.”

“I’m not sure where to begin,” I say. “The police don’t believe me, but my son was kidnapped.”

“Start with that,” she advises. “The kidnapping.”

I begin with the ball game and the field of green, rooting for Tommy. Who just lately has decided he wants to be called by his formal name, Tomas, and I’m sorry, but I haven’t fully made that adjustment, still think of him as Tommy. Anyhow, there we are, Little League, parents rooting, kids playing their hearts out. How harmless it all seemed, how comfortingly ordinary. Seems like a century ago, before everything changed. I tell her about waiting in vain for my son, returning home to find the man in the mask in the TV room. How he tied me up, terrorized me, knocked me out, stole my money, and then knocked me out again.

By the time I get to the freezer in the basement, Maria Savalo is nodding, as if to some music I can’t hear.

“No warrants, you say?”

I shake my head. “I let them in. Gave them permission to look in the basement.”

“No warrant,” she says, giving a little nod of satisfaction. “That’s good. That’s excellent. Now let me ask you a crucial question. Did you have any contact with the sheriff after your son was kidnapped? Did you by any chance call him?”

“No. The man in the mask, he—”

“We’ll get back to the man in the mask,” she says, cutting me off. “For now let’s concentrate on your use of the phone. Did you call anyone at all?”

Wait. There is something. I’ve forgotten all about returning Jake Gavner’s phone call. How did I manage to forget that?

“Not good,” is her response, after I fill her in. “You say that for the duration of the call, you gave Mr. Gavner no indication that you were under duress?”

“There was a gun pointed at me,” I tell her with a little heat, aware that my face is flushing.

“Of course there was,” she concedes. “So you did your best to convince Mr. Gavner that nothing was wrong? You told him your son was home?”

“I didn’t have any choice.”

“You convinced him?”

“I must have. He never called back. Not while I was awake. Later, the man in the mask told me I had messages, but I never had time to check them, let alone answer.”

Ms. Savalo purses her lips. “Tell me about that. You say you were injected with some sort of drug. Any idea what he used, this masked man?”

“All I know is it knocked me out.”

“How long did it take? Before you passed out?”

“I don’t know. A minute? No longer than that.”

“Good. I’m going to order a blood test. See if any residuals remain.”

I remember something else. How had I forgotten? What is wrong with my brain? “The police took blood from me when I came in.”

Ms. Savalo looks startled. “You gave them permission? Written permission?”

“No, not written. Terry Crebbin said if I didn’t stop shouting he’d have me gagged, so I shut up and let them do it.” Amazing, how an incident like that had slipped my mind, until she mentions blood, then it comes flooding back. My excuse is that I’d been trying to convince the cops to do something about my son, and not really paying attention to what they were doing to me.

“This is the deputy sheriff?” Ms. Savalo wants to know. “Crebbin, right? He threatened to gag you? So you complied?”

“Can’t stand the idea of being gagged.”

“Had your rights been read to you, regarding the blood sample?”

“I don’t think so.”

“This could be very important, Mrs. Bickford. Think again.”

“I’m not sure. I really don’t remember.” That’s the truth, but how could it be? How could I possibly forget something so crucial?

“But you didn’t sign anything? Scrawl your signature?”

“No.”

“Sure?”

“Positive.”

Ms. Savalo grins, and it makes her glow. Holly Hunter has nothing on her. “Better and better. Small-town cops. Felony murder, they get all excited. They’ve got a killer mom in custody, nothing else matters.”

“I’m not a killer mom.”

She looks at me with concern, radiating what seems to be genuine empathy. “My apologies, Mrs. Bickford. I was thinking out loud. Thinking like the cops, okay? We both know you’re not a killer mom, but they obviously think so, and it clouded their judgment. Which is good for us.”

I wish I felt good about it. Wish I felt good about something. As it is, the loss of my son feels like an unanesthetized amputation.

“What I still don’t understand is why the cops think I’m lying about Tommy getting taken, why would Crebbin think I made my own son disappear?”

Ms. Savalo studies me with her dark eyes, gives the impression she’s utilizing some sort of self-contained lie detector on me. The beam of truth. After a pause she says, “I can shed some light on that,” and opens her briefcase, handing me a sheet of paper.

“What’s this?”

“Photocopy of a legal document found in the sheriff’s breast pocket. That’s why it’s so blurry.”

“I still don’t get it,” I say, staring at the smudged image of what looks to be a postcard.

“It’s a ‘return receipt requested.’ Proof that you signed for a legal document on the twentieth of June. Looks like the sheriff’s department was serving you. Or that’s how it’s meant to look.”