“Mommy! I can fly, I can fly, I can fly.”

I love you, I think. But I don’t say it. The words don’t come out. I stand there, bracing for impact as she barrels toward me.

Slow down. Take it easy. It’s almost as if I know what’s going to happen next.

At the last second, her tiny foot catches the leg of the coffee table, and for a moment, she is genuinely airborne, body stretched out, hands and feet grappling in empty space.

Vero’s eyes, widening.

Her mouth, forming a perfect startled O.

“Mommy!” she yells.

Shhh, I try to whisper. Don’t make a sound. Don’t let him hear you.

She lands hard. Thump. Crack.

Then the screaming begins in earnest.

Shhh, I try to whisper again.

As those gray eyes well with tears, bear into mine.

A man’s shout from the bedroom of the apartment. Followed by footsteps, heavy and ominous.

“Mommy, I can fly,” Vero says, and she’s no longer crying. She is providing a statement of fact.

I know, I want to tell her. I understand.

I wish I could reach out, touch her hair, stroke her cheek.

Instead, I close my eyes, because somewhere in the back of my mind, I know what’s going to happen next.

*   *   *

I WAKE UP to machines beeping. Bright lights, strong enough to hurt my eyes. I wince reflexively, turning my head away, then immediately wish that I hadn’t, as fresh pain explodes in my forehead.

I’m in a hospital bed. Lying straight on my back, hands tucked to my sides by scratchy white sheets topped by a thin blue blanket. I examine the metal bed rails framing each side of the bed, then the wires sprouting from an attachment on my finger leading to all kinds of monitors. My mouth is dry, my throat parched. I would moan but don’t feel like making the effort.

I hurt . . . everywhere. Head to toe, knees to elbows. My first thought is that I must’ve fallen from a twenty-story building and broken every bone on impact. My second thought is, why did they bother to put me back together again? If I finally got the courage up to jump, couldn’t the rest of them leave well enough alone?

Then I see him, head slumped forward in the chair next to the foot of my bed.

My heart constricts. I think: I love you.

My head explodes. I think: Get the fuck away from me!

Then: What the hell is his name again?

The man’s face is weathered, heavily lined with worry and stress even in sleep. But it gives him a lived-in look that is far from unattractive. Closer to early forties than late thirties, dark hair shot through with liberal streaks of gray, body still lean after all these years. I like that body; I know that with certainty.

And yet, I don’t want him to wake up. Mostly, I wish he’d never found me here.

“Mommy, I can fly,” Vero whispers in the back of my mind.

I think of that old pilots’ joke: It’s not the flying that’s the hard part; it’s the landing.

The man opens his eyes.

It comes as no surprise to me that they are brown and somber and deep.

“Nicky?” he whispers, arms already springing out, body on high alert.

“Vero?” I croak. “Please . . . Where is Vero?”

The man doesn’t speak. His body collapses back, my first words having already taken the fight out of him. He places a hand over his eyes, maybe so I won’t see the answers lurking there.

Then this man I love, this man I hate—what the hell is his name?—whispers heavily, “Oh, honey. Not again.”

Chapter 4

HER NAME’S ANNIE. Good girl, too. Four years old, a little rambunctious, but has the drive. Won’t find a better worker; that’s for sure.”

The handler, Don Frechette, reached down and scratched his dog affectionately behind the ears. In response, Annie, a high-spirited yellow Lab, waved her tail so hard she nearly whacked her own face.

Wyatt liked dogs. Last cold case he’d worked, the cadaver dog had found a fifty-year-old bone in a dry creek bed. The bone had looked like a desiccated twig and smelled like dirt. One of the younger officers had nearly cast it aside before the accompanying forensic anthropologist had caught his arm. This old thing? the officer had asked. But it’s just a stick.

The forensic anthropologist had found it funny. Later, however, she’d confessed to Wyatt that she considered the whole thing amazing as well. The bone had long since lost all organic matter, she explained. What was left for the dog to scent? But the dogs always know, she mused. Forget the latest advancement in GPS tracking and forensic analysis; anytime she was out in the field, she just wanted a good dog’s nose.

Tessa had expressed an interest in getting a dog. Maybe he could take her and Sophie puppy shopping this weekend. Visit the local animal shelter, bring home a new addition to the family. Surely that’d earn him some points with the kid.

Or would that be trying too hard? Tessa had made it very clear the worst thing he could do was try too hard.

It wasn’t that Sophie hated him, he reminded himself. Maybe.

“Conditions?” he asked Frechette, gesturing to the man’s light rain jacket, then the dog’s thin coat, given the low-forties chill.

“Not a problem. We’ll warm up soon enough. I don’t mind the cold. Pools the scent, keeps it low, easier to track for the dog. And Annie fatigues faster in heat. Morning like this, clear skies, low temps, she’ll be raring to get to work. Now, you said it’s a car crash.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Glass?”

“Quite a bit around the vehicle.”

“She’ll need her boots, then. Other terrain?”

“Mostly mud, one briskly moving stream. There’s some prickly shrubs, the usual mess of random rocks and broken branches. Getting down is a little tricky, given the grade. But once you’re in the ravine . . . Decent hiking, actually. God knows the Fish and Game officers have probably already made it to Maine and back.”

“Fish and Game? Who’s working?”

“Barbara and Peter.”

“Oh, I like them. Good people. And they came up with nothing?”

“We’ve all come up with nothing.” Wyatt wasn’t surprised the dog handler knew the Fish and Game officers. New Hampshire was big on woods and short on people. Sooner or later, felt like you knew everyone you met and had met everyone you knew.

“Need any more information on the child?” Kevin was asking. “We believe she’s female, approximately nine to thirteen years of age.”

Frechette gave Kevin a funny look, then peered down at Annie, who was nearly dancing with anticipation. “Hey, girl, you need a description? Plan on calling the kid’s name? Or maybe use your color-blind eyes to find a pink coat?”

Kevin flushed.

“We don’t need vitals, Detective. All we need is Annie’s nose. Trust me, if there’s a child out there, Annie’ll bring her home.”

After a bit of discussion, they settled on a search strategy. Having worked with several different dogs in different situations, Wyatt already knew most handlers had their own opinions on the best way to get the job done. Given that their search area was relatively small, and now scent contaminated by dozens of officers who’d already been swarming the scene, Frechette wanted to approach it like a tracking case. Start Annie in the back of the car, last suspected location of the child, and see if she could pick up a trail from there. A strategy better suited for a bloodhound than a Lab, Frechette confessed, but he remained sold on his girl’s skills. His dog had the training, had the drive; she’d find their missing child.

A little yellow Lab puppy, Wyatt thought. Red bow around its neck. Here, Sophie. Got this for you.